After taking the painkillers and eating crumbs, I rolled my scarf into a ball to use as a pillow and draped myself with my coat. A blanket to counteract the intense cold I now felt. The battered leather club chair creaked with each attempt at comfort, but I eventually managed to find a good position and surrendered.

‘Are you OK, miss?’

‘Samuel?’ I opened my eyes.

‘Is everything all right?’ Kate was standing over me, her face strained with concern.

I wiped the dribble from my chin. ‘Yes . . . Sorry . . . I just . . .’

She retrieved the cup of cold tea and put it on a tray. ‘Would you like me to order you a cab or something?’

It was now dark outside. For a moment I was confused. Unsure where I was. Then I glimpsed the red-and-green neon of the Vini Italiani sign through the window. ‘No . . . thank you. I’m waiting for someone. Can I get another tea, please?’

When she left to make my order, I looked up at the giant clock on the wall. No matter how hard I stared, I couldn’t work out the time. Blinking over and over before finally registering it was five twenty. Somehow an hour had passed since I’d arrived. You’d be here soon. I massaged my temples. Then remembered it wasn’t me you were meeting.

Kate placed a fresh steaming pot and clean cup on the table. When paying, I missed her hand and one of the pound coins fell to the floor. She retrieved it, once again mentioning a cab.

‘No . . . I’ve told you I’m waiting for someone. I just want to drink my tea.’ She’d pissed me off at that point. I didn’t understand why she kept asking. She didn’t seem to be asking anyone else. But at last she got the message and left me alone.

My sweaty hands slipped around the large, overfilled cup. As I brought it to my mouth, droplets of tea fell from beneath it onto my chest. I winced as I felt the burn. Quickly wiping away the scalding liquid.

When I’d finished and my eyes returned to the window, focusing beyond the letter ‘F’, I was faced with you. The back of you. Jumping from foot to foot. Kidding your body that it was warmer than it was. Or perhaps it was nerves. The excitement of meeting your love.

My fingers weakened. The cup escaped me. Crashing to the table and falling onto its side. Hot, sticky tea penetrated my trousers, through to the flesh of my thighs. You’d think I’d have jumped up. Shouted out. Sworn. But I sat there. Calm and still. Separate from the acute pain on my lap.

Kate flew over with a wad of blue kitchen roll. Wiped. Dabbed. Asked if I was OK.

‘I’m . . . I’m sorry . . . I don’t know what’s . . .’