Quickly, she turns around. Trees and grass, black boughs, the faintest swish in the undergrowth.

The smell of smoke reaches her where she sits. It’s absurd, straining through the darkness to see, nerves alive in her throat, so that when she speaks, the words come out strangled. ‘Is someone there?’

And through a break in the thinning screen of leaves that separates the patio from the garden she sees the red glow of a cigarette, the brief inflation of it before it recedes into darkness.

Again, she speaks, ‘I said, is someone there?’ and gets to her feet.

A moment then of dry-mouthed uncertainty.

But then the stillness of the garden fractures, and someone moves towards her.

7

Anton

Her voice crackles through the darkness. It tingles on his skin.

‘Is someone there?’ she asks again, sounding a little firmer now, as he draws closer.

‘I’m here,’ Anton replies, keeping his own voice soft and low.

She is standing just beyond him on the patio. There can’t be more than three or four feet separating them. But the trees are heavy with rich summer foliage casting thick shadows, making it difficult for her to see him. His heart beats steadily in his chest as he moves towards her, watching the pale orb of her face as he moves into the direct line of her vision.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Anton. I live upstairs.’

He indicates the house with a nod, and watches her processing this. It’s clear that he’s frightened her, but now, given his position as landlord, he sees her vacillating on how to admonish him. And yet she doesn’t seem the admonishing type. Not from what he’s learnt of her over this period of observation.

‘That’s all right,’ she tells him. ‘I’m Leah,’ she adds.

‘Leah,’ he says, pleased with the softness of the name on his tongue.

She is standing there, looking awkward, one hand clutching the back of her chair.

‘I’ve only just come into the garden,’ Anton tells her. ‘I assure you I haven’t been lurking here in the shadows,’ he says softly, before looking down at his feet. Humility seems the best approach with her. He’s given it some thought over the past few days.

‘It’s your garden,’ she says. ‘You’re entitled to be in it.’

‘I met your young man outside earlier this evening. I’m afraid I was a little rude to him.’ His eyes flicker past her to the open French windows, the dark rooms inside. ‘I wonder, is he home? I’d like to apologize, if I may.’

‘He had to go out.’

‘Oh dear,’ says Anton, making a show of being surprised. He’d heard the front door bang, watched the young man cycling off down Wyndham Park not ten minutes ago, before seizing upon the opportunity. ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

Her forehead creases with suspicion.