‘I presume you’ve called it?’

‘I’m not fucking stupid. It’s on silent . . . I’m supposed to be at Mrs Johnson’s in ten minutes.’ You looked down. Scratched the back of your neck. Embarrassed, I presumed, hoped, by the way you’d spoken to me.

As you’ll remember, I joined in the search. Down on the floor, crawling on my hands and knees, looking in every cranny, while you watched.

With no sign of it anywhere, I stood again and went over to your jacket on the back of the door. ‘Have you checked these pockets?’ I patted the material, unleashing your aftershave. ‘It’s in here, I think . . . Shall I?’

You stomped over and fished out the phone. ‘Oh my God. I love you, Constance.’

I. Love. You.

Joy burst from my heart and spread through me. I wanted to say something back, but you carried on talking. ‘I was wearing my coat, wasn’t I? Of course. Jesus, I’m such an idiot. Anyway, I’ve got to dash. I’m late.’ You searched in your trouser pocket. ‘For Christ’s sake, now what have I done with the surgery car key?’ I pointed to it on the desk. ‘Thank you, Constance. You’re the best,’ you said, grabbing it. Then you pushed past me and rushed down the corridor, unbothered whether I was following or not.

I put my head out of the door to check you’d gone, shut myself back in the room and with great relief returned the keys.

Carrying Edward’s shopping made shadowing you after work a bit trickier.

So as not to lose sight of you, I refused to stop and adjust the plastic-bag handles now embedded into my hands. Instead I continued through the slicing pain. Kept the same distance throughout.

Until you picked up your phone.

It was clear you weren’t searching for songs as usual. You’d removed your earphones and were talking to someone on the handset.

I sped up to gain more information. Conscious of the bags rustling as they knocked against my legs. Your free hand gesticulated, and the rare glimpses of your face showed you didn’t look happy at all. Your features, screwed-up, tense.

The call lasted around ten minutes. Almost the duration of our walk. My mind searched for who could be on the line. Initially fixating on Fiona. Then I remembered your diary entry. Sarah. You hung up with such fury that the phone slipped from your hand onto the pavement. I froze as you stopped to retrieve it.

When you turned the corner into your road, I didn’t follow. I held back, dropped the bags on the ground, releasing my white-striped numb hands, which I shook to bring back the circulation. Despite pins and needles, I lit a cigarette and smoked, giving you time to get inside.