“Ooh,” I say, brightening and jumping up. “You can pick your prize. Come on.”

Mags shakes his head. “It puzzles me why you’re so excited. You lost.” He pauses. “Badly.”

“Ooh, burn,” Chris says happily. “Mags, you really should finally give in and come to games night at the Gentry household. You’ll fit in very well.”

“I’m going to pick your prize,” I say, heading over to where the prizes are kept. Mags follows me, complaining that he wants to do it himself. His complaints are cut short when he sees the display case. I try not to laugh at his expression. “This bingo hall sources the glitziest prizes around,” I whisper.

“Do people not win money?” he enquires. “All I see is—” He searches for the word and then smiles triumphantly. “Tut.”

“Collectible tut,” I say, looking down at the case.

“Collectible by whom?” he says to the air as I bend over the cabinet.

“This is epic,” I say happily after spending a few moments examining the selection. “He’ll have that ashtray,” I say to the woman behind the counter, pointing to the glitzy monstrosity in the middle of the case. It’s absolutely massive, very seventies-looking, and currently giving off so many rainbows under the lights that it should be in a Pride parade.

“Laurie.” Mags sounds pained.

“It’ll look lovely on your coffee table,” I tell him seriously, managing to fight back my smile at his grimace. “It’ll make your house feel like a real home.”

“Like a home belonging to Liberace,” he says morosely, but signals the woman to wrap it up.

An hour later, after Mags has bought the old ladies at the next table three rounds of drinks and led them in a rousing version of “Night Fever,” we spill onto the pavement and exchange promises to meet up before I go back to France.

The reminder makes me feel a little sick. Some of this is because, by the time I go back, I’ll have made a decision that’s been eluding me since I’ve been here. But the other reason is that this thing between me and Mags will have to stop, and I won’t be able to walk across the corridor and knock on his door anymore. For a man who’s prided himself on living a life with few strings, it’s a surprising and worrisome revelation.

At the moment, Mags is watching my sister and Chris get into their taxi. The sun gleams on his shiny, ash-brown hair, and he squints in the bright light, showing the fine sunburst of wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. My body flushes with heat. I debate my next course of action, but there’s only one thing I want to do. And I’m looking at him.