Patrick looks up as if he hadn’t expected Chloe to remember the name of the street where they lived.

Chloe continues: ‘I mean, I didn’t know that Josie had been a neighbour of yours.’

He goes back to working polish into the shoe.

‘Yes, neighbours for nearly thirty years.’

‘Is she still there? In Chestnut Avenue, I mean.’

It had never occurred to her that Josie – that anyone – could have been watching that day when Chloe had knocked on the door. What if she told Maureen that she’d seen her before? What if she’s telling her right now?

Patrick shakes his head. ‘Moved a year before we did,’ he says, sighing as he gets up. He fills the kettle with water. ‘You want one of these?’ He holds up a cup.

Chloe looks down the hall, in the hope perhaps that Maureen might appear. It is still light despite the fact that it is nearly six o’clock, a reminder that the sunnier days are just around the corner. She wants to say no, but something – curiosity? – makes her nod her head instead.

‘Yes, that’ll be good, thanks.’

She pulls a chair out at the table while Patrick asks whether she prefers tea or coffee.

‘Tea?’ she says. She hadn’t meant for it to sound like she was answering a question with a question. She puts the chair at an angle, further away from the table than she might ordinarily sit.

Chloe watches him as he moves about the kitchen, more confidently, she notices, without Maureen here. This is her domain, everything has her stamp on it, right down to the way that the tea towels are folded and left on the side of the sink. Chloe realizes she’s never actually seen Patrick do so much as make a cup of tea here. When Maureen is around, he is passive, fussed over by her. It’s strange to see him so out of context in his own home. He’s not working today, and he’s wearing jeans and a knitted burgundy jumper. He looks like he’s had a trim, his curls less unruly, which make him look younger, less wild. She’d seen Maureen cutting his hair in the kitchen once not long after she arrived. He’d sat on a chair on the middle of the lino while Maureen snipped at his neck, pieces of hair falling onto the towel she had put there. She shifts in her chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs as the kettle reaches boiling point on the worktop. Should she start a conversation? She looks around the kitchen for inspiration, for something to say. Patrick interrupts her thoughts.

‘Sugar?’ he asks.

‘Two, please.’