‘Yes, they are. You’d better eat them up, or there’ll be no pudding.’

‘Is there pudding?’

‘Chocolate tart.’

‘You’ve been baking?’

‘I haven’t gone that far. Courtesy of Mr Sainsbury. Shall we eat at the table?’

Matt raises his eyebrows. These days, it’s all eating on knees, TV on. He’s been thinking of football or a Sky box set, but he’s intrigued to know what’s going on in Claire’s mind.

The food is good. Claire hasn’t lost her touch.

‘Very nice,’ he says.

‘Thank Jamie Oliver.’

He puts down his fork and touches her hand.

‘I’m not thanking him. I’m thanking you.’

Claire puts down her own fork.

‘Can I tell you something terrible?’ she says. ‘About me?’

He looks into her face and sees all the changes there, the new lines, the dark circles under her eyes, the dryness of her lips, the hollows where there was a healthy plumpness. The prettiness he fell in love with is all but gone, and his wife appears decades older than she did before Evan’s abduction. Whatever happens between them now, whether this marriage sinks or swims, in this moment he feels her pain and aches for her, for them both.

‘What could be terrible about you?’ he asks.

‘I need to tell you something, even though you might hate me for it.’

‘I promise I won’t hate you.’

‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep.’

‘Try me.’

He picks up his fork and spears a piece of chicken, chewing as she gathers her thoughts.

‘When Evan was taken, I thought I’d die of misery.’ She’s not looking at him any more but out of the window on to the summer garden, as if she can see there the past she’s remembering. ‘Every day was torture. The only reason I didn’t kill myself was the faint hope that he’d come back, even though I’d begun to accept he wouldn’t, towards the end. I didn’t have any hope left and then, miraculously, there he was. Our boy. My son, back from the presumed dead.’

Matt nods.

‘It was a massive shock,’ he says.