Michael lived in a house close to the Irish border at Ballyarnett. It was an old house that he was midway through renovating. Still a bit ragged around the edges, there were more than a few half-finished projects on the go; the kitchen was minimal and due to be replaced by something sleek and modern, the bathroom was basic but work had begun on replumbing, and a new floor had been laid in the living room. Half of the house’s rattling old windows had been replaced with double-glazing. The whole thing was starting to take shape, but Michael didn’t seem overly bothered about getting it done quickly. ‘I’d rather take my time and do it right,’ he’d said. And being a single man living alone he had the luxury of being able to do that.

We didn’t spend an awful lot of time there, anyway; in fact, I’d only been to his house a handful of times. Most of the time we’d spent together had been walking through the nearby country park and sitting in my car, talking and kissing, of course. His kisses took me to somewhere where I felt like an unburdened teenager again.

I rang his doorbell and he answered within seconds – a sight for sore eyes. Standing there in his jeans and a red T-shirt, his dark hair messy and curly, unshaven but with deep green eyes that looked at me with such concern I felt myself melt into them. He pulled me into a hug, a hug that I didn’t let Paul give me earlier. He told me he was so, so sorry for what happened. That he wished he could make it better for me.

He poured me a glass of wine, which I knew I shouldn’t drink because I had the car with me, but I gave in to the temptation anyway. Just as I gave in to the temptation of his kiss – his lips full, soft, determined. His hands roaming. His body pushing against mine. It was wrong, but it felt right. It felt as if it was the perfect thing to do – to allow my nerve endings to fizz into life as a big two fingers up to death.

I needed to feel alive. I needed him. So when he wordlessly led me from the kitchen up the stairs to his bedroom, I didn’t hesitate. When he took the wine glass from me and sat it on his bedside table – before gently pushing me back onto his unmade bed, his eyes filled with longing – I responded by reaching for his belt and unbuckling it, desperate to feel as alive as I possibly could.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked as I unzipped his jeans, reached my hand inside, desperate to touch him.