He closes his eyes, gives himself over to the music. He thinks of the lie he had told about the nocturnes. Charlotte wouldn’t have been caught dead playing such pieces. The only tunes she ever played came straight from the Andrew Lloyd Webber songbook – bashing out ‘Memory’ day after day just to torment him. But this …

To have her in his home, to hear music filling this room after all the silence, the emptiness … He opens his eyes now, looks at the darkness of her hair piled loosely at her crown, so close now he can see the soft down on the back of her neck, the nub of bone at the top of her spine. If he put out his hand, he could touch it.

A crash from below.

The music stops.

‘What was that?’ she asks.

He holds his breath, startled, confused.

She gasps. ‘Matthew!’ she cries, and she’s off the stool, racing towards the door.

He stands there, leaning against the piano, feeling the weight of his flesh, his fast-beating heart, while from outside comes a hammering, her voice raised in alarm. Slowly, he moves to the back of the house, warily takes a step outside.

She’s down on the patio, banging against the glass panes with the flat of her hand, shouting the boy’s name over and over.

‘Please, Mattie, come to the door. Please let me in.’

Desperation in her voice.

She looks up and sees Anton, her face drawn and tight with anxiety.

‘He’s locked me out,’ she explains, with urgency. ‘Do you have a spare key?’

‘I might. Let me look.’

He goes back inside, stands in his kitchen for a moment, thinking. His dinner plate is still in the sink. Slowly, he scrapes it into the bin, slots it into the dishwasher, considers the options while the banging goes on outside. When she comes up the steps and into the house, he adopts an expression of concern.

‘I’ve looked through the drawers for a key, Leah. I’m so sorry, but I cannot find one anywhere.’

The hopeful look on her face falls, replaced by deep anxiety.

‘Don’t worry, dear. I’m sure it’s just a little game he’s playing. He’ll let you back in soon.’

‘What if something happens to him? I’m supposed to be minding him.’

Her hand goes to her head, and she stares around unseeing.

‘He’ll be fine.’

‘What if he’s not? What if he hurts himself? Children do.’

‘If you’re worried, why don’t you call Jake? I’m sure he’d come back and –’

‘No, you don’t understand. He trusted me with the boy when he shouldn’t have. I should have told him. I should have explained.’

He makes soothing noises, but inside his interest has sparked to life. Something she’s been keeping from the boyfriend – a secret.