But still, it wasn’t enough, the trip had highlighted a hole in her life, something was missing and she couldn’t fill it up by doing a few bank transfers. There had to be something else.

And then, he got in touch.

The first flurry of snow usually signals a complete shutdown of the London transport system and Yvonne tries not to get her hopes up. He probably won’t be able to make it into central, even if he tried. But come five o’clock, he’s there, outside London Bridge station, a thick scarf around his neck, a carrier bag by his side. Taller than she remembers and Kiama was right, Lewis has put on weight.

Her heart thumps.

He smiles as he spots her, but holds back, not jumping in with the usual kiss on the cheek or hug. It’s been too long for that. He stops a few feet in front. ‘Hey, Yvie.’

‘Hi, Lewis.’

He pulls his shoulders up to his ears and shivers. ‘It’s freezing. Let’s get inside somewhere.’

They walk into the nearest pub. Originally, he had suggested dinner, but she didn’t want to commit to spending that much time with him. She’s not even sure why she agreed to meet him at all, but he had insisted on talking through everything, having a sort of debrief on the trip. Plus, three weeks on she still hasn’t heard from Kiama and is curious to know how he feels about things, if he was happy.

Despite the weather the pub is busy, filled with after-work drinkers, shoppers and people tutting into phone screens as they watch their trains being cancelled.

‘What do you fancy?’ he asks.

‘A coffee, please.’

‘A coffee?’ he repeats. ‘You driving?’

‘No, but I’m cold.’

He orders while she goes off to find a table at the back. He looks disappointed as he sets down the two mugs. ‘When did it become socially acceptable to drink coffee in pubs?’

‘Not everyone wants to drink all the time. And it’s a family place. It does food,’ she adds pointlessly as she picks up the menu.

‘I thought you didn’t want dinner?’

‘No. I don’t. I’m just saying.’

They stare at each other for a bit, assessing what ten years looks like on the other person’s face.

‘How is he?’ she asks.

‘Kiama? He’s okay. For once he’s not bouncing around trying to do a hundred different things. He’s kind of, umm, still. Does that make sense?’

‘Yes, but it doesn’t sound like him.’

‘Exactly. But it’s good. He’s thinking about what he wants to do next. With his life. With the money. I know he told you about it.’

She nods slowly.