I shrug. “I’d had enough.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“It wasn’t the right time. It was Jamie’s weekend. I would have told you today.” I pause. “If you hadn’t already organised my relationship for me.”

He considers that and then nods reluctantly. Silence falls and then he stirs. “You deserve so much more than that wankerish behaviour.”

“I do?” I say softly, and he nods again.

“I know that in some crazy part of your brain you think that anyone who takes you and epilepsy on is doing you this huge favour, but you couldn’t be more wrong. You’re a prize, Charlie Burroughs,” he says slightly awkwardly. “You’re clever and funny, loyal, kind, and a brilliant cake maker.”

“Until you added the cake bit you could have been talking about a dog,” I say flippantly to conceal the lump in my throat. The look he gives me shows he’s not fooled for a second. Of course he isn’t.

“You care far more than a normal person does about the public’s reading habits,” he continues. “You get far too involved in a book and can talk for hours about things I don’t understand at all, but people listen anyway because you’re fascinating. You’re kind to old drag queens and homeless men and deaf ladies because you see past people’s appearances to who they are. Look for someone who’s going to do the same for you next time. Who’ll treasure you for all of those things and not just see your looks, and who won’t try to make you into someone they want instead of who you actually are.”

I stare at him as his words come to a stop. “How am I supposed to be mad at you now?” I sigh. “You did that on purpose.”

He shakes his head, a wry look on his face. “Just listen and obey me. It’s simpler.”

“It’s worrying,” I add. We both smile. I sigh again and put my head on his shoulder. “I think I just need you to find someone like that for me,” I say. “You obviously know me better than I know myself. Maybe you could find me one of these mystical men?”

His whole body stiffens for a second and then relaxes. “You want me to find you a bloke?” he says, and the evenness in his voice startles me, so I raise my head.

“Well, I was joking,” I say slowly. “But maybe it’s not that bad an idea. You’ve always judged my boyfriends and been mainly proved right. Maybe I should put myself in your hands.”

I get the impression of acute and complex thoughts happening in that big and busy brain of his. “Maybe you should,” he finally says.