Miranda met his eyes and gave a see-what-I-put-up-with shrug. ‘This morning, she had all her suitcases stacked in the hall. I asked why on earth hadn’t she let me bring them downstairs, to which she replied: “I just chucked them down the stairs in front of me as I can’t possibly manage the steps carrying anything.” But it’s good to see her talking,’ she said bravely.

Her mother had been ill, her voice had only just come back. Miranda very nearly had had to return early from Paguera.

‘She’s still complaining of the cold.’

‘She doesn’t look ill,’ observed Dyer.

‘When she gets unwell she looks very well because she gets these lovely rosy cheeks,’ and went to fill the kettle.

It was no use thinking old age might be different, Miranda continued. However prepared you thought you were. One thing her mother had taught: ‘We learn nothing, it all has to be re-learned.’ Not even if you were an expert did it help. ‘Have you noticed? All hair surgeons are bald, no coach plays tennis, no critic can write.’

‘You sound like my aunt.’

‘What do you think, Mummy? Could we have done this better?’

Seated at the card table, her mother was combing her hair in a silver hand mirror.

‘Mother?’

No answer.

He thought of his mother brushing her thinning hair, not out of vanity, but so as not to frighten others; not to see reflected in their faces the brown bloated features of chemo.

‘Let me plump some life into the old cushion. Stay there.’

Miranda leaned over her, saying in a comforting voice: ‘I’ll keep the heating going. I won’t switch that off. You’re in a safe place, darling.’

Dyer could not help admiring her, the concerned and patient way she treated the old lady. Her energy was unexpected, homely but with something grand about it, like an apron worn over a ballgown. He had a sudden vision of the fury of other women at the modest one who wins the prince.

She came back to finish making their coffee.

‘How’s your toe?’ he asked.

‘Getting better, thank you.’ And flexed out her foot.

There was a simple sensual confidence in the movement. Unhurried, she turned her slender neck, her face. It was a lovely face. Pale and oval. The face of a woman in a classical painting.

He looks at her for a fraction of a second longer than is normal, not seeming to notice the dog that has come between them. She lowers her foot, raises her head. Their eyes meet over the counter in an unspoken recognition that he related afterwards to a shared sense of humour, an involuntary start at a beautiful view. She looked at him and she knew him.

‘Thor! Off!’

Dyer stooped to stroke him and a soft muzzle brushed his heart.

‘I need some advice,’ he said, straightening.