I nestled back, closed my eyes. Thinking about what you’d told me. Confided in me. And you were right – the music was beautiful. Fitting. I’ve since bought an old vinyl record of that piece. And others. I play them when I can’t sleep or am stressed. Which is often. Along with our song, of course.

Everything was perfect in that moment. It made me want to share about myself. Though I kept my eyes shut to say it.

‘Mine died in April.’

‘Sorry?’ You turned the volume down.

‘My mum . . . She died in April.’

‘Constance, that’s so recent . . . I didn’t . . . I’m so sorry. But you’ve only been here since April? Is that why you—’

‘She had cancer.’ It wasn’t a lie.

The car stopped. I presumed at lights, but I still couldn’t look.

You searched for my hand. Squeezed it. ‘What about your dad?’

I shook my head.

‘Brothers or sisters?’

I shook my head again.

‘Oh, Constance. Well, you’ve got me. We’re friends now, don’t you think?’

I dared to open my eyes and moved my finger to touch yours. The lights turned green. You placed your hand back onto the wheel and we drove again.

‘Does anyone know about your mum?’

‘My housemate knows.’

‘No, I mean like Harris or Franco. You should speak to Dr Franco.’

‘No. Why? No . . . I’m fine.’

Before you could talk about it anymore, ask me questions, I leant forward and turned the volume up again, then sat back and closed my eyes. This time, so you couldn’t see me, I faced the passenger window.

Shame washed over me when we arrived at mine. I’d grown used to the sink and car parts in the garden, but I saw it through your eyes. Sat in your expensive car. Knowing about your grand flat. And I was pissed off with Mr Papadopoulos and his lazy-landlord ways.

You parked in the nearest spot and switched off the engine. We sat for a moment in darkness before turning our heads towards each other.

‘Well, thank you, Dr Stevens.’

‘Samuel.’

‘Samuel.’

The leather creaked beneath us. Time stopped. Only starting again when you said, ‘Oh God, I need to get you out, don’t I?’

I looked through the window, back towards the house, for signs of Dale. ‘No, I’m . . . I’m fine from here.’

‘Don’t be silly. I’ll walk you to the door.’

‘No, honestly . . . I need the practice.’

‘Well, I must help you get out at least. Even the able-bodied can’t get out of this bloody thing.’

Before I could argue, you were already outside, opening my door, lifting me up. I fumbled with my bag, which you took from me and placed across my body like a pageant-queen sash. ‘Well, at least let me watch you. Make sure you get in.’