Re-crossing the landing to head back downstairs, she heard the strains of a guitar and singing float in from outside. Esther paused to check through the porthole window identical to her own, contorting her neck to ascertain that the party had entered a new, mellower phase, involving an encampment of outdoor lamps and figures sprawled on blankets. She began to hum along softly, recognising the tune, only to find her throat swelling and the encampment blurring. The loneliness of Carmela. It was unspeakable suddenly. Unforgivable. Thank God for the visiting nephew. If her neighbour made it out of hospital, she would try harder, she vowed; she would care. Offer to do the occasional grocery shopping, stop by for a chat – how hard could that be? She would certainly hope for no less if a similar state of solitude were to afflict her own old age.

Esther stared out at the clouds gathering in the sky beyond the railway track, bruised by the setting sun. It was actually impossible to believe such a fate awaited her, but then, she realised with a start, it almost certainly wasn’t what Carmela had planned either. Life could shove you in all sorts of unexpected directions, some terrible, some good. As at the extraordinary family lunch that day: Lucas and her conversing like companionable relatives; Lily radiant; dear Dylan bravely rising out of his doldrums; her parents at their most endearing.

Until it had all gone awry in the street afterwards. Esther put her hands on either side of the window, leaning into the wall and breathing hard. What an idiot, imagining Lucas would ever admit to anything. She pushed off from the wall and then stepped forwards as a glimpse of movement through the window caught her eye, in her own garden this time – a flitting tall shadow on the patio, disappearing immediately under the lee of Carmela’s window ledge.

On trembling legs, she flew back down the staircase and out of the house, forgetting her milk carton, only just remembering to double-lock the door. Adrenalin pumped so hard that her chest hurt, until she found herself charging through her own house, switching on lights, and shouting, ‘Who goes there?’ like some madwoman in an ancient play. Only as she flung open her back door, confronting the darkness of the garden, did she come to a halt, eyes and ears straining, the hairs on her arms and neck risen and rigid. Next door the party was rumbling on. If attacked, she would scream, Esther consoled herself wildly; Dimitri and Sue would hear her and all would be well. The garden sat, a hunched hulk in the dark. The patio was empty. Next door, the guitarist had started on ‘You’ve Got a Friend.’