Elbows now resting on the table, he dropped his head into his hands. ‘I am . . . I . . . like being your friend . . . Actually, no . . . I don’t.’ He let out a strange laugh, looked up at me.

I crunched down on the ice in my mouth.

‘In truth, I fucking hate it. I hate having to pretend. I hate that I want to kiss you . . . touch you.’

My lips unintentionally contorted as he said the words. His eyes filled with hurt.

‘Are you guys playing?’ a man in a Chelsea shirt that barely covered his protruding belly shouted over to us from the pool table.

‘We are, yes, sorry,’ I said.

‘No, no. We’re done, mate.’ Dale put on his jacket and emptied the last dregs into his mouth.

‘What are you doing? Are we going?’

He did that laugh again. And before I could gather my bag, follow him, the door of the main entrance was banging shut.

It was thrashing it down.

I spotted him. Walking, brisk, a way up the road, his jacket now held over his head. Already soaked, I ran to catch up. Each step a jump into a puddle.

‘Dale,’ I shouted. ‘Dale, please.’

A car drove past, drenched me even more. I closed my eyes and caught my breath before gathering myself to belt out the third call: ‘Dale.’

He stopped, turned and pounded back down the pavement towards me. To an observer, it would have appeared so romantic as we raced towards each other, met in the middle.

‘What, Constance? What do you want?’

Rain trickled inside my mouth. ‘I . . . I want us to be friends.’

He closed his eyes, sighed. All was still for a moment. Then he pulled me towards him. As we hugged, I felt everything relax. I smiled into his chest, relieved. Exhaled against his wet T-shirt.

‘Look, Constance, I’m sorry . . . I think I should leave . . . move out.’

I removed myself from his embrace. That feeling happened in my stomach. The internal explosion. The panic. My one friend leaving me. Being left.

‘What do you mean? You can’t . . . Why? You . . . you said you’d never leave me. You pinky-promised.’ I held up my little finger in the hope he’d hook on to it. But he lifted his palm to his forehead, losing the grip on his jacket, which splashed onto the ground.

‘Jesus, Constance. Not everything is about you, you know.’

I bent down to pick it up, but he pushed my hand away and retrieved the saturated rag, shook it.

‘Are you done?’ He looked at me, wanting me to say things I couldn’t say. ‘OK . . . OK, Constance . . . Well, I’m done.’ He turned, shaking the jacket once again, knowing it was futile, a time-filler.

And all I could do, despite the anxiety rising inside me, as if the rainwater was overtaking my body, covering me, inch by inch, was watch him walk away.

It wasn’t the …