‘No, I mean in the future. Shall we make a pact? One of those, if we’re not married by the time we’re fifty, we look each other up.’

‘Fifty? That’s a long way off. Who knows if we’ll even be here then?’

‘True, but how about it? If we’re both single at fifty, we get back together and dance over the hill into a fabulous and decadent old age together.’

I laughed. ‘Sure. Why not? But why not before? Like thirty or forty?’

‘Fifty is a good age. We’ll be half a century old. We’ll both have lots of experience under our belt. I’ll be a very successful artist with my own studio, a multimillionaire who has gallery openings in New York, Milan, Paris and Hong Kong, and a string of mistresses and illegitimate children.’

‘And me?’

‘You will be a grandmother with four ex-husbands in different parts of the world and coach-loads of beautiful grandchildren with big eyes. You’ll live in a remote spot in Arizona with horses and chickens and wear colourful clothes, swear a lot and dance naked at full moons.’

‘OK. And why would I want to get back with you?’

‘Because of the connection we have. You do feel it, don’t you? We have something special.’ He moved on top of me and stared into my eyes.

I pushed him off. His long, meaningful looks made me feel uncomfortable sometimes. ‘OK. Deal. If we’re single at fifty, we get back together.’

He sat up, leant over to the bedside cabinet, rummaged in a drawer and found a safety pin. ‘Prick your thumb. These things must be done like a sacred ritual. We have to seal the deal in blood.’

I groaned. ‘We do? Really?’

‘Yes.’ He pricked his thumb, yelped, then handed me the pin.

I took a deep breath, pricked my thumb and put it against his.

‘Excellent. It is done. Blood lovers. We are bound together.’

‘Either that or we end up in A and E with blood poisoning.’

‘Where’s your sense of romance? Destiny? If it’s fated, we will go into old age together.’

I wasn’t so sure. I liked Sam a lot, but wasn’t sure if I wanted to spend the rest of my life, or second part of my life, with him. I loved his paintings, admired his considerable talent – his life drawing especially; his figures had weight and the right proportions, whereas mine always looked as if they were floating. And I enjoyed his company when he wasn’t stoned. He read poetry to me at night, was the first man to bring me flowers and gifts.

What he didn’t tell me that night was that it was already over between us. He had dropped out of college and was planning a trip to Paris ‘to experience life as a true artist.’