When, on sunny days, he noticed that the front door of the nursing home was frequently left open, it was too tempting to take his observation a step further. He checked the weather forecast, tallied the sunnier days against Jodie’s shift pattern and chose a day. When it came, he bought a cheap bunch of flowers, walked through the front door and approached the reception desk with a confident smile.

‘Do I need to sign in?’ he asked, holding the bouquet of flowers high enough for the woman to see before burying his nose in it as if mesmerised by the wonderful fragrance.

‘Yes, please,’ she said pointing towards the end of the high counter.

‘I hope it’s okay to bring in flowers,’ he said, side-stepping along to the register. He held the attached pen in his hand, as if waiting for her reply, his eyes quickly scanning the names on the page. ‘They really are rather lovely,’ he said, holding the bunch towards her, hiding his sleight of hand as he turned a page back and skimmed over the names until he found what he wanted. The name of a resident who hadn’t had any visitors for a couple of days. ‘They’re for Elsie Gleeson. She was a friend of my mother who died recently. I promised her I’d come and visit.’

‘How lovely,’ the receptionist had said, leaning forward to sniff the flowers. ‘She’ll love them, and we have no restrictions. Do you know where to go?’

He shook his head. ‘No, it’s my first visit.’

‘Room eight, ground floor, the last room on the left. She should be there at this time of the day.’

And it was as easy as that. Elsie Gleeson, delighted with the flowers and the company, professed to remember the deceased Sally Winters well, Victor using the same made-up name for convenience. Elsie was also delighted when Victor asked if he could come again. By his fifth visit, he was on first-name terms with some of the care staff and had even smiled at Jodie when he passed her in the corridor.

He found out all he could about her, followed her to the cafés she frequented, to the pubs where she met her friends, even to the cinema, taking a seat nearby, his eyes on her rather than the screen. It became the best part of his dreary life, the only part that had any meaning.

There was no real plan to his obsession. He was content to be around her, to know what she was doing. Her life didn’t appear to be very much more exciting than his, and for that he was strangely grateful. Not even the occasional romantic interlude impacted. They never, after all, lasted long.