The roses had been left to take over the sink and they were in the sitting room, where Esther had been subjected to a dry-humoured elaboration on the logistical challenges related to transporting the remains of deceased non-UK-passport holders to southern Europe. Marcus had accepted the offer of a beer and Esther had made herself a peppermint tea, curling up with her mug in a corner of the sofa while he sat in the bigger of her two armchairs, his long legs stretched out under the table. The small celebration of establishing the whereabouts of the pet had seemed to warrant something, and Esther had also sensed a reluctance on Marcus’s part to trudge straight back to his late aunt’s empty house.

‘She didn’t know many people here. And the family just want her home.’

‘Of course,’ she murmured, in truth mulling over the unsettling realisation that when you found someone attractive, you just did. Regardless of age appropriateness, reciprocity, one’s own troubles, or whether the person in question happened to be mourning dead aunts. In fact, it was all very simple and threw a fresh perspective on the recent Chris Mews hoo-ha that made her head spin. Talk about a bullet dodged. ‘So, what do you do, Marcus? If you don’t mind my asking.’

He absently tweaked a clump of the trimmed hair, pulling a face that suggested he did mind, but was prepared to consider making an exception. ‘I act. Visigoth-for-the-summer.’ He laughed – clearly at himself – before going on. ‘Mostly in the Lake District, but now preparing to be a dodgy property magnate – operating out of Amsterdam, which should also be fun. I love Amsterdam. And before you ask, no…’ he held up a warning hand despite Esther having made no effort to speak ‘…you won’t have heard of me because I am invariably forty-third soldier on the left. Nor will you have seen my films. I mean, no offence at all—’ he threw her an impish smile ‘—but I tend to get work aimed at a very young audience – mostly low-budget failed attempts at blockbusters that go straight to streaming. For the record, it actually says Marcos Gerado on my birth certificate. English mother, Portuguese father. But there was another one of those at my Lisbon drama school, so I switched to Marcus instead, and actually prefer it now. It’s handy being bilingual though.’ He paused to take a sip from his beer bottle, having rejected the offer of a glass. ‘And I love Lisbon, but moved over here because…’ He groaned. ‘Sorry. You really don’t want all this.’

‘But I do,’ Esther protested, tucking her legs more tightly under her and hugging her mug, starting to enjoy this unlooked-for coda to what had turned into quite a day. To be talked to was relaxing. ‘Go on.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’