What just happened there? I asked myself. I have a date. I don’t remember him being so in charge when I knew him, but he had only been fifteen years old then. I sat down. Kevin Grisham. Relive old times. Hah. Fumbling our way around each other’s bodies when he’d sneaked up into my room when Mum and Dad were out. Long snogging sessions. He’d been a good kisser, but that had been as far as it went. We were both virgins and, though he’d pushed to go further, we hadn’t. I hadn’t been ready.

I went to train enquiries online and found out the train times. There was one from London Victoria that would get me in about twelve. Perfect, I thought. So who’s next? Sam Gorman.

I looked up his sister Kate’s Facebook page and sent her a private message.

Hi Kate, long time no see. How’s life? And your kids? Do hope all is good with you. I’m writing to ask if you could let me know where Sam is now. I’ve been thinking about old friends … I crossed that out. I’ve been taking a trip down memory lane. I crossed that out too. What would Heather write? I asked myself. There’s going to be a college reunion next month and the woman who’s organizing it asked if I was in touch with anyone from back then. Of course I thought of Sam. He might not want to go but I thought I’d let him know anyway, so if you could put me in touch, that would be appreciated. Love and best wishes, Bea Brooks.

I put my contact details at the end, then clicked for the message to be sent.

Lastly, I texted Heather and Marcia to let them know where I was up to. ‘So that’s it. Homework done.’

Messages done, I went back to Kate’s Facebook page and clicked on her photos to see if there were any with Sam in. I scrolled through to see plenty of her with her husband and family, but none with her brother, which was strange because they’d been close when I’d known them. I closed the page and let my thoughts drift back to the time we were together.

Sam Gorman.

He was a handsome devil: tall, fine featured, with longish brown hair, a Shelley or Byron manifested in the canteen at the art college that we both went to.

‘I believe we are meant to be in each other’s lives, Bea Brooks,’ he’d said one night when we were curled up in a bed at his parents’ manor house in Cheshire. He came from a wealthy family, though you wouldn’t know it from the way he dressed in faded velvet jackets, flamboyant scarves and paint-splattered jeans.

‘But we are in each other’s lives,’ I said.