Her husband stood in the doorway in his coat, shaken by the man with the cigar he had just seen outside.

On the television screen, a couple dressed in matching bright-yellow outfits were dancing a tango.

‘Are you all right, Maurice?’ she said, anxious suddenly. ‘You look very pale.’

‘I – I – I – I’m fine.’

She shook her head. ‘I really think you should go and see Dr Reade. You’re behaving very strangely recently, ever since we’ve moved here. I’m worried you might have had a small stroke, or perhaps you have early-onset dementia.’

‘I’m perfectly fine.’

‘You need an MRI scan.’

I need a drink, he thought.

‘Make an appointment tomorrow morning.’

‘I’ll do that,’ he said and removed his coat, hanging it on a hook in the hall. Then he walked through to the kitchen and headed straight for the drinks cabinet, where he poured himself a large whisky, and knocked it back in one gulp.

As the dancers finished their act, Claudette Penze-Weedell saw a figure pass by in the hallway again, heading towards the front door.

‘Maurice!’ she called out sternly. ‘Maurice, where are you going now?’

He stood in the kitchen, still very shaken by what he had seen, and heard her voice. He poured himself a second, equally large whisky then walked, ambling at his own pace, back towards the living room.

‘Maurice!’ she called again.

He entered the room.

‘Where did you just go – and why?’

‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

‘I just saw you heading towards the front door.’

‘You must have been mistaken, I was in the kitchen.’

She frowned. ‘I – I definitely saw you going to the front door.’

‘I definitely was not.’

‘I saw you!’

‘Maybe you’re the one who needs to go to the doctor, my love.’

‘I’m telling you I saw you! You can’t even remember what you did thirty seconds ago. I’m coming with you, you need a check-up.’

He glanced at the screen. ‘Who’s in the lead?’

‘Not the couple I’ve been rooting for. They’ve just been eliminated.’

‘Ah.’

‘Ah,’ she echoed, with a mimicking tone. ‘Is that all you can say?’

‘What would you like me to say – or do? Prostrate myself on the floor with grief? Turn up at their funeral carrying the Hanging Gardens of Babylon on my shoulders as a wreath?’

‘Don’t be so pathetically dramatic.’ Turning away from him, she once again concentrated on the screen. After a short while she glanced back at her husband. ‘I’d just like you to show some emotion, some feeling, some interest in what I’m interested in.’

He pointed a finger. ‘At all those people prancing around in fancy dress?’

‘It’s quality dancing – not something you’ve ever been any good at.’

‘No, well, I’m going to a quality football match tomorrow. Brighton and Hove Albion against Spurs.’

‘What?’ she said, crossly. ‘Tomorrow is free hot drinks day at Wyevale Garden Centre. With my loyalty card. You know that, you have it in your diary.’