‘So, no fella?’ he asked and then, seeing her expression, added hastily, ‘Or lady friend?’ Well, he didn’t want her to think him a philistine.

She smiled then, like he’d said something funny. ‘It was a fella . . . now it’s just me.’

She had such a lovely smile. Wide and generous, it creased up the corners of her dark eyes. And yet he couldn’t help noticing it never quite reached them.

‘And Harry, of course.’

There was movement underneath the table and Harry’s nose emerged from below the tablecloth, ever hopeful. They both laughed.

‘What about you?’

‘My wife Gisele wasn’t well . . .’ Valentine trailed off. ‘Now it’s just me, too.’

‘What about your daughter? Does she live locally?’

‘No. Paris,’ he added, after a pause.

‘Lucky her.’

‘Aye. Lucky her.’ He nodded and speared a large chunk of chocolate cake on his fork. He tried to swallow it down, but it felt dry and stuck on a lump in his throat. In the background Valentine became aware of the radio and the sound of loud trumpets. With everything that had been going on, he’d forgotten it was still playing.

‘Sorry, I’ll turn that off.’ He stood up, his chair scraping loudly.

‘No, please, keep it on. I love Tommy Dorsey and his orchestra.’

‘You know them?’

Valentine was surprised. They were a big swing band from the 1940s. Young people didn’t listen to that kind of music. They listened to loud, thumping stuff that he could hear even through their headphones when he sat next to them on the bus to the care home.

‘His band was one of my grandparents’ favourites.’

‘Mine and Gisele’s too,’ he nodded, ‘we had all his records. We used to go dancing together at the town hall and they’d play all his tunes; that and later swing, and jive and rock-and-roll . . . She was such a good dancer, so light on her feet.’

‘You must miss her.’

‘I do, though I still get to visit her every day at the home.’

‘Oh, I thought—’ she broke off, looking embarrassed, and it suddenly dawned on Valentine.

‘That I’m a widower?’

‘I’m sorry – I didn’t mean . . .’

‘Nay, don’t be,’ he reassured her. ‘Sometimes I wish I was one.’

It just came out. He didn’t meant to say it, but he’d thought it many times. But if Olivia was shocked, she didn’t show it.

‘I know that’s a wicked thing to say, but often my wife doesn’t recognize me. Worse still, I don’t recognize her.’ It was the first time he’d said these things out loud and, as guilty as he felt, telling someone brought a sense of release. ‘She’s got Alzheimer’s, and it stole her from me. That bloody disease – it stole my wife, and I miss her. I miss growing old with her.’

He was so full of anger and sadness and regret that he didn’t know what to do. It was all stuffed inside of him. So tight and all tangled up. Sometimes he felt like he couldn’t breathe with the unfairness of it.