But then maybe the urge he felt to run when she threw off his shirt and stood there naked in his kitchen was founded on something deeper rooted than regret, or disgust, or shame, or whatever other petty doubts harassed him.

Maybe it was the same thought that had haunted him for years:

What am I really capable of if I can’t remember what I’m doing?

He opened the front door and peered inside. The blinds were drawn and the kitchen was in semi-darkness, the only form of illumination came from the hallway beyond, but that could be how she had left it. In the distance, he could hear the familiar rumble of comings and goings in Covent Garden and the street musicians playing their endless tune.

He crept in and shut the door behind him. Looked around. There was no obvious evidence of disturbance. In the lounge, the lionfish were resting in the far corner of the tank.

You guys know the truth of it. Good job you can’t talk.

Fragments of memory soaked back into his thoughts as he checked the bed where they had been together. It occurred to him that it might have only been oral sex but it was of little consolation in the end, and probably wishful thinking.

He looked through each room carefully, dared to believe that she might not actually be there until he saw a sliver of light lining the bottom of the en-suite bathroom. He put his ear to the door. His heart sank like a stone as he heard the telling swish of water.

Priest pushed the door open. She must have been aware; the creak was loud enough and echoed round the tiled bathroom. But she didn’t look up from her position, half submerged in the green bubble-filled water of his bath.

Bugger.

‘Welcome home,’ she sang. She was staring vacantly at the end of the bath while soaking a flannel and wringing the water onto her chest, dislodging the foam, making sure her breasts were visible.

‘What are you doing here?’ He intended to sound unwelcoming but the sight of her nakedness caught him off guard. Her body was lissom and toned. Her hand was resting on the pit of her stomach, the tips of her fingers disappearing into the water between her legs.

She looked at him, puzzled. ‘I’m bathing. Isn’t that obvious?’

Priest looked away, but he knew it was too late – she had seen him looking, noticed his eyes scanning her body. She revelled in his embarrassment, moving her hand further into the water.

‘Don’t you want to join me?’ she teased.

‘There’s a towel on the side.’

‘You’ve changed your tune.’

‘Elinor, look, we crossed a line that maybe we shouldn’t have crossed. I’m sorry.’