Carefully she tried to steady her voice, as if she were warning him – or warning herself. — But I so love our London afternoons at home. When you come round and it’s raining and I make tea, Alex is at school, we sit and talk. I never even mind that you’ve interrupted my work: you’re the only one, I’m horrible with anyone else who bothers me.

— Well exactly, I love those rainy afternoons too, very much.

— I couldn’t want anything like that to change.

— Nothing would have to change. We could go on afterwards just as we did before. We’d never mention it, even to each other: as if it hadn’t happened. Except that it would have.

Above them on the ceiling an angel composed of creamy light was about to catch a man falling back with outflung arms from a high scaffold, swooping to scoop him up with such grace and lack of haste, and a long loving look – as if through this act every catastrophe could be held off, everything could be saved.