It was late-December, just after five in the afternoon, and the station was packed with Christmas shoppers and office workers on their way home. I would send Victor a Christmas message when I got home, remind him of my existence. Fortunately, he’d been very understanding of my situation and had told me there should always be work for me. ‘At least until the next fucking recession comes along,’ he’d said on the phone, unable to resist the urge to say something gloomy.

I was so deep in thought about work, money and the Eeyore-like tendencies of my main employer that I didn’t notice her at first. The platform was crowded and devoid of festive spirit and I was tempted to turn back, go and sit in the pub until rush hour was over.

The train came and sucked hundreds of passengers inside, leaving those of us who weren’t desperate to get home standing on the platform. I looked towards the departures board to see how long I had to wait – and there she was.

The woman from the hospital.

I froze. This was it: my second chance. But I hesitated. A woman that gorgeous would definitely have a boyfriend. Several, probably. She was out of my league. I was hopeless at this sort of thing. Half a dozen excuses why I should leave it ran through my head.

If I hadn’t been in such an ebullient mood, I probably would have done nothing, regretted it for a day then forgotten all about her. Instead, I shouldered my way through the crowd until I reached her, trying to persuade myself that I was confident and that rejection would be better than not trying at all.

‘You were right, you know,’ I said.

She looked up with surprise.

‘About the coffee in the hospital. It did taste like piss. Though I think it was more like horse’s piss than cow’s.’

Perhaps it wasn’t the best way to start a relationship, with a little white lie. I hadn’t tried the coffee. But it was the best opening line I could come up with. For a horrible moment I thought she didn’t recognise me, that she thought I was a random nutcase.

But she hitched her bag onto her shoulder and said, ‘No. Definitely cow.’

She was still wearing her ID round her neck and with my pupils returned to normal I could read it. Charlotte Summers. Her surname made me smile. Charlotte Summers and Andrew Sumner. It was a sign.

‘Charlotte,’ I said, sticking out my hand. This was so out of character for me but, like I said, I was on a high after getting the news from Mr Makkawi. ‘I’m Andrew.’