I looked out the floor-to-ceiling living room window and was amused to see a relic of my childhood that I’d forgotten: the huge, twisted monstera plant that lived in the Mortons’ backyard.

Ian entered the room and saw me looking. ‘Hideous, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘The former Mrs Morton managed to kill every other plant we owned. But this one seems to thrive on neglect.’

I looked away when he mentioned his ex-wife. The Mortons had divorced while Joanna and I were in our first year at university. Joanna hadn’t seemed too perturbed by it. ‘I just don’t get it, that’s all,’ she’d said. ‘I mean, why get divorced when you’re old? What’s the point?’

She also told me that her father had managed to win himself a favourable settlement by having her mother followed by a private investigator for a month. It was how he’d kept the house. I always hoped she’d tell me what the investigator found, but she never did. She just said that she’d found the photos among Ian’s things. ‘There were so many of them,’ she said. ‘And they were so close up.’

I set my glass down on the sink.

‘Ready?’ I said.

The car was a heavy, low-slung convertible. To get into it, Ian gripped the roof and hauled one foot inside, before dropping the rest of his weight in, and wincing.

I tried to drive gently. But I could tell that wasn’t what the car wanted. It hummed under my hands, and the pedals jumped whenever I applied the slightest pressure. When the car jerked, I’d find myself saying sorry, sorry, to Ian, who would grimace but say nothing.

The restaurant we were assessing that night was called The Gander. He limped towards the door with its gold silhouette of a goose.

He stopped before we went in. ‘By the way, don’t be too polite.’

‘Okay.’

‘You know what I mean. Don’t be ingratiating. You don’t have to care about these people, or worry about their feelings. Just do your job.’

I nodded as though I understood, wondering whether Ian sensed something ingratiating in me, something that needed to be stamped out.

We were greeted and taken to our table. Our waiter was young and pitted with the remains of cystic acne. I could see the comb trails in his gelled red hair. He pulled out Ian’s chair, and Ian grasped the waiter’s shoulder in order to lower himself.

Once Ian had ordered a bottle of wine, the waiter left us with the menus. Ian’s face was scrunched in discomfort. He took a few deep breaths, then looked at me.

‘You may as well know. I’m trying to pass a kidney stone. Perhaps several kidney stones.’