One Saturday Dale suggested we went for a coffee on Chiswick High Road. Which was unusual considering he’d rant about the prices they’d charge when it would only cost twenty pence to make at home. But that day, he was adamant, and I wasn’t going to argue as I welcomed time away from the bedsits.

It was pleasant being out. Though Christmas was already in the shops and triggered mixed feelings. The dread of the first one without her and the amusing memories of the ones we’d had.

The cafe he chose was cold. Not helped by the shiny metal chairs, which sent shocks through my flesh.

We sipped our cappuccinos. Played the role of a normal couple.

‘You know we’ve almost been together two months now, Constance?’ He slurped the froth, then released the cup to reveal a whitened top lip. ‘It feels longer, though, doesn’t it? But I guess we were together way before any of that really, weren’t we?’

‘Yes . . . I . . . I suppose so.’

‘But I reckon anniversaries are based on the first time a couple makes love.’

My throat closed, causing me to choke on the coffee. After the cough subsided, I croaked, ‘Dale . . . don’t say that out loud.’

‘I’m sure everyone here knows about lovemaking, Constance. You’re so childish sometimes.’

Embarrassed, I smiled at the windswept woman leaning over a high chair and encouraging a plastic spoon into her crying baby’s mouth.

‘She definitely does,’ he said under his breath, folding and unfolding his hand in a cutesy wave. It stopped crying and stared at him. ‘I hope that’ll be us one day,’ he said.

‘What? Me feeding you puréed vegetables?’

‘Funny. No . . . having a baby. Though obviously we’ll marry first.’

I stood. ‘I’m just nipping to the loo.’

He took my hand. ‘Thank you, Constance.’

‘For what?’ I twisted awkwardly back towards him.

‘For, you know . . . being you.’

He looked at me with desperate eyes. Wanted me to say something meaningful back.

‘That’s OK,’ I said, and slid my hand from under his.

On my return, he was surprisingly upbeat. ‘Let’s talk birthday presents.’

‘It’s not for a few weeks yet.’

‘Yeah, I know, but—’

‘Well, I was thinking of an urn or a nice box for her ashes.’

‘Not for your mum’s birthday, for yours.’

‘That’s . . . I meant mine.’

He laughed. ‘You can’t get an urn for your birthday. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I already know what I’m getting you. Something you’ll love.’

‘I . . . I don’t really want anything . . . Honestly, don’t worry. We didn’t do birthdays, Mum and me. They were only a few weeks apart so one would usually have to borrow off the other for presents, so it seemed pointless.’