‘I’m very proud of this picture,’ Holly said, suddenly standing up and walking over to the mantelpiece. ‘Do you see? The one up here on the wall?’

An old newspaper article had been cut out and framed – expensively, as far as he could tell – with the photo centre stage. He recognised Holly’s eyes, her stare. There was something confrontational in it.

‘I don’t mean me, of course, don’t bother looking at me,’ she said, and she actually grabbed his chin – the way his granny had done when he was a little boy, when she’d decide he had some dirt on his face and then spit on a tissue to wipe it off – and moved his head a few degrees to the left, adjusting his line of sight. ‘Now you see this arm here, around my shoulders? Someone just out of the frame?’

‘Oh, yes. I see.’

He took a step away from her, rubbing his chin where her hand had touched him. The jolt of memory had left him unbalanced.

‘Well, that,’ she said, turning to face him with something like defiance, ‘is Freida. And that is all you will be getting out of me.’

When Rosie walked back into the room, Kaz carrying the pouch behind her, her nana was pretending to be asleep in her comfy chair again. Rosie wasn’t going to let on she knew it was an act – she never did. And she had an idea. Pausing by the door, she beckoned the journalist playfully, who raised his eyebrows and didn’t get up.

‘We could do the photos outside, what d’you think?’

She beamed and nodded at him. It would be great to do the photo shoot outdoors, in the open, in the middle of winter. Much better than in the front room. Days like this were her favourite – ice cold and bright. She took hold of Kaz’s hand and swung his arm back and forth before pulling his fingers towards her lips and giving them a quick kiss. He was wearing his dreads down today. She loved that. And there was some almost-blue sky visible, a light turquoise winking at them between the sheets of white.

‘It’s the perfect day for it,’ she said with a grin.

The journalist nodded and stood up, slowly, as if his joints ached, gathering his notebook and phone into his bag and pulling out a small camera instead. She thought about asking him if he was OK, but she didn’t. He gave the impression of someone who didn’t want to be approached. Strange, for a journalist – usually they were practised at drawing you in. She rather liked the difference.

‘This way, Mr Filipek,’ she said, turning back to the door and putting her hands on Kaz’s shoulders as he stepped through to the hall. She reached up on tiptoes to kiss the back of his neck.