By the time James had worked his way round to the start, where he had stood full of nerves just over an hour ago, Michaela was there: canary training top, race number, water bottle, trainers. ‘I’m going to run it anyway,’ she said.

‘I mean …’ James glanced around uneasily. Volunteers were clearing rubbish from the course, or funnelling spectators towards the cafés and the exits. ‘I mean, it does seem, er, maybe a bit late, just in terms of … in terms of the race having finished, I guess, and …’

Before James could wrestle his sentence to a climax, she’d started her watch and was haring off down the course on her own. A few people called out, laughing, but nobody tried to stop her as James instinctively felt they would if he did something like this. He continued to think it might all be a joke until the yellow dot disappeared from view and he began, grinning to himself, to cut through the park to the finish. When she emerged from the trees half an hour later, a few people had got wind of the stunt. There were a dozen witnesses at what had been the finish line, including an amused official who sounded his klaxon.

‘Last place!’ he said. ‘Congratulations!’

The other bystanders clapped and cheered, and James – feeling a warmth of pride, of ownership – let Michaela fall into his arms, giggling, her breath fast and hot and her body damp. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘We bloody ran it.’

‘We did,’ James agreed. The sweat had dried on his back by now and he felt shivery, but he put his arm around Michaela’s shoulders and kissed her on the neck. ‘And now we should – not to spoil the illusion of being in the Olympics, but we should probably shower.’

‘Come back to mine,’ said Michaela. ‘My shower isn’t the best, though, but …’

‘I haven’t got any clothes at yours,’ said James, instantly wishing that hadn’t been the first thing that came to mind – an objection, logistics. But Michaela smiled her large smile and squeezed his hand.

‘I’ve got some of my brother’s old stuff. He’s got terrible taste, though.’

‘That’s good,’ said James, ‘so have I.’

He followed her down the steps to the flat, taking in the frosted glass of the door, the dark knotty floorboards. In the lounge there was a low green sofa and an M. C. Escher print, and a record player. One day – it would still have been hard for him to believe it at this point – James would live here with Michaela. And one day beyond that, he would live here without her.