Once Meredith and Paula had left, Pete located his phone – it was on top of the unlit stove – and texted Andrea to see if she’d come over for fish pie and wine later. He made sure to stress that Meredith would be there too, to assuage his nerves at extending the invitation in the first place. He considered Andrea, with her silky black hair and endless legs, to be way out of his league, and the thought that she might assume she was being invited over to be seduced made him grimace with discomfort, despite the fact that there was nothing he’d have liked to do more. If she was interested in him romantically, surely she would have given some sort of signal by now? She was unfailingly smiley and sparkly around him, and quite touchy-feely after a couple of drinks – not that she was drinking, now that she was pregnant. But then, she was like that around everyone else too.

It seemed odd, if not wrong, to be having what was essentially a dinner party when Meredith could be mixed up in something that may at any moment be deemed to be a murder investigation; but what were they supposed to do, if not ‘keep calm and carry on’? He knew it was important to Meredith to do just that, otherwise she’d just sit around and obsess, and become increasingly scared and paranoid. And if the police were to investigate her further, it was essential that it looked as if she was just in her usual routine, untroubled by conscience.

Plus, to have Andrea over would be good for them both. They wouldn’t be able to discuss Ralph if she was here, and she unfailingly made them feel happier – she was just that sort of person.

Meredith was always telling him to go for it with Andrea – to be more confident, that he was gorgeous, a catch for any woman, he’d just been unlucky with previous relationships; but he never believed her. She was biased, anyway. Whenever he looked in the mirror all he saw was a gangly, weedy middle-aged bloke losing his hair. And the clothes he favoured – retro tank tops, baggy cords, collarless shirts, brogues – looked fine on Shoreditch hipsters, but, he suspected, on him just made him look like a 1950s throwback or someone who could only afford to shop in charity shops. All he was missing, he’d thought grumpily that morning as he was shaving, was a pipe and a comb-over – the latter wasn’t far off being doable.

He was just putting some music on – Hubert Parry’s Songs of Farewell, his favourite choral work; Meredith always gave him shit about it, so when she got back he’d change it to Tom Waits, or Joni or something more likely to meet with her approval – when his phone buzzed in his hand.