Appearances so did matter, Esther had decided, admiring the smooth globe of Chris’s head as she followed him across the sticky floor of the pub to the cluster of dining tables at the far end of the bar; as did the basic, oh-so-telling courtesy of being truthful in dating profiles. The violinist, Jim, swung back to mind, along with the mesmerizingly botched and fragile comb-over that had momentarily stopped her in her tracks when he waved hello. In the profile photo there had been a rather cherubic head of light, gingery curls. Widower, she had reminded herself, her heart readying to soften nonetheless at the memory of the wife’s lost battle with cancer, referenced in his biog. But Jim’s preferred subject had turned out to be himself: his musical credentials, all the famous concert venues he had graced with his presence, in the second line of a row of violins. When Esther had ventured an allusion to her own modest musical abilities, he had told her how much harder the violin was to master than the piano. The mention of her teaching beginners had prompted a look of haughty pity. And yet, out in the street after an interminable hour, he had appeared distraught and astonished when she’d diplomatically rejected the notion of a second meeting.

‘But why?’ he had asked, flinging out his thin arms. ‘You don’t know me.’

Esther had shaken her head, gormless and guilty. Not to want to know a person. It felt like a crime. As she had watched him trudge away, the slender frame hunched in defeat, the comb-over raised like a flimsy sail, relief had been accompanied by the unsettling after-taste of her own cruelty. Life has hurt me too, she had wanted to call after him, just in different ways. I am not really strong, only trying to be.

Chris Mews, with his easy manner and big smile, was immediately so much more promising. By the time they were wedged into their little corner table and had placed their orders, he had teased all sorts of information out of her, including the fact of her imminent late-July birthday the following Saturday.

‘Maybe I could take you out to celebrate?’ He raised his pint of beer to chink against her wine glass. ‘If things go well, of course, and you don’t have other plans.’ He shot her a mischievous grin. ‘I’m not till January, so we’ll leave that one on the table.’

‘Maybe,’ Esther murmured, her hopes bouncing even though she knew it was too soon. ‘I mean, that would be nice. If things go well. As you say. No jumping the gun.’

‘No gun-jumping allowed.’ He grinned, directing a finger-pistol at his temple.