He looked thoughtful. ‘Did you say that?’

‘Yes, I did, and the thing is, I’m not,’ I said, extending the tickets towards him. ‘Not free to come, I mean.’

‘Do not worry, do not worry,’ he replied, gently clasping my outstretched hand, tickets and all, between his. ‘The main thing is that there is someone sitting in those seats.’

‘Er…’ I looked at him, hoping that he wasn’t going to say that responsibility for the latter fell to me.

‘So, you just pass those on to four friends.’ He let go of my hand, pushing it away from him and taking a step back as he did so. ‘And pop the money through my door.’

Damn it.

I studied him for a moment, trying to decide whether he was a guileless geriatric with deteriorating insight, keen for as many people as possible to enjoy his wonderful music, or a ruthless salesman out to take advantage of a thirty-something woman with assertiveness issues.

I checked my watch. ‘How much do I owe you?’

‘Thirty-five quid.’

My eyes narrowed, as I performed a quick mental calculation. ‘So they’re… £8.75 each? That’s a very unusual figure.’ I glanced at the tickets. No purchase price was shown.

He didn’t miss a beat. ‘£10 each, full price. £1.25 discount for friends and family.’

I heaved a sigh. ‘OK, I’ll push the money through your door this evening.’

‘Much obliged,’ he said, raising a hand in victorious farewell and making his way down the path. On reaching the gate, he took a step back, holding it open for Jason, as the latter stepped into view and paused on the pavement. ‘Piccadilly Circus here today,’ said Bill and then, as Jason thanked him and began to walk up the path, he closed the gate and was gone.

‘Who was that?’ asked Jason, tilting his head in the direction of Bill’s departure.

‘A ruthless salesman,’ I replied. ‘But hello, and come on in. I’ll make us some coffee.’

I joined Jason at the grey, ceramic-topped dining table and handed him a mug. He seemed, I decided, more genuinely relaxed than he had at the beginning of our Tuesday conversation, although perhaps even more subdued.

He thanked me for the coffee and looked around the room. ‘I see Giles has redecorated. Even changed the table and chairs,’ he said, sounding strangely nostalgic as he patted the blue acrylic dining chair on which he was sitting.

‘There are biscuits, if you’d like one,’ I offered, instinctively ignoring his reference, however oblique, to the past. ‘Giles is very good at buying biscuits, although not actually that great at eating them these days.’

‘No?’ He looked surprised.

‘He’s dieting and getting fit.’

‘Brilliant. Is he well? All good at work?’ The enquiries were tentatively made, as if he wasn’t quite sure whether he had a right to ask.