‘She gave me one too.’ Of course: the fern in the living room. ‘Biscuit?’ He pushes the plate of ginger nuts towards her.

She takes one. ‘I haven’t met Giovanni – the guy in the flat opposite me. Although I thought I saw him in the garden. Do you know what he does?’

‘Conductor. Not the bus kind. He’s in an orchestra, been in the house for about three years, I reckon – longer than the Hamiltons, anyway.’

‘So, he’s a night bird.’

‘I guess.’

Marina nods and sips her coffee. She isn’t sure the man she saw with the walking stick fits her idea of a musician, but who knows. She eats her biscuit, reaches for another and chats a little more about plants and not being green-fingered. Keeping her voice casual, she asks about the pianist.

‘Ah.’ Ron’s expression shuts down as he looks at his cup and twists it on its saucer.

‘I noticed the name on the post box.’ She pauses. ‘Kolinski?’

He clears his throat. ‘Yeah. That’s Eva.’

Marina’s skin tingles. Not Natalia, but a relative. She snaps the biscuit in two. ‘She’s very talented. Is it Chopin I can hear?’

‘Yeah,’ says Ron. ‘You’re right. She’s good.’

‘How old is she?’

‘About thirty.’

Natalia’s daughter, perhaps. ‘Does she live alone?’

‘Yeah.’

His voice is flat. He’s holding back. Marina dunks one half of her biscuit and speaks carefully. ‘So, what’s she like?’

He’s blushing and now she guesses. ‘Oh. I see.’ She leans forward, makes sympathetic eye contact, hoping the colour of her cheeks doesn’t match his. ‘What happened?’

‘It’s over, although it didn’t go far, to be honest.’ He stops and frowns. ‘She’s got one or two . . . issues. Hold on. Why am I telling you this?’

She shrugs, smiles reassuringly. ‘I’m easy to confide in.’

He laughs, picks up the pot. ‘More coffee?’

‘Thanks.’

There’s a mewing at the door. Ron stands and lets in a fat black cat that promptly jumps onto the table.

‘Meet Sardine,’ he says, pushing the cat back down.

‘Boy or girl?’

‘Boy.’ He sets about opening a can, spooning meat into a bowl while Sardine purrs.

Marina senses Ron is controlling his emotions and guesses he’s been hurt. She is curious and asks gently about Eva’s issues.

Sardine has finished and is licking his paws, wiping his mouth. Ron reaches across and grabs the cat. ‘She doesn’t get out much,’ he says.

‘Why?’

Sardine struggles on his lap. ‘She’s . . .’ He stops again.

‘Agoraphobic?’

‘Not exactly. She gets anxious and . . . panicky. Her mother died not that long ago, actually.’