Michael ordered an Americano with warm milk, and remembered Casa Elouisa again, with its cool, thick-walled bedroom in which making love had seemed so possible. The barista served him with a smile that was almost a laugh, and her ‘thank you’ as he handed her twenty pounds sounded to Michael as if he had saved her life. She had the same eyes as Elizabeth, and yet ‘thank you’ was a phrase said how many times a day?

‘Thank you!’ she said, taking the note.

It was a new-minted ‘thank you,’ so fresh and soft, and it was for Michael only – she looked at him as she said it, and sex was not on her mind or his. Of all the station cafés in the world, he had selected this one. He had dignified it – blessed it, again – and the coffee was soon dripping into a cup like oil, the grounds having been tamped and squeezed. The correct measure of hot water thinned the mixture, making the intensity manageable, and it was another girl organising this part of the process. The first took your order and your money, and thanked you – the second made your drink.

She was no doubt nineteen or twenty, the one now holding his cup, but she looked twelve or thirteen, and her short dark hair was pulled behind her ears – she looked like a boy, in fact, James or Luke. Flat-chested, in a too-big shirt with the sleeves rolled, she reminded him of himself. She could have played Oliver Twist and broken hearts, and she was about to pour milk into a jug when she remembered there were options.

‘Would you prefer hot milk?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re like me,’ she replied. ‘Strong coffee. Hot milk.’

‘I’m trying to cut down, actually.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, the usual. Blood pressure. Two coffees a day, maximum.’

‘Yes, you mustn’t overdo it.’