She likes the way he speaks – the occasional old-fashioned formality within it.

‘I was going through some things in the house,’ he tells her now, ‘earlier on today and I came upon some old sheet music of Charlotte’s that I wondered if you might like.’

‘Oh?’ she says, unease creeping in.

‘John Field’s nocturnes,’ he says, with an air of apology. ‘Perhaps you’ll think them old-fashioned.’

‘No, not at all. I love them.’

‘I could drop them down to you later. Or perhaps you could call up, maybe even try out the piano. It’s been such a long time since –’

‘Look, no. I’m sorry, but I don’t think so.’

She’s not sure why she says no, but it’s got something to do with the oddness of meeting him here like this, outside the confines of the garden. In the evenings, she’s noticed him sitting on the steps while smoking his cigarette and gazing out over the trees and shrubs – a benign and unthreatening presence. But now, the thought of going upstairs into his house – of being alone with him in a room – makes her feel instinctively nervous. His words from that first conversation linger in her mind: ‘I prefer not to go out of the house, not if I can avoid it.’ And even though he is standing here among the crowds in broad daylight, she is troubled by his admission. Why not? she wants to ask. What are you hiding from?

‘Yes. Well, that’s quite all right.’

‘I’m sorry, it’s just that –’

‘No, no! No need to apologize. I understand.’

He is backing away from her now, about to join the slipstream of people.

‘Well, goodbye,’ he says, and as he turns, a man walking past bangs against his shoulder and pushes him off-balance. The bag slips from Anton’s hand, oranges rolling around his feet.

‘Hey!’ Leah shouts after the passer-by, appalled when he doesn’t even look back.

Anton is bending to retrieve the oranges, and she hunkers down to help him, feeding the fruit back into the bag.

‘Thank you,’ he says.

‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine, dear.’ But there’s something distracted about him, his face serious and intent on his shopping.

‘He didn’t even stop to see if you needed help.’

Her voice is breathy and indignant, and when she gets to her feet, she sees the way he is looking at her, his expression softening.

‘You’re lovely,’ he tells her, the words spoken so clearly and tenderly as to make her awkward. She has never been easy with compliments, but there is something in the way he is staring at her that makes her deeply uncomfortable.

‘I’m not lovely,’ she says quietly, her eyes sweeping the pavement in front of her, and when she looks up again, he’s still gazing at her in that way.