Time pulsed. I dared not look away. Swallowed the rice at the back of my throat.

‘It’s a famous quote from the book. Sorry, Constance – I thought you’d recognize it . . . which is silly, as you’ve obviously not read it yet, so why would you?’

‘No . . . no, I . . . I probably won’t ever read it . . . It was just nice . . . I—’

‘You should. Edward chose well for you. I’m sure you’ll like it. Lots of themes I think you’ll find interesting: intense love, betrayal, revenge . . . You’ve gone very red, Constance . . . Here . . . have some of this cucumber raita I made.’

Our plates were empty; the bottle Mr Papadopoulos brought us was drunk dry. My mouth was numb. So was I. The table looked like mice had been to dinner. Crumbs everywhere, splashes of luminous chutneys against the crisp white of the cloth.

‘That was the best birthday present, Dale. Thank you.’

‘Oh, I haven’t given you your present yet.’ He stood and gathered the dishes.

The food churned inside me, terrified he meant sex. ‘Well, I don’t deserve another present. That was perfect.’ I yawned. ‘I’m so tired – I don’t know what’s wrong with me . . . I’m sure I’ll be spark out soon.’

I stood to help clear up.

‘Leave that,’ he said. ‘In fact, go away for ten minutes. Go in mine and pick a DVD to watch. There’s a few new ones I bought from the charity shop the other day. They’re next to the telly.’

I knew he wanted me out of the way to prepare my birthday cake, but I was worried how I’d manage to eat any of it.

I went to my room first. Exchanged my blouse for a sweatshirt. Removing the silk released such a strong cloud of your aftershave I was amazed Dale hadn’t noticed. I kept on my skirt and pants, which were damp from us both. I wasn’t prepared to let go of you quite yet. Closing my eyes, without the shame of Dale staring back at me, I relived it all. Feeling you again. A wave ran from my stomach to my knickers. Were you doing the same? Smiling at your poker hand, fingers tainted with me? My scent seeping through the wool of your trousers, making you want me again?

I took Wuthering Heights from my bag and sat on the floor next to the bed. Bent into the dark dust, reached blindly for the case and slid it out. Once in front of me, I stared at it. Not because it seemed filthier than ever. Not because I couldn’t face her diaries on my birthday, even though that thought crucified me. But because the metal clasp, the left metal clasp, which I’d so strongly pressed to lock the previous time, was up, unattached. Open.