‘Whitman also said⁠ — Oh, hello, Wolsey.’ The tabby tom-cat had wandered under the table, put up a questioning paw against Joan’s leg and then hopped up on to her lap. ‘Are you a cat person, John?’

‘Yes,’ said Smith, still looking as if he was trying to organize several different thoughts that were buzzing randomly around his head. ‘May I?’

Joan paused only a moment. ‘Yes, of course, Wolsey loves attention. He arrived after I’d moved in here. He’s a wanderer. I’m not sure how long he’s planning to stay.’

Smith got up and made his way to Joan’s side of the table, the chess game forgotten. He squatted beside her and gently put his fingers on Wolsey’s chin.

Wolsey had his eyes closed as Joan stroked his stomach, but now he opened them and rubbed the scent glands on the side of his head against Smith’s fingers.

Smith trailed the tip of one finger round the back of the cat’s ear as it curled itself on the white material of Joan’s lap, stretching its back to be stroked. Joan ran her fingers down its back, letting Wolsey feel the tips of her nails, as Smith rubbed it under the chin with his thumb, smiling as the cat stretched its jaw forward in pleasure.

‘Look, he likes this,’ said Joan, her voice low. She took the base of the cat’s tail gently in her hand, and smoothed it all the way down, letting go of the end with a little reflexive twitch. She repeated the action many times, shifting her weight to give Wolsey more room to turn and twist in her lap. The cat was purring loudly and unrestrainedly, opening itself up to the two pairs of hands. While Joan smoothed its tail, Smith was running the tips of his fingers along its stomach.

‘My goodness,’ Joan breathed. ‘You must be good at that. He normally grabs people who do that and tries to bite them.’

‘I’m good with cats,’ Smith muttered. ‘They run right up to me as if they know something I don’t.’

‘And do they?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘They must feel safe in your hands.’

‘They aren’t. I don’t keep things safe. I used to. Perhaps. I can’t keep all the plates spinning. I drop some.’

Their hands collided across the soft expanse of Wolsey’s stomach. Smith’s hand swept right over Joan’s and she kept that hand still, accepting, the tips of her fingers gently playing with the smallest swirls of the animal’s fur.

A moment later, Smith’s hand swept back again and she looked at the top of his head as the hand passed over hers, delighting enormously that he didn’t look up and meet her gaze with something terrible and shattering like a smile.