From the kitchen, Malcolm called, “Is fish pie O.K. for tea, Tommy?” and Tom, grateful for the distraction, called back, “Yes—great.” Then he got up from the sofa and went through to join his uncle.

Malcolm was chopping vegetables at the counter. There was a newspaper on the table and Tom pulled a section towards himself at random—it turned out to be book reviews—and read for a while.

After a few minutes’ silence, Malcolm said, his back to Tom, “You know, we wrote to you while you were living with Jill. Every fortnight. For a few years, anyway.”

Tom was thrown by this comment. He had slept badly the night before, and had a headache. He wasn’t in the mood for a heart-to-heart with Malcolm. He said shortly, “Yes. Sorry I didn’t write back.”

“It’s not that.” Malcolm half turned. “It’s . . . we didn’t want you to think we’d forgotten about you.”

Tom tried to give him a smile. “I imagine I was pretty hard to forget.”

Malcolm didn’t seem to know how to reply to this. He said, “Well, I hope you were all right with Jill.”

“Yes.” To her credit, Jill had always behaved in exactly the same way towards Tom as towards her own son Henry. But she was not the sort of person you could be close to. She had treated both boys more like valued young colleagues than close relatives. Perhaps that had made things easier for Tom, given the state he was in back then.

Malcolm put the vegetables into a pan and switched on the heat. He said, “And do you talk to Henry much?”

“Not really. He’s been in Canada for more than ten years and you know—you lose touch. We email occasionally.”

Malcolm nodded.

Tom went back to reading, but after a few moments Malcolm added, “And will you stay in touch with Caroline, do you think?”

“It seems unlikely.” Malcolm didn’t seem to understand what it meant for a relationship to be over. Tom briefly considered explaining all the reasons it was unsalvageable, if only to prevent further questions, but decided he didn’t have the energy.

“You’re running away,” Caroline had said as he packed his bag.

“Yes.”

“Do you think it’ll help?”

Tom had no reply to this. He didn’t think anything would help now.

“You always knew I wanted children,” Caroline said. She was crying again.

“Yes. But . . .” But what? He had really thought that when the time came it might be O.K.

“You’ve wasted my time,” she said. “Four years. Wasted.”

“I know.” He put out his hand to her. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” she said, moving beyond his reach. “I love you. It wasn’t wasted.”