‘I’ll take the phone through,’ she says, reaching behind him to lift it from the cradle on his desk. He holds on to her arm, letting his fingers run down till their hands touch as she leaves, pulling the door quietly to.

James stares at the closed door for a moment before shifting his gaze out of the window. One hand holds the chair he sits in, his knuckles paling so tight is his grip.

I go to speak. ‘I owe you an—’

‘You did the right thing,’ he interrupts, quietly. He takes the letter out of his top pocket, dropping it on the desk. ‘It’s right that I have it.’

I nod and he mirrors me.

He reaches for the tea, his hand shaking as he pours. He didn’t strike me as a nervous man when I first saw him on the doorstep. But as hot, brown tea spills onto the tray, pooling in the corner where it’s not quite level, it’s clear he’s unsettled. I don’t know if I should reach for a tissue from the box on my right to mop it up or stay in this chair until I’m asked a question. He moves the mug and the milk. I sit tight.

‘Bear with me,’ he says, smoothing Susan’s envelope out before him. ‘This is …’ He shakes his head.

There’s a photo on the wall: James and his wife on their wedding day. She’s dressed in a knee-length shift dress, white for the wedding, but short for the seventies, maybe early eighties, I guess. Her hair is held back by a heavy white band, shoulder-length veil caught in the wind, and they’re both smiling widely at the camera. He looks like a bygone footballer – all hair and moustache and disproportionate bell-bottoms. He looks happy.

He catches my line of sight, glancing at himself in the photo and then back to Susan’s letter. ‘This all happened a long time before I met my wife,’ he says. ‘Eight, nine years, maybe. Have you read this?’ He motions towards the envelope.

‘No, sir.’

He nods, but not really as if he understands. ‘And how did you say you knew her again?’

‘The hospital called me, when she had her accident.’ The word sticks in my throat, I cough myself free again. ‘She’d been a customer, but as I said outside, I just… I felt I needed to help. That it was important. I can’t explain it really.’

He studies me, surveying my face, his eyes eventually settling on mine. ‘She was wonderful,’ he says. ‘Compelling almost, you know?’

I suppose I do know.

He reaches to take a sip of his tea. He places his cup back down. ‘She was quiet, to begin with. She grew up in a house where she was seen and not heard, you know?’ I nod, though I can’t really relate. ‘We used to go for walks. Through gardens. To art galleries…’ He smiles, and I want to ask what he remembers. ‘Graves Park…’