That night, Jimmy came back late. It seemed he still kept unsociable hours, just as he had as a bartender. Lying awake in her sister’s room, Phoebe heard him enter and go to bed. The next morning, a Friday, he left early. He did the same on Saturday. The financial markets were shut but he went to work anyway; there would be deals to put together, bosses to impress, tycoons to supply with loans. She heard him flush the toilet in the mornings, run the tap, clean his teeth, but never heard the shower – he must be showering at the office or the gym. He slipped in and out of the flat like a ghost. When he came home at night, there was no rummaging in the kitchen; he must have been eating elsewhere too. The Baker’s Choice was untouched.

On Sunday he slept late, well past midday, a marathon sleep for Jimmy. Something about the flat must be agreeing with him, thought Phoebe.

Deborah fretted about his hours. ‘I suppose that’s how it is in banking. He’ll be wanting to make his mark.’

It was she who picked up his dry-cleaning; Phoebe caught her coming home with garment bags on hangers.

‘Poor Jimmy, he’s never had anyone to do these things for him.’ This from a woman who had forced her girls to be self-reliant!

‘He can’t stay here,’ Phoebe told her. ‘What if I want to bring someone home with me next time?’

‘Like who?’ her mother asked.

‘Someone. No one. I don’t know.’ She tried another tack. ‘You need to understand we’re not getting back together.’

‘Oh, I know that. Of course I know. It’s the way of things, isn’t it.’

Phoebe felt trapped in the flat with Jimmy’s here-but-not-here presence. She asked her sister to intervene, and Selena duly rang their mother.

‘I said, if he’s not going to be part of our family, what is he doing there, Mum? She said it’s not all about you girls. And anyway, it’s not for long.’

It wasn’t until Sunday afternoon, almost four days into her stay, that Phoebe encountered Jimmy in person. He was in the living room, chatting to two of her mother’s friends who had come to pick her up to go out.

‘Hi, Jimmy,’ she said, frowning. She took off her glasses, feeling sour. She’d been holed up in her room – her sister’s room – reviewing edits on a paper about hospital infection rates.

‘Phoebe, there you are,’ he replied, calmly. He had a man-pony now, a fact that took her several long moments to accept. His hair was glossy and sleek, with a slight cowlick at the temples, and she found herself wondering if he kept a comb in his desk at the office.