This news comes as something of a surprise. Evelyn, after all, has been in residence for a couple of months now and I know for certain that Christianne is used to popping round for a coffee, but then I remember the state of their place.

‘It’s a slum,’ I say. ‘En pleine dégringolade.’

‘En pleine what?’

‘Dégringolade.’ I do my best to explain the phrase. We French use en pleine dégringolade to describe what happens after everything falls apart. Think Paris after a week of strikes, I suggest. Piles of rubbish in the streets, the Metro under siege, the main boulevards choked with traffic, everyone grumpy as hell.

‘And that’s the way they are? Next door?’

‘Yes. It was sweet of her to invite me in, but I have to be honest, that man bewilders me. He’s around her all the time, he watches her every move, he won’t leave her alone. Is it a control freak thing? Is he jealous to be sharing her with someone else? Just for an hour in the evening?’

Evelyn’s looking blank. This is a manuscript that’s just arrived in the post, totally unsolicited, and she doesn’t know where to start with the characterization.

‘But she adores him,’ she says. ‘I can see it when they walk out together. I watch them sometimes from the front window. She hangs on his every word, she physically clings to him, it’s really nice to see.’ She’s frowning, still trying to make sense of this plot twist. ‘Slum’s a big word. Is it that bad?’

‘Worse. And I don’t just mean the look of the place. You know when you can smell trouble …?’ I leave the thought unfinished.

For a moment, we just look at each other. I know what Evelyn wants. She wants me to roll back the timeline. She wants to be back in that church, enjoying the applause, welcoming the next question and the question after that. She wants to believe that Budleigh, this new home of hers, is as cultured and untroubled as she’d been led to believe. Just now the sun is shining on her and the presence of a single cloud, especially so close, is deeply unwelcome.

‘I’m sorry.’ I reach for her hand. ‘You don’t need any of this. You’re probably right. They’re hopelessly in love but like most bloody men he plays grumpy.’

‘You’re making that up, my lovely.’

‘You’re right. I am.’

‘So, what do you really think?’

I frown. I tell her I don’t know, and I’m wondering why any of this can possibly matter when I hear raised voices from next door: McFaul and Christianne. Then comes the slam of a window closing, and the volume abruptly fades to nothing.

‘Does this worry you?’ I nod towards next door. ‘Be honest.’