‘We weren’t . . . We divorced not long after. She wanted to carry on as before . . . How can you carry on as before?’ He wiped his eyes with his hanky. ‘See . . . decades later it’s still the same. Riding so near the surface that a picture can take you back to day one.’

‘I’m so sorry, Edward . . . I really am.’

He threw the photo onto the table next to him and it skidded on the floor. I picked it up.

‘And now look at you, Constance. Here, in my room. I thought you’d be able to see it . . . how much she looks like you.’

The hairs on my arms prickled. I scrutinized the picture. Her dimpled smile, freckles. Other than long, dark hair, she bore no resemblance to me at all, but I said, ‘Oh yes . . . I can see it now . . . I can see what you mean.’

His face lit up; his eyes moistened. ‘It’s uncanny, isn’t it? I know it takes a bit of looking, but once I saw it . . . and the way we met. It was as if it was meant to be. A sign.’

I smiled but suddenly felt quite strange. Claustrophobic. He was looking at me with such misplaced affection. Like I was an angel. The answer to his pain.

I nodded towards the cuckoo clock hanging next to the window. ‘He’ll be springing out any second,’ I said. ‘I didn’t realize the time . . . I’d better be going . . . I’m meeting a friend on the other side of town in an hour.’

‘Oh, Colin never springs . . . He died in there many years ago . . . and he’s ten minutes fast. Constance, I do hope I haven’t—’

‘No, no . . . you haven’t anything. It’s been lovely.’

He attempted to push himself up.

‘No . . . no . . . Please. I can see myself out. You stay put.’

I collected my bag from the paw of the poor tiger.

‘You will come again, though, won’t you? When you’ve got more time?’

I looked towards the window. You were back on the sofa, the television flashing light onto your face. ‘Yes. I will. I promise.’

It was the …

It was the evening of the party.

Dr Harris wasn’t just a wanker; he was a rich wanker.