‘Just been for a jog,’ he explained, gesturing at the clothes.

‘You don’t need to explain yourself to me,’ she said, opening the passenger door and retrieving a box filled with samples and swatches.

Stephen laughed. ‘Force of habit. I have a wife and two daughters. I spend my life explaining myself to women. Oh God, that sounds terribly sexist, doesn’t it? Don’t tell Pam I said so.’

Heather had already characterised him as an affable sexist, which was fine by her. She worked in an office full of affable sexists, and they weren’t as bad as people made out. If anything, she felt most powerful around this kind of man. They tended to be largely confused by, and subservient to, women. Sure, they were surprised when women proved to be their intellectual or creative equal – often disconcertingly so – but by and large they didn’t impede her existence in any way. So, affable sexist it was.

Stephen appeared beside her and took the box of samples out of her hands without asking. He was a big man, she noticed, with a ramrod-straight back and a broad chest. ‘Just so you know, I explain myself to men a lot too. To everyone really.’

‘Well . . . that’s a nice quality. A lot of people I know never bother to explain themselves at all. I’m Heather Wisher, by the way.’

‘Stephen Aston.’

They shook hands, as people did back then, and then walked side by side towards the grand front steps of the Astons’ home, an upside-down house with the kitchen and living areas on the top floor so they had a view of Brighton Beach. At the bottom of the stairs, Stephen slowed a little. ‘Listen, before we go in, I need to fill you in about Pam. I probably should have called you earlier but –’

‘You’re here!’ a woman called from the top of the stairs. ‘Are you early or am I late?’

Stephen smiled. ‘You’re both right on time.’ He shot Heather a look that said he’d finish the conversation later.

They started with a home tour, which was typical, but it was led by Stephen, which wasn’t. Usually husbands made themselves scarce for these visits, apart from a brief speech on arrival about how the budget was not to be blown, and to insist that no space be taken from the garage. But that day, Stephen did all the talking. As they made their way around the house, he kept his hand on Pam’s shoulder, guiding her through the house as if she didn’t know the way. It was curious. Pam didn’t say much, and whenever Heather asked her opinion, she shrugged and asked if anyone wanted a cup of tea. After the fifth or sixth time of this, Stephen put an arm around her shoulders and said, ‘All right, we’ll take the hint. It’s tea time.’ He grinned at Heather. ‘Pam makes a mean cup of tea. She has just about every flavour you could think of.’