In the kitchen, Mona has been sick on the floor. Hilary stares at the small puddle of vomit by the back door and the dog cowering in her basket and feels a surge of angry despair rise within her. Sometimes it’s hard to love Mona. Not like Bella, Hilary’s first dog, whom she had loved unconditionally. A silly, warm-hearted spaniel with beautiful eyes and silky fur. But Mona is nothing like Bella. As she looks at her, burrowing deeper into the blankets of her basket, casting occasional rueful glances in Hilary’s direction, something snaps inside. Rage vibrates through her, and she drags Mona out of her basket, then flings open the kitchen door and the dog flees to the safety of the garden.

Hilary cries as she cleans up the mess, down on her hands and knees, in her Marigolds, scrubbing at the floor with disinfectant and paper towels, great big sobs of self-pity. Afterwards, she sits at the kitchen table, hunched over a notepad, scribbling furiously. The words pour out of her on to the page, and it is only when the letter is written that she looks up, sees the dog’s doleful gaze through the glass, and feels ashamed. When she opens the door, Mona slinks back in, eyeing her warily, and silently bearing it when Hilary presses her face to the dog’s flank, whispers that she’s sorry.

The lead is hanging from the newel post, and once she’s fixed it to Mona’s collar, they head out into the evening air. Hilary feels sober now, aware of the quiet in the street, the swish of warm air against her bare arms, the dog’s claws clicking against the pavement. She hurries to the house, up the steps, not giving herself time to think, to change her mind, opens the letterbox and slips the note through. She presses the doorbell once and then she hurries away, across to the safety of the park where she can hide in the shadows, watching safely from the distance.

In the park, she lets Mona off the lead, appeasing her own guilt by allowing the dog to run loose for a few moments. The trees hulk in dark shadows against the purplish sky. Across the street, the houses glow in the moonlight, and she watches his door – Number 14 – shut firmly against the night, the windows dark upstairs.

He hasn’t come to the door – hasn’t answered the bell – and that makes her feel twitchy with disappointment and impatience. Curiosity has been nudging at her for some time, but now it builds inside her, pushed by the time she has spent waiting, the endless accumulation of days, and by Evelyn’s words – the reminder of past confidences, of secrets told. Hilary thinks of that note waiting for him and feels the draw of that garden, awash with memories. The things that had happened to her there …