At first this was fine, then it began to feel a bit odd, so he asked to see where she lived, just for a minute, so he could imagine where she was when she wasn’t with him. They went back into the house — nineteen-thirties semi, pebble dash, multi-occupation, metal window frames rusting up badly — and she opened her door. His professional eye took in the dimensions, furnishings, and probable rental cost; his lover’s eye took in a small dressing table with photos in plastic frames and a picture of the Virgin. There was a single bed, a tiny sink, a rubbish microwave, a small TV, and clothes on hangers clipped precariously to the picture rail. Something in him was touched by seeing her life laid out like that in the minute or so before they stepped outside again. To cover this sudden emotion, Vernon said, “You shouldn’t be paying more than fifty-five. Plus services. I can get you somewhere bigger for the same price.”

“Is O.K.”

Now that spring was here, they went for drives. They drove into Suffolk and looked at English things: half-timber houses with no damp courses, thatched roofs that put you in a higher insurance band. They stopped by a village green and he sat down on a bench overlooking a pond, but she didn’t fancy that, so they looked at the church instead. He hoped she wouldn’t ask him to explain the difference between Anglicans and Catholics — or the history behind it all. Something about Henry VIII wanting to get married again. The King’s knob. All sorts of things came down to sex if you looked at them closely enough. But, anyway, she didn’t ask.

She began to take his arm, and to smile more easily. He gave her a key to his flat; tentatively, she started leaving overnight stuff there. One Sunday, in the dark, he reached across to the bedside drawer and found the condom packet was empty. He swore, and had to explain.

“Is O.K.”

“No, Andrea, is bloody not O.K. Last thing I need is you getting pregnant.”