Two places have been laid at the table. The cutlery is old and losing its sheen. For some reason, the sight of it makes Dan sad. The plates are heavy slabs of taupe. Upon them linen napkins are perfectly pressed, in orange holders. They are an anomaly in the otherwise messy space. Dan wonders if Atticus ironed them especially for him and feels giddy and guilty at the same time. Two wine glasses are sitting next to a bottle of red that has been left open to breathe. The rest of the table is covered with paperwork and pencils and half-melted candles.

‘Nice plates.’ Dan nods and tells himself he’s an idiot.

‘You like them? My mother will be pleased. This is my parents’ place. I moved in when they went up to London.’

‘Oh.’ Dan looks around again, disappointed that he’s not sitting at a table Atticus picked. He counts the gouges and scratches in the wood while Atticus flits round the kitchen adding pepper and spices to the pot, stopping to taste the contents every so often. Dan wonders how many times he’s cooked this dish and for whom. He imagines lots of arty types around the table, smoking and arguing till the candles have burned down and the wine has gone. He cannot see himself in the scene, not even the other Dan. He wonders where Atticus lived before now, and why he left, and if he’d decorate a place like this if he could choose. Dan wants to ask but he’s gone all shy, like Fitz does around the pretty lady with the red shoes and the Afghan hound that is so posh it wears a silk scarf around its ears.

Atticus opens a cupboard and his top rides up and Dan can see a white streak of flesh. Atticus is so slim his hip bones jut out. Dan looks down at the table quickly. From under lowered lashes, he watches as Atticus dollops something from a bottle into the pot, stirs it, then puts the lid back on. ‘Ten minutes or so,’ he announces, then plonks himself down next to Dan with a plate of bread and dips. ‘Are you in a hurry?’

‘No,’ Dan says quickly. Atticus raises one eyebrow and smiles slightly as he pours them both a drink.

‘None for me, I’m driving.’

Atticus stops mid-pour. ‘One won’t hurt.’ He looks at Dan all wide-eyed and adds, ‘Or … you could stay the night?’

Dan briefly imagines what sleeping over might entail. How it would highlight his inexperience. He’s watched porn – of course he’s watched porn. He’s shy, he’s not a saint, but they don’t show this bit on film. They don’t tell him how to get from the table to the bedroom, at which point you remove your clothes. How often you ask if the other one is okay, enjoying themselves, even.