He must see my worry because he squeezes my hand and smiles. ‘It’s fine – I’m a bit tired and hungry, that’s all. I haven’t got used to the commute yet. These are pretty,’ he says, looking at the daffodils.
‘One of our neighbours dropped them in.’
His smile fades, replaced by wariness. ‘Oh, yes?’
‘I caught her taking photographs of the bedrooms.’ My earlier outrage stirs again.
‘What on earth for?’
‘Well, I don’t think it was the Ikea furniture she was interested in. She was on a bloody ghost tour of her own making.’
‘Jesus,’ he mutters.
‘She seemed to remember you.’