Miss Morgan taps her foot as I play a bit of a groove. But it’s clunky, my fingers so tight they keep landing on two notes at a time. She reaches for a stack of scores on top of the piano and shuffles through them as I play.

‘And your young lady?’ she asks when my playing runs out of steam. ‘Sophia, yes? How is she?’

Just hearing her name instigates a pleasant electric shock in my stomach. Only Miss Morgan knows about her, about us. I shouldn’t have mentioned it but she pried. And it was nice talking about her. Speaking about her offered maybe ten per cent of the thrill of actually being with her, and even that small fraction is quite a buzz. ‘She’s good.’ I nod. My frown eases. I almost smile.

Miss Morgan is smiling too, but her gaze doesn’t meet mine. ‘You’ve seen each other lately?’

I’m not about to tell her that we saw each other this afternoon. Or that I’ll be seeing her as soon as I leave here. ‘A bit.’

‘This is the Sophia who works in Bradbury’s? Older than you, red hair, very beautiful girl? Not in the back row when God gave them out, as we used to say in my day.’

‘You know her?’

‘Even old spinsters like me have to shop for provisions.’ She leans towards me and cups one hand over the other. ‘She’s a lovely girl.’

‘You talked to her?’ Maybe her nosiness should annoy me, but I’m too intrigued to know what Sophia said.

‘Not for long. She asked after you. She was pleased to hear that you’re well.’

‘You thought I was lying, didn’t you?’

‘I’d never accuse you of lying.’

‘Why does everyone always think I’m lying?’

‘This isn’t a confrontation, Oliver. Please – I’m not accusing you. And I am most certainly not everyone.’

‘Well, I’m glad you asked her. Now you know.’

She stares down into her cup, swilling the last remnants of tea around. ‘She told me how you met by the pond a few weeks ago. She asked me to say hi.’

Even now, mention of that perfect afternoon by the pond sends a wave of warmth through me. Barely over a month ago, but it feels like forever. So much has changed.

‘A sweetie, that’s what she called you.’ Miss Morgan doesn’t look at me as she says it. Her tone is solemn, like she’s telling someone their dog’s died. ‘And this is your girlfriend?’

The word excites me. Is she my girlfriend? We’ve not discussed it. But we love each other and we want to be together – surely that’s the definition. My nod is shy as if I’m owning up to an improbable achievement.