He stands up and looks resigned. The beginning of an end hangs silently in the space between us.

‘I’ll stay at a friend’s tonight,’ he says. ‘We can talk about us in the morning.’

With that, he leaves the room and doesn’t look back.

Charlotte raises her drink in a toast.

‘What a prick!’

We’re in a booth in Foragin – the new gin bar in Marple, where we both live. Charlotte has been my best friend since childhood. We’ve grown up together and experienced everything life has had to throw at us – cheating boyfriends (me), a divorce (her) and a stabbing (me again) to name but a few. I’ve spent the last ten minutes telling her what happened with Darren this evening.

‘Yeah, he is a prick,’ I agree. ‘We were going to break up sooner or later so it may as well have ended with me punching his head.’ Charlotte laughs loudly before slipping out of the booth to order another round. We’ve already had a couple of martinis and I’m starting to feel that familiar buzz as the alcohol is absorbed into my bloodstream.

‘DI Erika Piper!’ booms a voice behind me and I spin around to see who has called my name.

‘Ah! Tommy Calder!’ I reply, sliding out of the booth to give him a hug.

I’ve always enjoyed working with Tom, though we’ve never spent any time together outside of work. ‘What brings you to Foragin?’

‘I live here now, moved a few months ago. I’m just here with a few friends for a couple of birthday drinks. Are you here by yourself?’

I shake my head. ‘No, my friend is at the bar getting more cocktails. We’re drowning sorrows.’

‘Nothing major I hope?’

For the second time tonight, I give an abridged version of the events of my night. His expression flits between sympathy and something I can’t quite put my finger on. He laughs heartily when I tell him about punching Darren just as Charlotte returns with a tray comprising four martinis and two shot glasses full of what I believe is Sambuca, judging by the sickly aniseed scent.

‘Heavy night planned?’ asks Tom, ogling the contents of the tray.

‘It’s shaping up that way. Thankfully it’s my day off tomorrow,’ I reply, already fearing tomorrow’s hangover.

Tom bids us goodbye and re-joins his friends at the back of the bar.

‘He’s a bit dishy, isn’t he?’ exclaims Charlotte.

I don’t reply. I’d never thought of Tom that way before. Maybe it’s because I’m a free woman now, if only for the past hour or so, or maybe it’s the alcohol making its merry way through my veins, but she is right. She passes me one of the shot glasses.

‘Sláinte!’ she shouts before we gulp it down.

We stumble out of the door and onto the cold street outside. The taxi driver looks less than thrilled as Charlotte fiddles with the car door handle. She falls into the back seat and mumbles her address.