The double bed filled most of the floor space. A narrow cupboard opposite acted as a wardrobe, and two pairs of work boots were neatly stacked in the corner. There was a book on the nightstand and beside it a photograph of Sam with a smiling woman, whose blonde hair was tied up in a messy knot. She had her arm around his shoulders and was grinning at the camera. She was not supermodel beautiful, but there was something compelling about her smile. She looked like the kind of woman who would have laughed a lot. She looked like a feminine version of Jake. I felt suddenly crushingly sad for him, and had to look away before I made myself sad, too. Sometimes I felt as if we were all wading around in grief, reluctant to admit to others how far we were waving or drowning. I wondered fleetingly whether Sam’s reluctance to talk about his wife mirrored my own, the knowledge that the moment you opened the box, let out even a whisper of your sadness, it would mushroom into a cloud that overwhelmed all other conversation.

I checked myself, took a breath. ‘Just have a nice evening,’ I murmured, recalling the words of the Moving On Circle. Allow yourself moments of happiness.

I wiped the mascara smudges from under my eyes, observing in the small mirror that little could be done for my hair. Then I pulled Sam’s oversized sweater over my head, trying to ignore the weird intimacy that came from wearing a man’s clothes, pulled on Jake’s joggers and gazed at my reflection.

What do you think, Will? Just a nice evening. It doesn’t have to mean anything, right?

Sam grinned as I emerged, rolling up the sleeves of his jumper. ‘You look about twelve.’

I went into the bathroom, wrung out my jeans, shirt and socks in the sink, then hung them over the shower curtain.

‘What’s cooking?’

‘Well, I was going to do a salad, but it’s not really salad weather any more. So I’m improvising.’

He had set a pot of water boiling on the stove, where it had fogged the windows. ‘You eat pasta, right?’

‘I eat anything.’

‘Excellent.’

He opened a bottle of wine and poured me a glass, motioning me to the bench seat. In front of me the little table had been laid for two, and I felt a faint frisson at the sight. It was okay just to enjoy a moment, a small pleasure. I had been out dancing. I had flashed some hens. And now I was going to enjoy spending an evening with a man who wanted to cook me dinner. It was all progress, of sorts.

Perhaps Sam detected something of this internal struggle because he waited until I took my first sip, then said, while stirring something on the hob, ‘Was that the boss you were talking about? That man today?’

The wine was delicious. I took another sip. I hadn’t dared drink while Lily had been with me: I might have let my guard down. ‘Yup.’

‘I know the type. If it’s any consolation, within five years he’ll either have a stomach ulcer or enough hypertension to cause erectile dysfunction.’

I laughed. ‘Both those thoughts are oddly comforting.’

Finally he sat down, presenting me with a steaming bowl of pasta. ‘Cheers,’ he said, raising a glass of water. ‘And now tell me what’s going on with this long-lost girl of yours.’

Oh, but it was such a relief to have someone to talk to. I was so unused to people who actually listened – as opposed to those, at the bar, who only wanted to hear the sound of their own voices – that talking to Sam was a revelation. He didn’t interrupt, or tell me what he thought, or what I should do. He listened, and nodded, and topped up my wine and said, finally, when it was long dark outside, ‘It’s quite a responsibility you’ve taken on.’

I leaned back on the bench and put my feet up. ‘I don’t feel like I have a choice. I keep asking myself what you said: what would Will want me to do?’ I took another sip. ‘It’s harder than I’d imagined, though. I thought I’d just drop her in to meet her grandmother and grandfather and everyone would be delighted and it would be a happy ending, like those reunion programmes on television.’

He studied his hands. I studied him.

‘You think I’m mad getting involved.’

‘No. Too many people follow their own happiness without a thought for the damage they leave in their wake. You wouldn’t believe the kids I pick up at the weekends, drunk, drugged, off their heads, whatever. The parents are wrapped up in their own stuff, or have disappeared completely, so they exist in a vacuum, and they make bad choices.’

‘Is it worse than it used to be?’

‘Who knows? I only know I see all these messed up kids. And that the hospital’s young persons’ psych has a waiting list as long as your arm.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Hold that soapbox. I need to shut the birds up for the night.’

I wanted to ask him then how someone so apparently wise could be so careless of his own son’s feelings. I wanted to ask if he knew how unhappy Jake was. But it seemed a bit too confrontational, given the way he was talking, and the fact that he had just cooked me a very nice supper … I was distracted by the sight of the hens popping one at a time into their coop, and then he came back, bringing with him the faint scents of outside, and the cooler air, and the moment passed.

He poured more wine, and I drank it. I let myself take pleasure in the snugness of the little railway carriage, and the sensation of a properly full belly, and I listened to Sam talk. He told of nights holding the hands of elderly people who didn’t want to make a fuss, and of management targets that left them all demoralized, feeling they weren’t doing the job they’d been trained for. I listened, losing myself in a world far from my own, watching his hands draw animated circles in the air, his rueful smile when he felt he was taking himself too seriously. I watched his hands. I watched his hands.