Mark took my hand as we left the pub together, and it felt quite natural. We found a phone box and he waited patiently outside while I got my little floral address book out of my bag and rang Karen.

One of her housemates answered and told me she’d had a big row with her boyfriend the day before and then he’d turned up that evening with flowers and wine and her favourite takeout, and they’d been in her room ever since. I left her a message and hurried off to join Mark.

‘Turns out she’s fine. She’s with her boyfriend. Sorry about that – keeping you hanging round waiting,’ I said.

He gave me a grin that told me I was more than worth it. ‘Don’t apologise. It was nice of you to be worried about her. Most people would just assume they’d been stood up. And you don’t even look that annoyed. You must be very forgiving.’

I took his hand again. ‘Let’s just say I think it’s turned out all right.’

We went to the pizza place, ate, shared a bottle of wine. He drank most of it, but I still had enough to get tipsy – I was a lightweight, as I’d told him. The conversation was easy. I entertained him with stories of my customers, and he allowed himself to be entertained. He didn’t seem to be in the mood for talking about himself, and I didn’t push him to. I figured he was after distraction, and I was only too happy to help.

Over coffee I said, ‘Won’t it make it worse, tomorrow, if you turn up with a hangover?’

‘No, that’s exactly what I want,’ he told me. ‘I want to be so hungover I can’t think about anything else.’

‘So… how are you getting there?’

‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m not driving. I’m going by train. I can’t drive.’ He sighed. ‘I’m a useless person, Jenny. A failure. I did one year of a PhD and then I didn’t get any more funding and I had to give it up, and now I work in a bookshop and I have no idea whatsoever what to do with the rest of my life.’

‘I’m sure you’re not useless at all.’

He looked at me seriously. ‘You’re very sweet, aren’t you?’

I shrugged. ‘I try to be.’

There was a pause during which he carried on looking at me and it became possible for me to ask the question that had been on my mind ever since he’d told me why he was so keen to have his hair cut that day.

‘So… if you don’t mind me asking, whose funeral is it? Was it someone close?’

His eyes went very cold. They were pale blue, the kind of blue that reminds you of the colour of the sea on a cloudy day, and that lends itself to turning icy.

‘No, not close,’ he said. ‘It was my aunt. I actually didn’t know her. It’s really just a family obligation thing. My mother’s on her own – my dad passed away a couple of years ago. So I’m going along as moral support.’