It wasn’t the first time I’d been to the Wheatsheaf.

During those few stifling days in the early summer, Dale and I had wandered in, enticed by the two-for-one Pimm’s offer. But it looked different as I observed it from the opposite side of the road, pulling on my third cigarette in a row, anxious, excited, preparing myself for you.

I still hadn’t seen you. Nor had we spoken. I’d abandoned any further attempts at calling. Harley Street had claimed you, and my concerns that you’d stay there were growing.

The one benefit of your absence was that it heightened my confidence in the plan. My presence may surprise you, the coincidence floor you, but any suspicions would be quashed by the fact there was no way I could’ve known you’d be there. To enforce this, I arrived early. So if anything, it would’ve been you who appeared to be following me. The only flaw to all this was that I’d be alone. But I’d decided that good old Mary Feely was supposed to be meeting me. ‘I’m worried about her,’ I’d say. ‘It’s not like her to not show up, and she’s not answering her phone.’ That reminds me. I really must find out if Mary is dead or not.

I’d already changed from my work clothes in the toilets of another nearby pub. Determined to make an impact, make you see me differently, grown up. Like Laura. This involved wearing Mum’s stuff, not my own. Her pointy black heels, tight red dress. When I came to London, most of the items thrown into my two suitcases belonged to her, not me. I had no choice but to let go of the house contents, but clothes, clothes are different. They’re still the person. Carry their essence. Though some were merely pieces of material, cuts of leather. I left those with ease. But others, it was as though she was still alive. Wearing them, yet invisible. And when I’d pulled up the straps of the dress, positioned my foot into the well of the shoe, she was with me. Or perhaps I became her. All I know is, when I’d stared into the mirror in the toilets of the Rose and Crown – voluminous hair, make-up strong – it wasn’t me.

Heaving open the door of the Wheatsheaf, I was relieved to find the place was already murmuring with after-work drinkers and was reminded of the abundance of areas and alcoves where I could watch, hide.

At the bar, I took my position next to two shiny-headed middle-aged men wearing shirts draped with loosened ties and ordered myself a vodka and Coke.

The nearest man elbowed his friend, then turned to me, smiling, twenty-pound note in hand. ‘Can I get that for you, sweetheart?’

I paid the bartender. ‘It’s OK, thanks . . . I’m meeting someone.’