‘I’m kidding,’ he says and then to fill in the space, he adds, ‘The Gamay then.’

‘Any of the reds will do.’ Her tone is rich and velvety. Loud. She’s near. Then her voice drops and becomes shaded as if she too has crouched down. ‘What about Jack T?’ she asks.

‘Bit bluesy,’ the man says, his voice getting louder now as he walks back towards her. There is a clink of glass and then silence. A hiss, then suddenly the room fills with sound, in stereo.

Then came the night they came

That was the night they took you …

The music masks my presence here which is good for all kinds of reasons, not least that I need to move. My thighs are beginning to burn from crouching so long, so I wait till the music builds to a chorus and then I shift to lie flat, wedged in. I stare at a ceiling that is now bathed in light. The bass beats through the floorboards into my flesh. And then as the sound of their voices murmuring through the music filters down to me, I begin to relax. They are close to one another. Their voices are soft and intimate.

At least they are not on this sofa.

The album continues to play.

Naming birds in our tree

When you were with me

Listing all the things they’d see …

Then that same hiss, like waves throwing up surf. Every few minutes a spray of words reaches me, distinct before ebbing away.

‘Wait,’ she says. ‘Let me flip it over. Still haven’t worked out where that smell’s coming from.’

A few seconds of silence. I hold my breath before the music comes again and I can breathe again. That smell – does she mean me?

Another song plays but now gives me a rush of memory. From before. Grace.

We were in the bowl of a boat. It was dark but there was warmth in the air. It was summer and we had found a small rowing boat on the edge of the Thames as we were walking back from somewhere near Kingston. Laughing, we dipped the boat gently into the water and kicked off from the bank quietly. She had a half-drunk bottle of rosé in her hand and giggled at the idea that we were in someone else’s boat. Stealing, she said. We weren’t stealing but borrowing, I told her as seriously I could. And she sang it then, that song.

There’s trouble on the uptrack

And trouble going back

And quite clearly not one train will move today …

‘Your train is ready to depart, ma’am,’ I said, mock-bowing.