The following morning, I lay in bed staring at the crack of cold light creeping through the gap in the curtains. In a succession of terrible nights, that last one had to be up there with the worst, but then the bar was quite low. The odd, fitful doze I’d managed in the small hours had featured pale yellow roses crawling over a brick wall, tasteful, like her grey fur jacket and the white lobelia on her step. I’d admired those roses for years. Wondered what variety they were, even looked them up in my gardening books. In my fitful dreams, however, the roses were full of greenfly and thorns. A flashing light had also featured, in Ingrid’s top-floor window, which I couldn’t decide if I’d seen or not from the study on that night. Had I imagined it? Roses. A light. Thorns. My eyes were full of fatigue. I shut them again. When my phone beeped, I jumped. I opened the message, full of dread. It was Dan.

‘Pub supper some time this week?’

I sank back on the pillows, relieved. For some ridiculous reason, I’d thought it was her. I composed myself. And a response.

‘Good idea. Why not.’

‘Wednesday any good?’

‘Perfect. I’ll fit it into my frantic schedule.’

I could afford sarcasm about my socially barren life, because I knew he liked me. I didn’t have to play hard to get. And let’s face it, it was only going to be a fleeting romance, if my worst fears were founded.