‘No, Jim, I don’t know either. I read once about an artist who, when she felt her life was slipping from brilliant to rubbish, went to live in Florida in an out-of-town community for senior citizens, with a big gate to keep out the riff-raff. She lived in a pink bungalow behind a low fence, and if so much as a bulb blew, a little man in coveralls came along to fix it. Easy living. As if that wasn’t fabulous enough, she drank wine with every meal, including breakfast, and had champagne on Saturday nights and gin on a Sunday. She sat in the sun crisping her skin and swam naked in the communal pool. I mean, I wouldn’t mind getting old if I could be like her and live like that. But the thought of another thirty years in Larkspur Close?’ She looked up and down the cul de sac, which was now coming to life, with curtains being drawn, car engines starting, and bikes being lifted from the back shed. Kids could be heard bickering and at least one dog was barking for its breakfast or commenting on Brexit – it was hard to tell from this distance.

‘Well, I hope she’s happy in her little bungalow,’ Jim said, staring at her. ‘I don’t drink, so . . .’

‘Probably not for you then, Jim.’

‘Probably not.’ He sniffed. ‘D’you know, I felt quite happy until I knocked on your door.’

‘Oh, that’s my particular talent. My daughter calls me the fun-sucker, my husband the joy hoover and apparently I even upset the dog.’ She gave a small laugh to counter the possibility of giving in to the tears gathering at the back of her throat. Bess did not want to be that person who pulled joy from the room.

Jim laughed. ‘We’re all allowed off days.’

‘I guess.’ She gave a wry smile, deciding not to share that she had more off days than on at the moment, and happy to have made him laugh and maybe restored a little of the ease with life he had felt before knocking on her door.

She wanted nothing more than to close the front door and make her third coffee of the day, but Jim stayed put, looking back down the street as if he wanted to say something. Embarrassment ticked in her veins.

‘You know I think you should enjoy your birthday, Mrs T, and I think you should treasure every day. My wife . . .’ He swallowed. ‘My wife passed away at forty-two, and I swear—’ He shook his head. ‘I would give anything – anything – to be handing her a birthday card each year, marking the time that I got to spend with her, and if she had lived to be a hundred it wouldn’t have been enough. She was my world, you see.’