He’d be a good dad. I’d watched him for two hours walking around the pool at the gym, giving swimming lessons to the St Jude’s kids then tidying up the floats afterwards and chatting to parents. He was so sweet with them all. I knew it wasn’t an act. By the time I left I knew more about him, more clay I could add to the statue of him I sculpted every night in my mind to get me to sleep. The shape of his torso, the muscle pattern of his back, what his feet looked like in flip flops. He has a tattoo of a snarling tiger on his right shin. I imagined what Us would look like. Us on our wedding day. Us getting the keys to our new home. Us wheeling a trolley round Ikea, choosing crockery. Us at the hospital, me in labour sucking on the gas and air, him scrolling his phone for funny videos. Stroking my face. Telling me he’s proud of me.

My heart thumps abnormally.

‘Are you a member of the gym then?’ he asks over the hissing of the coffee machine and the clanking of cutlery as a waitress clears a neighbouring table.

‘No.’ His face flattens. ‘I was thinking about joining though.’

‘You should. Or come along for a class, if you like. We’ve got Ladies Only Pilates, Ladies’ Boxercise, Fight Klub, which is like a self-defence class but to music…’

He’s staring at me – the way he said ‘self-defence’ was loaded with meaning. He wants to ask me more about my hallway hysteria. There’s nowhere to hide. His eyes hurt me – green like ponds, flecked with tiny pennies. He touches my arm. Fingertips to forearm. Skin to skin. My thoughts are scrambled egg.

‘I rescued a duck last week,’ I tell him. ‘On the beach. Its wing was broken.’

‘Oh right,’ he frowns.

‘And one of the cats caught a little bird once, brought it to the door. I rescued it. Took it to the RSPCA centre in town.’

He looks at me. ‘Is it her dad? The one you’re afraid of?’

I bite down on my lip. I give him a nod that barely registers. He says no more about it. ‘I love animals, do you?’

‘Yeah, but I couldn’t eat a whole one,’ he winks. ‘I’m gonna get a refill,’ he announces. ‘Won’t be a minute. Do you want anything else?’

I shake my head, smile flickering where it won’t stay on my face. He disappears up to the counter and I feel it this time – the ache. I resent the easy way he chats to the barista. The adoration in his eyes when he looks out towards the Lakes. I’m jealous of mountains. Of the half-eaten biscotti on his saucer. Touched by him.