Emma takes her time to choose a ball and listens to Chris for advice before sashaying down and preparing to launch her first shot. ‘She’s an expert, right?’ Mark guesses, his arm touching mine. He’s warm, but also gentle somehow. He’s more relaxed out of work than in. I think about conversations with Susan where he’s been focused, in consultant mode. That lack of bedside manner seems unlikely from the relaxed man standing next to me now. As does the uncertainty he’s shown in my office at times. Here, he seems like a man who knows his destiny. He seems in control. An unexpected shyness falls upon me. A nervousness. It’s easier now to see what people have been saying about him. He’s not unattractive… I shift balance on my feet so we’re no longer touching. He looks at me and smiles, his eyebrow very slightly raised.

Emma launches her first ball down the alley, kicking her leg out like a real life ten-pin bowler, effortlessly scoring a strike. Chris jumps up and runs to lift her for celebration, clearly thinking he is top of all the teachers. I roll my eyes at Mark, who just grins.

‘So, how’s Susan after her physio?’ he asks.

‘Stop!’ I put my hands up. ‘Shop talk is off limits.’ He looks at me as if to ask why. ‘Susan has been the most intense and challenging patient of my career. Between that, my personal life and my temporary then permanent promotion, I have been pushed and shoved all over the emotional place. I’m now working on imbibing sufficient beer not to care about any of it.’

‘Really,’ he says, doubtfully.

‘Well, okay, enough to stop obsessing over it for a few hours. So let’s keep it that way.’ I take another large swig.

‘Okay…’ he says slowly. He narrows his eyes slightly, sizing me up. There’s an odd shift, a sensation in my belly. ‘No work talk,’ he agrees eventually.

‘Mark!’ shouts Emma. ‘You’re up.’ She clicks her fingers in the direction of the bowling alley. I drop into the bench seat and watch him.

He’s wearing dark blue jeans. Not skinnies – because he’s not a teenager with scant regard for procreation – but straight cut, just skimming his thighs. His light blue Oxford shirt is buttoned up to the top, cuffs rolled almost to the elbows, and it matches the light blue of his hideous bowling shoes. It’s not the outfit I expected of him. Though I’m not sure what I expected, really, I’d not given it any thought before. He throws the ball down, scoring a perfectly acceptable half strike.

I reach for my lager, turning my nose up slightly on discovering it has quickly reached room temperature. ‘Alright?’ asks Mark, walking back towards me.

‘Mmm,’ I say. He stays beside me a second before moving over to talk to Chris. He throws his head back, laughing at something Chris has said. I wonder what the joke is, and whether he really is different outside of work or if I’ve been so wrapped up in my own stuff that I’ve formed an unfair opinion of him.