‘Where did you meet her?’

You picked up a beer mat and swivelled it between your fingers, eyes averted. ‘I don’t know. At a party somewhere. It . . . it was ages ago . . . I can’t even remember.’

I waited for you to continue. Encouraged you to squirm.

‘We had a rubbish drunken shag, and to keep her happy and not feel used, I took her out a few times and then ended it like I knew I would do all along . . .’

I took a gulp. Waited. For you to either finish what you were saying or to realize your insensitivity, describing what you’d also done to me. Except you didn’t even take me out to prevent me feeling used. I poured more alcohol onto my fire. When I looked at you, it wasn’t just your face that was blurred by the influx of brandy but the line between love and hate.

‘But now she . . . she . . .’

‘I can’t stay long, Dr Stevens. I’m meeting my boyfriend.’

I delighted in your face. Your flaring nostrils and widened eyes. ‘Dr Stevens again, is it? OK . . . Sorry. I just really wanted your advice . . . So you have a boyfriend now?’

‘Yes. Yes, I do . . . Advice?’

‘Well . . . I’m . . . That’s great . . . I’m really pleased for you, Constance.’

I smiled through your corrosive words. ‘So, the advice?’

‘Oh yes, well, this woman . . . She hasn’t . . . Well, she just can’t seem to let go, Constance.’ You used your agitated hands to smooth your hair.

‘Is it Laura? You’ve already told me that about Laura. That she couldn’t let you go.’

‘Did I? No . . . no . . . it’s not Laura . . . It’s someone else. She keeps ringing me. I swear she’s crazy.’

‘So another woman can’t let go either? What do you do to them?’

You looked right at me. Eyes wide open, as if to prove your innocence. ‘Nothing . . . I swear. You know me. I’m not like that. I didn’t lead her on or promise anything, but she keeps ringing me.’

‘And saying what?’

‘Well, that’s the thing. Nothing. She doesn’t speak . . . She’s just there. I can sense her.’

‘Sense her?’ I sipped my drink to hide the blood surging to the surface of my skin.

‘I can feel her on the other end of the line. Not saying anything.’

‘Oh. I see. Maybe there’s a fault on the line—’

‘I know it sounds crazy . . . but I promise you she’s at the other end.’ You picked up the beer mat just to throw it back down again.

‘And how do you know it’s her?’

Would it shock you to know that I was no longer scared? Or embarrassed? That I didn’t feel shame or guilt? If anything, I was empowered. The way you glanced down. Unable to keep your fingers still. How I’d made you feel powerless.