‘Hey, I’m . . . I’m sorry I’ve not called you back . . . Arghhh, you look so hot tonight . . . When did you get so hot? I’m . . . I’m a fuck-up, Constance . . . you know . . .’

Is it possible to be equally thrilled and offended? Because I was. I should have told you I needed to get back to my friends. Made you work harder. But you leant in, your nose nuzzling into my neck, and it felt so much better than all the pain.

Beyond your shoulder, I could see your mates looking over, pointing, laughing. You placed your lips onto mine. We were back together, kissing. As natural and right as it always was. And it all seemed so silly then. The tears, the hurt, the distress.

You led me outside. Aside from the clutch of people standing around smoking, it was cool and still, in contrast to the rowdiness indoors. My hand gripped yours.

‘Let’s share a fag,’ you said.

Adrenaline was sobering me up, but I couldn’t suppress my smiles, the happiness that emanated from me.

The music and laughter from inside were muffled and distant. My ears rang with the quiet. I lit a cigarette and handed it to you. After your first drag, you coughed.

‘You really shouldn’t smoke, you know,’ I said.

You laughed and tried again. ‘It’s your fault – you’re a bad influence on me.’

As the smoke billowed from your lips, you threw me a sideways look.

‘What?’ I asked.

You handed back the ciggie. ‘Nothing. Just I’ve missed you.’

I’ve. Missed. You.

I wanted to scream to the sky I’d missed you too, but I smiled and said, ‘You’re drunk.’

‘Fucking hell, you’re right . . . You’re always right, Constance, you know that? I am drunk . . . but you know what they say? Many a true word . . . Shit . . . That’s jest . . . But I have – I’ve missed you.’

‘I . . . I’ve missed you too,’ I dared.

The pub doors flew open. A group of revellers spilt out. Their unwanted, noisy world infiltrating ours. I looked down at my aching over-arched feet as we stopped talking, waiting for them to disappear. Defended our bubble.

Then you said, ‘Come here . . . I want to show you something.’

With your arm draping my shoulders, you walked me down the side of the building. It was difficult for me to keep up in her shoes. The heel tips were wearing down, uneven, and I nearly went over on my ankle.

‘Where are you taking me?’

‘Shhh.’ You placed your finger over your mouth.

We turned a corner. It was devoid of light. Some kind of alleyway. I giggled, but it was almost pitch-black and I became disorientated.

‘What? What are you showing me? I can’t see a thing.’

Your hands slid around my waist, and you pushed me against the cold brick wall, your mouth hovering over mine.

‘You really like me, don’t you, Constance?’