I’m conscious of not wanting to tarry in the changing room, but he still beats me to the café; I find him sprawled in an armchair at one of the low coffee tables with the best view over the valley, peering at his phone. He’s not dressed in a suit but in dark jeans and a turtleneck sweater. It makes an extraordinary difference. I can’t help but view him as I would if I met him in a pub, say, or a coffee shop. I am meeting him in a coffee shop. I wish he was in the suit.

He looks up with a ghost of a smile as I approach. “Black Americano,” he says, levering himself more upright to push an enormous mug toward me.

“Thanks.” I sink into the chair opposite him. It’s the kind of low, squashy affair that one can either perch on the edge of or loll back in. I don’t feel relaxed enough to loll. “What do I owe you?”

He shakes his head minutely. “I think I can run to one coffee.”

“Well. Thanks then.” I gesture toward his clothing. “Not in work today?”

“Not today. Not officially.” He’s looking me over carefully, but it doesn’t feel invasive. “You look a bit brighter than when I saw you last.”

“You too, if I’m honest.” He inclines his head: Touché. Suddenly I want to put off the questioning for as long as possible. I force myself to lean back in the chair, cradling my coffee on my lap. “Have you been living here for long?”

“Just over eighteen months. We moved up from Cardiff when Jill—my wife—first got diagnosed. She wanted to be near her family, and I managed to get this job . . .”

There’s something about the way he says her name. “Is she—?”

“She died. Brain tumor. It was supposed to be operable, but there were complications . . . She died three months after we moved up.” His delivery is matter-of-fact, but there’s a bleakness in his eyes that catches at me.

“I’m so sorry.” His lips twist in acknowledgment in the smile I’ve seen on other days, with no warmth in it. It makes a difference that I now understand why, though. I’m coloring him in, in my mind. “Do you think about going back to Cardiff?”

“Yeah, but I’m not sure it would be any better. Maybe I’d just miss her more, in all the places we used to go together . . . This is like starting over, apart from the odd Sunday lunch with the in-laws.” He pauses to correct himself. “Ex-in-laws, I suppose.”

I raise my eyebrows, grateful for the opportunity to inject some humor. “How is that?”

He spreads a hand in some kind of equivocation. I haven’t quite decoded his gestures yet. “Kind of nice, kind of weird.”