‘I can’t even run for the bus,’ I said. ‘At school, I once came second to last in the annual cross-country race. Only beating Mathew Sims, who’d broken his foot and did the whole thing on crutches to raise money for Cancer Research.’

You laughed. ‘You crack me up, Constance.’

I dug into my bag, pretending to search for something so you couldn’t see the happiness on my face.

The junction of Church Street had arrived all too quickly and I was forced to stop.

‘OK . . . so which way are you? Because I can either cut through the graveyard, which is quicker, or go down Church Street, which is longer but less scary.’ I was pleased at my acting. There wasn’t a hint of my knowing where you lived.

‘How’s the foot?’

‘It’s fine, actually. I think the walking is helping.’ I smiled to block out the throb.

‘OK, that’s good. Why don’t you come the Church Street way with me, then? You can tell me more about your sporting prowess.’

As we continued, our bodies gravitated towards each other and my hand brushed yours on more than one occasion. I lit up inside when you laughed, head back, free, as I recounted the story of how I had to be rescued from the climbing-frame section of the Sports Day assault course because my arm got tangled in the metal.

We were approaching your road.

‘This one’s me,’ you said.

‘Oh right, well this is my route to the station too.’

‘Of course . . . You know, I’m glad this has happened. It’s shown me how bloody near I am. I’m definitely going to walk to work from now on.’ Did you notice my joy when you said that? Imagining all the stories we’d share.

When we turned the corner, two lads in their late teens, wearing grey trackies and interchangeable faces more suited to the estate back home than this leafy idyll of West London, were on bikes, propping themselves up against the wall of the first house. You pretended you hadn’t seen them as we walked past. Talked about how you were desperate for a shower. I replied about being more of a bath person, but we were both conscious of their presence. They laughed, loud, towards our backs. Forced, attention-seeking laughs. Again, we ignored. Talked. Until one shouted, ‘She looks like she’s got a nice tight pussy, mate.’

You stopped. Then I stopped. You looked at me, not them. I was certain you didn’t want to do anything and were seeking my approval not to.

I gave you what you wanted. ‘Ignore them,’ I said. ‘They’re idiots.’

‘OK . . . No, no, you’re right.’ You walked on. I followed your lead. ‘Anyway, I’m sorry for all the sweating.’ You tried to spark another conversation.