‘What?’ I ask, smiling to myself at how often he does that.

‘I just wanted to say, if you ever get to a point where you’re, you know… ready…’

‘For what?’ I ask, and he stares at me for a moment.

He shakes his head and smiles to himself. ‘Never mind,’ he says, and this time when he leaves, he doesn’t turn back.

Chapter Fifty-Five

RHYS

I loosen my top button, pulling at the neck of my shirt while wondering whose idea this was. It’s September, the weather hasn’t yet broken and I am attempting to be a grown-up, all suited and booted.

It was Mum’s idea, that we should go somewhere nice. Apparently a menu that includes roast breast of squab pigeon will impress her. I’ve no idea what a squab pigeon is – God knows whether she will. I look at the flowers I’ve brought, their heads beginning to wilt slightly, despite not being from the garage this time.

A taxi pulls up and my heart leaps to my mouth – but a middle-aged couple get out. They take a selfie outside the front door and I get the impression their date night is about to be announced to his Facebook nation. The part of me that cringes is quietly challenged by the part of me that envies what they have. As I check my watch to see just how late she is, the crunch of heels on gravel stop me. I almost daren’t look in case it is her, but a waft of familiar perfume makes me certain.

‘Wow,’ I say, as I look up. ‘I’ve never seen you… You look amazing.’

‘Thanks,’ she answers shyly. ‘You too.’

We stand facing each other, both oddly uncomfortable in each other’s company. I don’t really know how she feels, but I know that I am way out of my depth. Apparently, Derek said, I should feel the fear and do it anyway, but as she stands here before me, I wonder if she’d notice me run in the other direction.

‘Shall we?’ she asks, and I nod. She loops her arm into mine. We take a half look at each other, glancing away when our eyes meet.

‘Table for two. Woods,’ I say to the waiting maître d’. He ticks off our arrival. ‘This way, sir, madam.’ He takes us past a room with what looks like a small wedding party in it. We are led through the narrow Victorian corridor to a dining room. My grown-up shoes, which Mum bought for me as a stamp of approval for tonight, click on the room’s original floorboards. We are led to a table nestled in a floor to ceiling bay window. A small vase of white flowers – I’ve no idea what they are – sits in the middle of the crisp white linen tablecloth, the sun reflects off polished cutlery. The maître d’ pulls out her chair and I wish I’d thought of that.

‘Thank you,’ she says in her politest voice, watching intently as he pours her some water from a freshly iced jug he collected on the way. No sooner has he filled up her glass does she reach for it and empty it in one go.