It was an observation that was to echo at the back of Esther’s mind several hours later, as they lay, still fully clothed, but breathing hard, side by side on her bed, their mouths raw from kissing and her head spinning with a combination of remorse and arousal.

She had dropped her guard, that was the trouble, feeling sufficiently chatty and well disposed after the meal to invite him back to hers for a quick coffee before his train. That she had made her position clear had been her logic, and – as Lucas himself had so deftly pointed out – there was no crime whatsoever in making a new friend. When they were tucked into opposite ends of the flat’s big sagging sofa a little later, blowing the steam off their respective mugs of coffee, Esther had found herself sufficiently at ease to volunteer several personal details, including the annoying nature of Rick, her younger, sporty charmer of a brother, and their parents’ – at least their mother’s – most favoured child, and the mind-numbingly blinkered, middle-class existence of her parents, fussing between bridge evenings and rounds at the local golf club.

‘The stultifying suburban dullness of my upbringing is actually the biggest embarrassment of my life,’ she announced gleefully, expecting him to laugh.

But Lucas’s eyes dropped to his coffee. ‘I would trade my childhood for dullness any day, suburban or otherwise.’

‘Really? Oh, I see… I mean, I’m sorry…’ Esther held her breath, feeling glib and inadequate; torn between wanting him to go on and knowing she had no right to want any such thing.

‘No siblings.’ He set the mug down on the little table by the sofa and leant back, folding his arms across his slim chest, to belt himself in, it looked like. ‘A father who prefers whisky to milk on his cornflakes. Despite the fact that the preference cost him his career.’ He stared straight ahead, puffing his cheeks and blowing air out of his mouth, as if continuing to speak required physical effort. ‘A mother who looks the other way. The three of us tucked into a cottage in the wilds of Shropshire. It wasn’t what you would call a recipe for fun.’

‘No, it doesn’t sound it. I am so sorry.’

‘No need to be. It is done with. I left and never look – or go – back. At least, only very occasionally. Because of my mother. She could leave. She could… but she never will,’ he said bitterly, unlacing his arms and giving them a shake.

‘Your father…’ Esther ventured. ‘So what did he do, if you don’t mind my asking?’