Mrs. Ashcroft lives in 3B, the floor below yours. Fifty-two. Widowed. Pearls, twinset, honey-blonde bob: the woman who takes in parcels. Tonight the salt cellar has gone over her counter. The shops are shut. The stew is already on. She is on your doormat with an empty dish and the wreck wrapped in a tea towel, asking if she might borrow a pinch.

You’ve been living in the apartment upstairs for a couple of weeks.