‘Do you know what time it is, sleepyhead?’ He reached over to his alarm clock. ‘Nine o’clock.’ He had fallen asleep again. She sat up, swung her legs over the side.

‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘I should get back.’

He couldn’t bear to let her go, let her out of his sight. He wanted her scent to trail his, their two shadows as one. ‘Half an hour’s not going to make any difference. Let me get you breakfast.’

‘I shouldn’t really,’ she said. ‘But I am hungry. That Scotch egg didn’t do much yesterday.’

‘You’re in luck.’ He ran his finger down her spine, pulled her towards him, nuzzling her back. ‘I always treat myself to bacon and eggs on a Sunday. I don’t go to church anymore, but Sunday wouldn’t be Sunday without a fried breakfast. Do you want a bath?’

‘That would be nice. I can’t go home smelling of you, after all.’ She laughed, pressed her finger against his nose.

He pushed himself off the bed and pulled out a towel from his cupboard.

‘It’s a bit old, I’m afraid,’ he said, passing it to her. ‘You can borrow my dressing gown.’

He lifted it off the hook and draped it over her. It trailed on the floor. She rolled up the sleeves. ‘Back in a mo.’ She unbolted the door. ‘Leave it on the latch.’

‘Here,’ he said. ‘Take the key.’

‘It’s perfectly safe, isn’t it?’ she said.

He shrugged. ‘Sometimes Bob forgets to lock the street door. You never know.’

‘Then shouldn’t you come and stand guard?’

‘You’re fine.’ He pressed his lips to hers. ‘There’s a lock on the bathroom door and you have a bird’s eye view of the hallway when you come out.’ He smiled. ‘If there’s a strange man there, scream your head off.’

She laughed, but it wasn’t funny and he wished he hadn’t said that because now, he thought, the street door could be open and the man hiding under the stairs, biding his time. He waited until she was in the bathroom, then ran down to the ground floor. The street door was shut. This, he thought, is ridiculous. His grandmother kept checking locks, the first sign of her dementia.