‘That you were such a good gardener. I mean, I saw you looking at mine, when I took you round on that first day, but I thought it was because…well…you couldn’t understand it.’

‘Oh no. It was envy. I’d never seen so much garden!’

‘Well you’ve made the most of this patch.’ He brought his eyes to focus on his immediate surroundings now. The kitchen was fresh and white with no traditional Welsh dresser. Instead floor-to-ceiling bookshelves ran down one side. He glanced at some of the authors–Elizabeth David and Beth Chatto, Nigel Slater and Christopher Lloyd. Gardening mixed up with cookery and with fiction–Paul Coelho and Kazuo Ishiguro, Jilly Cooper and Rosamunde Pilcher.

‘Oh, don’t look. I keep meaning to sort them out, but they always seem to get muddled up.’

‘Bet you know where they all are though.’

‘Yes, I do, funnily enough.’

She made coffee while he sat at the table. ‘And the rose? The one with the canker?’

Maria pointed out of the window. ‘That one over there in the corner. “Souvenir de la Malmaison”. It’s lovely and pale pink but it doesn’t seem very happy.’

‘No,’ confirmed Christopher. ‘I gave up with mine years ago. Too weedy.’

‘Do you think I should do the same?’

‘Well, I don’t like to condemn any patient out of hand but I think you’d be better off planting something with a stronger constitution.’

‘Any suggestions?’

‘Try “Jacques Cartier”. It never seems to get diseased and it flowers for most of the summer, too. It is a bit bigger though.’

‘Thank you, Doctor.’

‘That’ll be five guineas.’

She laughed. ‘Very reasonable.’

‘Or I’ll settle for a cup of coffee.’

They sat at the kitchen table and for the next half hour they talked easily about gardens and plants, about books and cooking.

There was a moment where he came close to confiding in her. Wanted to tell her where he had been early that morning. Wanted her opinion on what he should do, whether he should take it any further. He would have liked to hear her point of view. She seemed worldly wise without being hard, experienced without being embittered. He opened his mouth to broach the subject but instead found himself saying: ‘I’ve made enquiries about the opera. There’s a performance of Tosca at Covent Garden next Wednesday. Would that be any good?’

‘Perfectly fine.’

‘You don’t need to look in your diary?’

Maria shook her head. ‘It’s not exactly packed with social engagements.’

Christopher made to get up. ‘Right. Well, I’d better be going. I’ll see you on Monday.’

‘You’re about then? Not on call?’

‘No. Not next week. They’ve given me a week off.’