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movement, and then relaxes them.
    ‘Ouch, you naughty puss,’ I say, but not crossly. The little pinpricks of his sharp claws are not unpleasant and, in a way, they bring me back to the present. ‘Stop it. I’m sorry. I won’t disturb you again. Now, I want to watch.’
    Mr R is taking the bottle out of the ice bucket. The woman picks up the glasses from the table and holds them. She’s laughing and saying something as Mr R rips the foil from the bottle neck and starts untwisting the wire cage around the cork. He’s laughing too. No doubt she’s witty and intelligent as well as beautiful and stylish. How come some people get all the good fairies turning up and loading on the blessings? It’s just not fair.
    It’s weird observing them but being able to hear nothing. I’ve got visual with no audio and it’s making me want to find the remote and check I’ve not muted the volume by mistake.
    The cork pops silently, white spume erupts from the bottle. The woman holds out the glasses and Mr R pours the froth into each of them, waiting for it to settle into golden liquid. He puts the bottle down, takes a glass and they raise the flutes to one another before sipping. I’m watching so hard that I can almost feel the prickle of bubbles across my own tongue as they drink. What is their toast? What are they celebrating?
    In my imagination, I hear him say, ‘To you, my darling.’ I bet she thrills to the sound of his voice saying something so intimate and sexy. I want to be a part of their world so much, it’s all I can do to fight the impulse to jump up and wave, and then, when they noticed and opened the window, to ask if I could come over and join them. It looks so calm, happy, so adult. I watch them drink and talk, move to the sofa and sit down while they talk some more, and then watch Mr R go out of the room, leaving the woman on her own. She takes a call on her mobile phone, leaning back on the sofa as she speaks and listens. Then her face suddenly changes. Her expression is harsh, cruel and proud, and she begins to talk rapidly and, I sense, loudly. After a quick tirade into the phone, she ends the call with an emphatic tap of the screen and a toss of her head.
    Mr R comes back into the room carrying some dishes of food. Surely he could hear her, she was obviously talking loudly, if not actually shouting – but they are quite normal, still smiling at one another. She gets up off the sofa and comes over to the table to inspect the food, while he goes out again and returns a second later with more dishes. I can’t see what they contain but four seem to be enough. They begin to settle down at the table, and I watch them almost longingly, wishing somehow I could be there. Not just with them, but part of a different world altogether, one with more grace and style than my own ordinary existence.
    The evening light is fading and the room I’m staring into is getting brighter and more vivid as the twilight deepens around it. Then Mr R gets up, walks over to one side of the window and looks out. I hold my breath. He’s looking straight at me, surely he must be able to see me . . .
    What’s he going to do?
    Then, suddenly, the view is gone. A white blind has dropped down, softly but sharply, blanking out my view just like that.
    I breathe out, feeling bereft. They’ve gone. I didn’t switch them off, they switched me off. Behind that blind, their charmed life goes on while I’m left outside by myself.
    I can’t believe how alone I feel. I lay my hand on De Havilland’s body, feeling its warmth, trying to get some comfort from the serene sleep pulsing through him. But I want to cry.

Chapter Three
    The next day I sleep late, which is unusual for me. When I push back the curtains, the sky is a flawless blue and warm sunlight floods everything. I spend a lazy morning doing odds and ends, singing along to the old transistor radio as I finally finish unpacking my bags and tidy up the kitchen. I had meant to make my trip