‘I hate these things,’ he says. ‘Phobic, I am.’ His accent’s pure Essex, or maybe East End; Naylor can’t tell the difference. ‘I like to have someone to hold my hand.’

He has big hands, and long fingers which would make huge fists. Naylor imagines how it would feel if one of Dallabrida’s hands landed on your shoulder, if it were feeling your collar.

‘You could take the stairs,’ she says.

The lift doors close.

‘Too late,’ says Dallabrida. ‘I’ll have to master my fears, and plunge with you all the way to the ground floor.’

Naylor almost smiles.

‘How’s it going, anyway?’ he asks, as the lift begins to move. ‘Thought we’d be bringing ’em in by now, with us having the car and everythin’. How’s the boy doing?’

‘Not great.’ Naylor thinks she feels her phone buzz in her pocket and pulls it out, but it’s wishful thinking. The screen is blank.

The lift clunks to a halt on the first floor. The doors slide open, but no one gets in.

Dallabrida leans across her and presses the Door Close button.

‘These things get on my tits. You’re right, I should take the stairs.’ The doors close again. As the lift starts to move, he says, ‘I was going to go for a drink, just a quick one at the Bell. You fancy a drink, Rachel?’

She slips the phone back into her pocket.

‘Not tonight,’ she says.

‘Hot date, eh?’ asks Dallabrida. ‘Who’s the lucky fella?’

‘No one you know.’

The doors open on to the lobby. Dallabrida makes a show of letting Naylor step out in front of him.

‘Another time then, eh?’

She looks him in the face. He’s got a bullish head, his hair’s shaved very close, and his nose has been broken at least once. He’s not good-looking in any conventional sense, but he’s got nice eyes. All the girls talk about Dallabrida’s big brown eyes.

‘You’re not my type, Leon,’ she says.

Dallabrida smiles.

‘’Course I am,’ he says. ‘I’m every woman’s type, I am. Loaded with charm, like a pizza with every kind of topping. How’re you fixed for tomorrow?’

‘Goodnight, Leon,’ says Naylor. As she walks away, she finds herself smiling. Then she checks her silent phone again, and the smile slips away.

In Waitrose, the produce shelves are depleted, and there are no avocados for the salad she was going to make. She picks up a bag of spinach and a pack of cherry tomatoes. They’ve lowered the chiller temperatures to compensate for the heat, and wandering between the fridges, she shivers. She puts chicken breasts and prosciutto in her basket, and picks up a bottle of Chianti from a special offer display. Then she adds a bottle of Merlot, just in case.

As she reaches her car, her phone rings. When she sees who’s calling, she smiles.