‘Sure,’ she said, taking her legs off the other chair and crossing them slowly, leaning over to pick up her cigarettes.

He took off his jumper and chucked it over a chair, and then he opened up his case and got out the bassoon as she lit up, pulling the glass door ajar to let the smoke out into the garden. She watched him then as he fixed the mouthpiece. His mouth was so familiar to her; that mouth that she never kissed but now someone else did; how nice for him to be wanted. Then when he began to play she turned away to watch a plump pigeon land in the cherry tree, peck at a few old berries and fly off again. She couldn’t ignore the music; it was haunting and tender and she did her best to remain untouched by it. As he finished, she turned to look at him again to find that he was evidently expecting some kind of response from her.

‘Very nice,’ she said.

He didn’t move. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, noting the empty bottle, slowly lowering the bassoon.

She held his eye. ‘Do you feel rejected by me, Si?’

‘What?’

‘Have I pushed you away?’

‘What are you talking about?’ He yanked the mouthpiece out and started putting the bassoon back in its case.

‘Just answer the question.’

‘I don’t understand the question,’ he said, snapping the bassoon case shut. She looked back out into the garden and inhaled slowly on her cigarette.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked, moving round the table to her side, pausing, perching himself on it, folding his arms.

‘I wonder,’ she said, watching him carefully, his studied cross-examination pose. ‘You tell me. What is going on, Si?’

‘You’re talking in riddles.’

She turned her body to face his. ‘I understand, you know. You can still have children. I’m holding you back.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘And you need to feel needed.’

‘Is that right?’

‘And you don’t get that from me.’

‘You can stop now, Emma, you’re not at work. I’m not one of your bloody patients.’

‘Am I wrong?’

‘That I need to feel needed? Of course I need to feel needed. Everyone needs to feel needed, even you, Emma. Except you just don’t like to show any neediness because you think making yourself vulnerable means you’re weak or something, and God forbid you shouldn’t be able to cope with everything.’

She blew the smoke out of her mouth slowly in a steady stream. ‘Wow, that was quite an outburst,’ she said, stubbing out the cigarette, twisting it firmly in the ashtray which rested on her past-its-sell-by womb.

‘For example,’ he carried on, ‘whatever idea you’ve got in your head right now, you can’t say it, you can’t show that you care, you have to turn it into some kind of Gestapo inquisition.’