‘I won’t kiss you if you’ve got smoky breath,’ she said sternly, through a chocolatey mouthful.

‘I’ll be back in a while.’

‘That’s what Scott said.’

‘Scott?’

‘Scott of the Antarctic, who do you think I meant?’

There was a burst of applause and music from the television as a couple in tight sequined clothes pirouetted across the dance floor. The dark background was dazzlingly illuminated by darting blue laser searchlights.

‘My dear, that wasn’t Scott – it was one of his team, Oates, and I think what he actually said was, “I am just going outside and may be some time.”’

‘Yes, well, don’t be as long as him.’

‘Ha ha.’

‘Have you wrapped up warm enough?’

‘It’s not that cold.’

‘Have you got your gloves?’

‘In my pocket.’

‘Make sure Elizabeth doesn’t follow you out.’

Checking the cat wasn’t behind him, Maurice let himself out of the front door, closing it with a sense of relief that he had a few minutes of escape and freedom. He walked a short distance in the dry, early evening air, careful to keep well out of sight of the lounge window, and lurked in the shadows of Santa’s grotto as he pulled out his cigarettes. Then he lit one, inhaling deeply and gratefully. One of his few little pleasures these days, he rued.

As he smoked, he stared at the lights behind the curtain-less windows of the house of the new arrivals. And in particular at the window below which the couple, frantically undressing each other, had sunk. He was feeling both intensely curious and a stirring in his trousers.

And finally, reluctant but unable to stop himself, as if propelled by an unseen hand, he stepped forward, across the lawn, towards number forty-seven, just getting a little closer. Then a little closer still.

7

Friday 14 December

Elizabeth jumped onto the sofa beside Claudette Penze-Weedell. She steadied the Quality Street tub before stroking the cat, absently, staring at the television. Elizabeth purred. On the screen, a man in a red sequined waistcoat, open at the front revealing his toned pecs, danced wildly with a woman with big hair, in a matching dress. Claudette lowered her eyes for a second to peer in the plastic tub, searching for another Strawberry Delight. As her pudgy fingers closed around her prize she realized, disappointed, it was the last one. She eyed several shiny purple wrappers. Her second favourites – she would work her way through those next, she decided.

Glancing back at the screen, a movement in the doorway caught her eye.

A shadowy figure crossed it.

‘Maurice!’ she called out, crossly. ‘Are you back already? You know what the doctor said about walking for thirty minutes every day.’

There was no response.

‘Maurice!’ she called out, louder.

At that moment on the screen the two dancers tumbled, catastrophically, onto the floor.

‘No!’ she gasped, as they struggled to their feet and tried to recover the situation, as if nothing had happened. Filled with anxiety for the couple, she plucked a purple chocolate from the tub, unwrapped it, and crammed it into her mouth, her eyes on stalks, riveted by the disaster as she chewed the hazelnut in soft caramel.