You turned back towards me. Your smile dropped. ‘Constance, what’s wrong?’

I’m not sure how I’d appeared to you, but I suspect I’d whitened to the colour of your porcelain sink.

I somehow summoned the words ‘Do you mind if we put on something else? This reminds me of my mum.’

You mumbled apologies as you fumbled with the buttons, until, thank God, it stopped and my heart functioned once again.

‘Dr Stevens, I should maybe go.’

‘Samuel . . . No, no, I’m sorry.’ You pulled another CD from the wall and quickly inserted it. ‘This is nice and soothing.’

It was Nina Simone.

‘I recognize the voice, but I don’t know this song,’ I said, as you sat back down next to me. Sipped more brandy and nodded for me to do the same.

‘I thought people your age preferred R&B. You know, someone featuring someone else.’

‘How old do you think I am?’

‘Younger than me.’

‘I’m twenty-six.’

You smiled, raised your eyebrows. ‘As I say, younger than me.’

You didn’t disclose your age, but I already knew. You were thirty-seven. Your birthday, 12 February.

Time flowed as freely as the brandy.

We’d talked nonstop after that. Do you remember the ease? Discussing Nina Simone and music in general. How your mum was a fan and was lucky enough to have seen her live in Paris. ‘She was something unworldly, Samuel – she’d say.’ I told you how I’d always wanted to go to Paris. Imagined myself flouncing around the Champs-Elysées in clothes I wouldn’t dream of wearing here.

‘Well, maybe you will,’ you said. ‘Though I can’t imagine you flouncing anywhere.’

Aretha Franklin was singing, and I was immune to the brandy burn. I may have been slurring. Was I? My glass seemed to be frequently empty, frequently filled. We giggled at unfunny things. I smoked a fag, but you’d made me hang out of the window. It was dark. I searched for Edward’s flat. I’d forgotten about him already, what happened. I imagined him sat waiting for me with an unopened packet of Garibaldis. A moment of sober worry, guilt, which left as quickly as it arrived.

I was back on the sofa. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s too cold there – I’ll have to have the next one right here.’ I popped a fresh fag into my wonky drunken lips.

You looked at me disapprovingly, then sang along with Aretha. ‘R-E-S-P-E-C-T.’

‘Fine. I won’t, then,’ I said, and went through the motions of smoking it unlit.

Then you said, ‘You know, you remind me of someone, Constance.’

‘I do?’