It was almost dark when they went through to the sitting room, where Romy had lit the wood-burner. Finch had to duck to avoid the lintel above the door.

She had tidied up earlier, and the clutter littering the surfaces had been shoved unceremoniously into the cupboard under the stairs. All that remained were three framed photos of Leo and Rex as children – the one of her and Michael, windswept and laughing on a friend’s boat, she had moved to the spare room, unwilling, as yet, to hide it away in a drawer.

The room – which had been extended into the garden – contained a faded rose-linen sofa piled with cushions and a small wingback chair in oatmeal tweed, two slim bookcases on either side of the fireplace and a coffee table made from reclaimed barn boards.

Finch had settled on the sofa when Romy came back with coffee and the box of chocolates he’d brought with the Merlot. She wondered whether she should sit in the armchair across from him, or be bold and choose the sofa, too. After a moment’s hesitation, she followed her instincts and opted for the latter.

The atmosphere in the room was warm and intimate, the flames from the wood-burner hypnotic. Glancing at the clock Romy realized it was nearly eleven – she and Finch had been talking non-stop for hours. The evening had gone in a flash.

With Michael, Romy had often got the feeling that he was busy forming his next sentence while she was talking – keen to get his views across instead of really listening to what she said – so at first she’d been almost reticent with Finch. But as the evening had worn on, she’d felt as if they were old friends who had known each other all their lives – at the same time as being exciting new ones.

Romy was acutely aware of Finch so close, the clean, orangey smell of soap, the strong hands with the long fingers curled around the stoneware mug, his thigh – clad in charcoal chinos – only inches from her own. It was as if she had been gathered up into a softly vibrating lacuna, where there was no need to go forward or to look back: she could just bask in that single moment. A log cracked loudly against the glass door of the stove and she jumped.

Finch smiled at her. ‘What a lovely evening,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘Thanks for the delicious supper.’ After a pause, he added, ‘I suppose I should get going.’ Although he did not immediately make a move.

Hearing the reluctance in his voice, which so exactly mirrored her own, she smiled. When he did get up, she followed him through to the hall, watched as he shrugged his broad shoulders into his navy peacoat and patted his pockets for his phone and keys.