‘I did tell you it looks as if I’ve just moved in. I’m a man – what can I say?’ You gestured me further into the room. ‘Come on, sit down. You’ll be in shock.’

Limping towards the sofa, I noticed your eyes squinted, scrutinizing me. ‘You’ve got blood on you. Are you hurt?’

Your words triggered the urgent need to get it off me. ‘It’s . . . it’s not mine.’

‘Oh God, it’s not the old guy’s?’

‘No. I . . . It was the boy . . . One of them fell and smashed his nose on the pavement.’

‘Well, karma or what? I swear to God if I had the chance . . .’

I’m glad you stopped. It would have been embarrassing, you lying to us both.

‘Why don’t you borrow a T-shirt or something? You don’t want some toerag’s blood all over you, especially with your phobia . . . Oh, actually, come through here.’

I followed you back through the hall, unsure of where you were taking me.

You turned to check I was in tow. ‘Is your foot hurting?’

‘Yes, I . . . I was running on it. I don’t know how.’

‘Adrenaline. I’ll have a look in a minute.’

You opened a door. It was your bedroom. Your oversized bed, staring at me. Where you slept, dreamt, touched yourself. Air heavy with citrus and, I believe, sandalwood. Your checked boxers strewn on the floor. Intimate. Any mask of formality between us evaporated.

A little like when as a teen, round at my friend Claire’s, the daughter of our geography teacher Mr Reynolds, I’d crept into his bedroom on the way to the toilet and seen a DVD I shouldn’t. Though it wasn’t really the same, because I didn’t yearn for Mr Reynolds. He was disgusting. As I’m sure was Missionary Impossible 2.

You opened a door of the fitted wardrobes that clad the wall. ‘Here, have a scan and take anything you want, anything. It’s Laura’s, the ex’s – stuff she still won’t bloody collect.’

You thought you were being nice. But you weren’t. It was a cupboard filled with clothes of someone you once loved. And you’d given her a name.

‘Seriously, I don’t give a shit – take anything you want. She’s lucky I’ve not binned it all after two months. My theory is, she still wants it here . . . Why can’t women ever let go, eh? Anyway, have a rummage . . . apart from in the big box.’

‘What’s in the box? Sorry. I shouldn’t—’

‘It’s my mother’s . . . Anyway, I’ll leave you to change into whatever you decide.’ You pointed towards another doorway at the back of the room. ‘Use the bathroom to clean yourself up. I’ll make us some tea.’