I actually— He cleared his throat; it was the same noise I’d heard on the phone. A protracted, liquid grunt. My stomach plunged, and recovered.

I actually have a request. A – well – a favour to ask.

I had my hand resting on my mouth, I realized, when his eyes flicked to it. I moved it down. I was barely aware of what my body was doing: it was the opposite of how he arranged himself, the slow way he made any change in his position. Perhaps, when he was younger, he had been more fluid, but I doubted it: I had met a few versions of his type at university, leftovers from an earlier age, men who knew exactly how to arrange themselves.

Right. I frowned, briefly: I couldn’t help it.

The waiter came with my tea, checked whether David wanted anything – calling him sir – before returning to the front of the restaurant, the light from the windows that seemed faded, distant, as though it was already in the past.

I wanted to ask whether you could speak to your husband – he winced slightly when saying this last word, I noted – about his work situation. About whether there was a possibility – a chance – that he might find – another grunt – employment. Elsewhere.

Still, there was no questioning tone. It was closer to an order than a favour, I realized. This felt more like the identification of something I already knew than fresh knowledge: of course Professor David Holmes would never truly ask something of me, make himself vulnerable with a genuine request. He could, however, expect something from me.

This whole thing has been awful for my wife, you know – for Vanessa. The picture . . . I know she would never say anything. Would never ask . . . or you. But she’s so happy there. And she didn’t send it, so . . .

It was interesting, how anger appeared and disappeared in front of this man. How it dared to rise, tentatively, but – having nowhere to go, no possible expression – disappeared back inside me, was reabsorbed, seemed to be conveyed to my own hands instead, to their quaking, their inability to hold the dainty china cup without spilling my tea. I tried to keep my voice steady, at least.

Does Vanessa know you’re here?

He shook his head quickly.

No. It would only upset her. She’s been doing better – recently.

So you’re staying together?

For the first time, I saw irritation present itself, before he could do anything to stop it: the smallest curve of his lip, an involuntary tightening of skin near his eye. His voice, when he spoke: just the lightest inflection of anger.

Well, yes. Of course. I believe in – he picked up a napkin, put it down, moved his leg; he was struggling, for a brief moment, to find the appropriate movement.