I stop dead. “Edward, I really want to see them.”

He looks at me, puzzled. “All right. But not now. I’ll make an arrangement with the director—we can come back when the museum’s closed—”

“Now,” I say. “It has to be now.” I’m aware I sound childish and stressed. An assistant looks up from a desk and frowns.

Edward shrugs. “Very well.”

He leads me through a different door into the public part of the museum. People surge around the exhibits like fish feeding on coral. Edward cuts through them without a sideways glance.

“In here,” he says.

This room is even busier, packed with schoolkids holding clipboards and chattering away in French. Then there are the culture zombies nodding along to their audio guides; the couples clutching at each other’s hands who drift around the room like dragnets; the buggy-pushers, the backpackers, the selfie-takers. And beyond all that, behind a metal rail, some plinths bearing a few fragments of battered sculpture and the famous frieze.

It’s hopeless. I try to look at them properly, but the magic I felt holding that tiny millennia-old carving in my hands is nowhere to be found.

“You were right,” I say miserably. “This is hideous.”

He smiles. “They’re unexciting at the best of times. If it weren’t for the fuss about ownership, nobody would give them a second glance. Even the building they came from—the Parthenon—is as dull as ditchwater. Ironically enough, it was built as a symbol of the power of Greek empire. So it’s only appropriate that another greedy empire should have stolen bits of it. Shall we go?”

We drop by his office to pick up a leather overnight bag, then a fishmonger’s, where Edward has pre-ordered the ingredients for a stew. The man is apologetic: One of the fish on Edward’s list was hake, but he’s had to substitute monkfish. “Same price of course, sir, although we normally charge more for the monk.”

Edward shakes his head. “The recipe requires hake.”

“What can I do, sir?” The fishmonger spreads his hands. “If they don’t catch it, we can’t sell it.”

“Are you telling me,” Edward says slowly, “that there was no hake at all at Billingsgate this morning?”

“Only for silly money.”

“Then why didn’t you pay it?”

The man’s smile is faltering. “Monkfish is better, sir.”

“I ordered hake,” Edward says. “You’ve let me down. I won’t be coming back.” He turns on his heel and stalks out. The fishmonger shrugs and goes back to the fish he was filleting, but not before he’s given me a curious look. I feel my cheeks burning.

Edward’s waiting in the street. “Let’s go,” he says, raising his arm for a cab. One immediately does a U-turn and pulls up next to us. This is a peculiar gift he has, I’ve noticed: Taxi drivers always seem to have their eyes out for him.

I haven’t seen him angry before and I don’t know how long his mood will last. But he calmly starts talking about something else, as if the altercation never happened.

If Carol was right and he’s a sociopath, wouldn’t he be ranting and raving now? It’s yet more evidence, I decide, that she was wrong about him.

He glances across at me. “I have a feeling you aren’t listening, Jane. Is everything all right?”

“Oh—sorry. I was miles away.” I must try not to let my conversation with the therapist get in the way of the here and now, I decide. I indicate the overnight bag. “Where are you going?”

“I thought I might move in with you.”

For a moment I think I can’t have heard him right. “Move in?”

“If you’ll have me, of course.”

I’m stunned. “Edward…”

“It’s too soon?”

“I’ve never lived with anyone before.”

“Because you’ve never met the right person,” he says reasonably. “I understand, Jane, because I think in some ways we’re quite alike. You’re private and self-contained and a little bit aloof. It’s one of the many things I love about you.”

“It is?” I say, although I’m actually thinking Am I aloof? And did Edward really just say love?

“Don’t you see? We’re perfect for each other.” He touches my hand. “You make me happy. And I think I can make you happy too.”

“I’m happy now,” I say. “Edward, you’ve already made me happy.” And I smile at him, because it’s true.

THEN: EMMA

Next time Edward comes around he brings a leather overnight bag, along with some fish for a stew.

The secret’s in the rouille, he tells me as he assembles everything on the counter. So many people skimp on the saffron.

I have no idea what rouille and saffron even are. Are you going somewhere? I ask, looking at the bag.

In a way. Or rather, coming somewhere. If you’ll have me, of course.

You want to keep a few things here? I say, surprised.

No, he says, amused. This is all I own.

The bag is as beautiful as everything else he possesses, the leather soft and polished as a horse’s saddle. Under the handle is a discreet label embossed with the words SWAINE ADENEY, LUGGAGE MAKERS. BY ROYAL APPOINTMENT. I open it. Inside, everything is as beautifully packed as the engine of a car. I take out the contents one by one, describing them as I go.