‘You don’t have much in your fridge,’ said Catherine. ‘But there’s bread that’ll be all right if it’s toasted and half a dozen eggs. So I’m going to scramble them, all right?’

‘I feel sick.’

‘I bet you do. And a big pot of coffee.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Just gone ten.’

‘Don’t you have somewhere else to be?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘I’ll be all right you know.’

‘I’m sure you will,’ said Catherine briskly and left her to dress.

And it was true that Irene felt all right, although her head was light as an empty box and her body sore and hollow. She pulled aside the curtains and saw that outside the day was clear and bright, with a few white mackerel clouds on the horizon and a wind riffling through the silky green leaves. Everything looked clean, shining with promise. She looked down into the street below, where on Saturday nights crack dealers stood at the bus stop and drunk youths threw dustbin lids at windows. People were walking along in light summer clothes with open faces. She leant out of the window for a moment, hearing the sound of voices, distant music, the rumble of cars, someone calling.

She pulled on some cotton trousers that hung off her and a blue tee-shirt to match the sky, slid her feet into flip-flops, and then carefully negotiated the stairs. There was the smell of coffee and toast coming from the kitchen, and Catherine stood by the stove stirring eggs in a pan.

‘I can’t eat that much. I don’t think I can eat anything.’

‘I’m having some too.’

‘Good.’

She looked out of the broken window into the garden. Yellow roses, lavender, buttercups and daisies on the uncut lawn, a dragonfly suspended a few inches from her, its wings pulsing.

‘Here you are – brunch.’

They sat at the table in comfortable silence. Catherine finished her eggs in about a minute and a half, but Irene ate very slowly, chewing everything many times and washing down each mouthful with strong coffee.

‘Good,’ said Catherine when she’d finished. ‘Do you want a violin lesson?’

‘What? Now?’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t think –’

‘Since I’m here.’

‘All right then,’ said Irene. ‘I haven’t practised much.’

‘I imagine not. We’ll start with scales.’

‘Scales are good,’ said Irene. ‘Something matter-of-fact.’

She had expected Catherine to ask her about what had happened; to press her for assurances that she wouldn’t do anything like it again. But Catherine didn’t ask her anything. She set up the music stand, tuned the violin, folded her arms and listened to Irene climbing up and down the ladder of notes with a frown on her face. ‘Too sharp,’ she said sternly. ‘Watch that second finger of yours.’ Then she put on her jacket, said she would see her next week unless she heard otherwise, and left, closing the door firmly behind her.