He searched her face for regret or remorse and was thrilled to see none. It would come, he was sure of it, but at least they had tonight. Children enjoying a midnight feast and refusing to think of the next day, when they would be stupid with tiredness or punished when it was discovered what had been stolen from the pantry.

‘Tell me something about yourself that I don’t know.’ She bit into a crunchy red apple. The juice sat on her lips; he wanted to kiss it away.

‘What sort of thing?’

‘Oh, anything, everything.’ He understood why she wanted this conscious and hurried exchange of facts; whilst they felt everything for one another, they knew next to nothing. He had spent time wondering what her home had been like before she married, what she liked to eat or whether she could ride a bike, did she prefer cats or dogs? It seemed she might have had the same level of curiosity about him.

‘I used to go scrumping with my brother when I was a lad. I stole from your trees.’

‘Oh, I know that.’ She rolled her eyes, an imitation of boredom.

‘You do?’

‘Yes. Enid told me. You broke your arm falling out of one of the trees when you were seven years old. I also know that you kept tadpoles in glass jars on the kitchen windowsill and that you delighted in irritating our neighbours by playing knock-and-run.’

He glanced at her through the blue cigarette smoke, moved and flattered by her interest. She had talked of him to his mother, or at the very least listened attentively as his mother had spoken. He considered it. What might his mother have neglected to relate? What would amuse her? ‘I can walk on my hands.’

‘Can you really?’ She chortled, delighted.

‘Yes. Look.’ Despite having just eaten, it was too tempting not to show off. He stubbed out his fag. Quickly he placed himself on the centre of the rug in front of the fireplace, kicked up into a handstand, steadied himself, found the point of slight overbalance and then carefully started to walk forward. There wasn’t much room in the parlour, so he had to bring himself down after only two or three steps. He knew the blood was rushing to his head and that his penis was flaccid; he must look peculiar. He hoped Vivian was concentrating on his toned abdominal muscles, or his thighs. Maybe she was; she laughed and clapped her hands. ‘That’s wonderful! Can you teach me?’

‘Not unless you put some clothes on. I’m not made of iron.’ She seemed reluctant to get dressed; she simply murmured, ‘Another time.’

‘Your turn.’

‘I can’t do it, I’ve just said.’

‘No, I mean it’s your turn to tell me something I don’t know about you.’

‘I’m awful at embroidery.’

‘Whilst I didn’t categorically know that, I might have guessed, so that doesn’t count.’ It was too boring, irrelevant. It didn’t get to the heart of her.