Your head was in your hands, your legs wide. You stood up. Walked around. Shouting, pointing to the person, woman, off screen. Passionate hand gestures. Intense face.

I heard Edward coughing. ‘Can I get some water, Constance?’ His voice crackled.

‘Yes . . . just . . . just hang on a minute.’

‘I think I’m choking.’

‘You’re not choking.’ It was so difficult to tear myself away, but I dropped the remainder of my fag in the ashtray.

After a few sips of water, Edward’s cough subsided completely. I was almost annoyed that he wasn’t choking.

‘I’ve left my fag in the ashtray. I’m going to go and finish it.’

‘Slave to them,’ he said.

You were nowhere. I gave up concealing myself with the curtain and hung out of the window for a better view. There was no sign of you. No sign of anyone.

I stubbed out the husk of the filter and lit a fresh smoke, barely placing it between my dry, anxious lips when the main door of your flats flew open. And there you were. There she was. Fiona. Crying and screaming, ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.’

You stood at the top of the steps, still in your towel. You must have been freezing, but you seemed oblivious to the temperature as you grabbed her arms, told her to calm down. That you were sorry, but you just couldn’t be with anyone right now. That if you’d thought for one minute she’d developed feelings, you would have nipped it in the bud immediately.

I would’ve laughed had it not hurt so much. Listening to your patter. Your lies.

She was still crying. Can you believe I felt sorry for her? Knowing what you were doing to her? How it felt. Though I didn’t cry when it was me. Wouldn’t cry. Did you even register that?

She attempted to rest her head on your chest. But you gently took her by the wrists and widened the space between you both. She slipped her hand away and to my delight swiped it with force across your stunned face.

You looked around to see if any neighbours had witnessed your pathetic show. The funny thing was, I saw Tippi Hedren coming down the road. You didn’t. You thought it had all gone unnoticed.

As Fiona ran off crying, you looked towards the skies in fury. I ducked out of view, dropping my fag on the floor in the process and knocking the clown figurine off the sill.

‘What the hell have you done?’ Edward shouted with difficulty.

‘I’m . . . I’m so sorry, Edward. It’s the clown . . .’ The fag had singed Poor Tiger so I stroked his head, apologizing, before stubbing out the cigarette and going to the bedroom to confess.

‘I’m so sorry . . . It’s broken.’

‘What is?’

‘The clown thing on the windowsill.’

‘What clown thing?’