‘I’m sorry,’ he says again, and now finally slips his hand from mine. He rests his palms on his knees. His legs don’t seem to be trembling any longer, and his breathing is slower, deeper. ‘I’m feeling better. It’s passing. Open space – it always helps.’

I don’t know what I should say now. I feel so calm on the outside, and yet my heart is racing in my chest and my hands feel cold – anxiety of my own. I try to match my breathing to his – long, slow breaths.

I still can’t believe what Mike Bernard said.

A cluster of sparrows comes hopping up to us, darting near us, then flitting away. Gradually, they grow braver, less timid. Watching them calms me. Soon Alastair seems calm enough as well.

‘I’m sorry,’ I’m the one to say now. ‘I swear to you, I had no idea. I’m as shocked as you are.’

Alastair gives his hands a shake. I understand the gesture: shaking away the pins and needles of adrenaline. ‘I just can’t believe it,’ he says. ‘The way she talked about them …’

‘You never suspected?’

‘No. She was always telling me stories about her family, her childhood. Silly things that happened to her at school, stuff she got up to with friends, family holidays, all of that. She was … a natural storyteller. She was studying Creative Writing, did I tell you that?’

He looks over at me, smiling, though his eyes are wet at the corners.

I smile back, despite the weight of sadness in my chest. ‘No, you didn’t.’ And I think: did he tell me what he was studying at university?’