This time I took it in good humour. I was newly content, less angry. Being inside your home had connected me to you once again. Given me back some control. As did my growing little collection of items in the case. It all made me part of your life. Albeit you were unaware.

In the afternoon I brought you another perfect sweet tea. You were at the sink, washing your hands, and I’d barely placed the mug on your desk when your phone vibrated next to your printer. My eyes strained to view the caller, but you were already drying yourself with paper towels and throwing them from a distance into the bin as you made your way over.

‘Thank you, Constance,’ you said. Dismissing me. You picked up the handset looking flustered. Your Adam’s apple moving prominently, indicative of a gulp.

I know I should have left. But the way you blushed when you said, ‘Oh . . . well, this is a surprise.’ The way you swung side to side in your chair nervously. I had no choice but to knock over the tea.

The hot liquid formed a lake on the desk before waterfalling onto the floor. You frowned. Were furious. Tried to remain calm to your special caller, only uttering response words such as ‘OK’, ‘Sure’, until you finally said, ‘I can’t really talk now, though.’ I pretended to be oblivious. Act like my only concern was to sort out the mess.

You picked up an old biro you’d been resorting to. Not to write with but to chew playfully as you swivelled the chair away from me.

Like that first time in your office, I knew. It was more than personal. It was a woman.

I ripped paper towels from the dispenser, then walked back, squeezing the stiff blue sheets within my fist, and mopped up the spillage. Witnessing the flush of your cheeks. The pink cotton of your shirt pulsing with your quickened heartbeat.

Yet to you I was invisible. The maid in a period drama.

‘OK . . . Well, as you know, I like good news.’ You produced a series of idiotic self-conscious laughs.

I swallowed hard. Mouthed, ‘I’m so sorry,’ as I pointed towards the mess. You didn’t engage. Merely fake-smiled at me and waved your hand, in a way that said, ‘Don’t worry, Constance – leave it.’ Or more accurately, ‘Please just fuck off.’ I returned the smile. Played the fool you took me for. Your stupid laughs continued.

‘Oh my God, do you remember . . .? Oh Jesus. Yeah . . . Yeah . . . OK. Sure . . . How about next Friday, then? Just a quick one, hey? Sorry, sorry . . . I couldn’t resist.’ Stupid laugh.

And so you arranged to meet a woman. In front of me.