You were alone. Selecting a CD and removing it from the case. You lifted your jumper and rubbed your back, then brought that hand up to your head to push away your hair. I wondered what music you’d picked. Was it romantic? ‘At Last’? My guess, by the way you then sat leisurely and closed your eyes, was that it was classical. Shostakovich, perhaps. And I must have been in your thoughts as you sipped your wine, foot swaying. Remembering our drive home that night.

My free hand pressed against the cold, damp pane.

Like an ex-heroin addict, after one small hit I was hooked.

‘Constance? Constance, are you even listening to me?’

‘Sorry, Dale. I’ve . . . I’ve got to go. He’s calling me.’

I placed the handset onto its base, then sat in the chair. Settled back. Slipped off my shoes and fixated on you. And the truth is, it felt right. Honest. Nothing had changed. It had all been a pretence. Wanting to be over someone is not the same as being so.

Nearly an hour had passed when I finally tore myself away and looked at the defunct cuckoo clock. Despite it being ten minutes fast, it was still getting late, so I reluctantly rose and removed Edward’s phone from the charger to take back to his room.

I hadn’t intended to, I swear. I tried to resist but couldn’t help it.

My finger pressed ‘141’, then your number.

‘Hello?’ you said.

I remained silent.

‘Hello?’

I watched your mouth shape the words that transmitted into my ear. It was intimate, sensual.

‘Is anyone there? It’s a bad line. I can’t . . .’

Could you hear my breathing? I was unable to prevent it from fluttering in front of the mouthpiece.

‘It’s me,’ I whispered so low I could barely hear it myself.

And so it was official. My pact with God was broken.

No longer the …

No longer the need for restraint, the following day I wore the silk blouse that had summoned your eyes towards me in the first place. On the Tube platform, free from Dale’s watch, I gently dabbed on a diluted version of Pillar Box Red and applied some mascara. My stress melted away, without the requirement to suppress my thoughts, feelings.

You arrived at work, a little dishevelled as if you’d overslept. I smiled, long and slow. Willed you to look at me properly, see me like you used to. But your sleepy eyes remained glued to the message Linda had placed in your hand and you merely wished us all a generic ‘good morning’. Lumping me in with them. It was most disappointing. Until, just before lunch, you returned to reception carrying a file. ‘Can you make a copy of this for me, please, Constance?’

Me. Not Alison. Me. I took the folder from you, gazing right into your eyes. I understood the unspoken perfectly.