The more concerning blank stare was from the fridge when she opened it. She’d have to go out again and get something to eat. That was one aspect of self-sufficiency she’d never wrapped her head around. And things were so convenient here. She lived so centrally, she could literally put her coat and Uggs over her PJs and stump a couple of very narrow blocks to an all-night supermarket – it really wasn’t hard, but yet her fridge was empty.

Before thinking too much, she picked up her phone and called Vincent.

‘I didn’t know if I should bother you twice in one day but I’m really hungry.’

‘Shouldn’t you eat, then?’

‘Tell me… do you eat too?’

He paused, laughed briefly. ‘I do. Yeah, I’ve been known to.’

‘What do you like to eat?’

‘Um, a variety of things. In fact, I’m looking at some foodstuff right now.’

‘Really? Where is this foodstuff to be found? And can I come and look at it too?’ Oh shit. Too late, she imagined where he might be talking from; she’d been so carried away by the rhythm of the conversation and his easy, easy voice in her ear – but what if he’s at home? With his wife. God, Petra, you know nothing about him.

Another pause. ‘I’m not sure.’

Petra could’ve, would’ve, should’ve just put down the phone. But she didn’t want to let this go, and she didn’t know if she was just kidding herself, but she was certain he didn’t want to either. ‘I mean, we need to eat.’

‘You know, you’re right,’ he said, as if settling an argument with himself. ‘We do. That’s why I’m stood here.’

‘Where?’

‘The Express.’

‘The one on the Parade?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So can I come see you? We can eat.’

‘Yeah, that’ll be good.’

‘Give me fifteen.’

She disconnected and cursed herself. Fifteen minutes? What was she thinking? That wasn’t enough time to make herself look or smell nice. But she couldn’t expect him to wait in a supermarket all night. It seemed a good idea at the time, to take his banter to its logical extension, instead of suggesting they meet at a bar or restaurant like a normal person would. That would have felt too forced somehow, too formal.

Screw it, it would have to be pits, ponytail and a new shirt. He’d seen her like this at lunchtime and hadn’t minded, so let this be a test of whether what she was feeling meant anything. If not, if he was disappointed in her, it would be good to know early. But somehow, she felt confident. That voice, those eyes – they resonated with her vibe. Or however Helena’s favoured eighties funk-fusion put it.

* * *

When Petra got to the supermarket three minutes late, Vincent was holding a melon and a cucumber like Hamlet facing a particularly difficult choice. Surely he’d noticed her coming up the street and posed like that for her. The idea of being watched, waited for, sent a complex flurry of fear and excitement shooting down her spine.