A few moments later, the door opened and Moji appeared. ‘Brody! To what do I owe this pleasure?’

He’d known Moji for close to two decades. Long ago, in that other life, she’d owned a children’s bookshop in south London, but then, when her husband had divorced her and flown back to Nigeria, she’d moved down here, along with her eldest daughter. It had been on Moji’s recommendation that he’d looked in this area for somewhere quieter six years ago, when the city had become unbearable.

She was petite and round, and she had to reach up to put her arms around him so she could pull him into a hug and press a kiss on his stubbly cheek. Brody let her, but it had been a long time since he’d touched another human being and it felt strange. He wasn’t sure it was an entirely pleasurable experience anymore, which seemed odd, seeing as he’d always considered himself a tactile sort of person.

Moji released him and, for some reason, Brody thought of Anna, of what she’d said about her husband. She hadn’t got used to the lack of these basic human things yet, the way you do when you lose someone. That hunger for connection still burned inside of her. He suspected that was what had prompted her to call her husband’s number in the first place. It was probably why she kept calling Brody. It wasn’t him she wanted, really, just what he represented. A tenuous bond to what she’d lost.

He suddenly wished very hard that the hunger never left her. Not the tearing pain that came with it; one could always dispense with that. But it occurred to Brody that maybe the yearning was supposed to evolve into something more positive: passion, drive. Living. Not this awful blank numbness.

Lewis was looking up at Moji adoringly. She bent down to give him a tickle under the chin, then straightened with her usual self-contained grace and looked at Brody expectantly. He realized he hadn’t answered her question as to why he’d knocked on the door instead of leaving the box as he usually did. He shrugged. ‘Seemed ages since I’ve seen you.’

And it had been ages. Maybe six months. He only made these trips every five or six weeks and had got into the habit of sneaking in and out of town before anyone would be about.

‘Let me make you a cup of tea,’ she said.

‘Well, I…’

‘Go on, now you’re here! Only a quick one.’ She retreated inside before he had a chance to argue.

Brody swallowed, then followed her into the small shop, glancing nervously at the partially glazed front door. The sign hanging there read ‘OPEN’, meaning the opposite word was visible from the street. He was grateful for that.

There wasn’t room for both of them in her tiny kitchen, which he expected had once literally been a broom cupboard, so he waited in the shadows at the back of the shop while Moji made the drinks. When she was finished, she handed him a strong tea in a mug that said ‘Booksellers Believe in Them Shelves’. He couldn’t help smiling as he took it.