As we approached the entrance, your two friends were there, shoulders lifted, jigging as if cold.

One of them saw us approaching and pointed. ‘Oy-oy, Sam,’ he shouted over.

I smiled, nervous about meeting them. Then, when we were about twenty feet away, you stopped.

‘Look . . . I’m going to have to go.’

I was confused at first, thought you were replying to your mate but hadn’t said it loud enough. My teeth chattered. ‘Oh, I . . . Can I come with? I think my friends will have left now.’

‘I wish you could, but it’s boys’ night . . . They’d go ape-shit. You know how it is.’

I nodded. Smiled. But I didn’t know. I didn’t know at all.

‘Here . . . take this and get a cab home.’ You handed me thirty quid. I accepted it like a hooker.

‘Samuel, you bastard,’ shouted your other friend.

‘It was good to see you, Constance. Really. I’ll see you Monday.’ You appeared suddenly quite sober. As was I.

You walked away. Then your steps turned into a sprint, which ended with you jumping onto the back of one of the Tories, like a good old boys’ rugger scrummage. I stayed rooted. Cold and aching. Watching as you were being piggybacked down the road. The same road from which I’d earlier observed the pub with so much hope.

I watched a …

I watched a documentary last night. I do things like that now. It was about the rivers in India that are so polluted they both give life and take it away.

You were my toxic river.

I hadn’t seen Dale all weekend. Then on the Sunday evening I received a text saying he was staying with his parents for a couple of weeks. I tried not to let it ruin everything, scare me. Told myself that he’d return as if nothing had happened, loving me as my friend. Wanting it to all go back. I decided to enjoy the freedom of thought his absence brought. The joy of starting things up with you once again.

When Monday finally came, I sat at my desk, clean and prettied up. You arrived late, unshaven with bloodshot eyes. Stomping through reception, you brought with you an atmosphere that put me on edge. Seeing me didn’t soften you at all.

‘Sorry I’m late . . . Constance, could you bring me a strong coffee, please?’

You disappeared without waiting for my reply. It was a demand, not a request. And something defiant inside prevented me from jumping up to fulfil your wishes. I continued to type a letter for Dr Harris, and as I was finishing it, my rebellion was encouraged to last longer by him bringing me another.

‘Girls, can I speak to you all a moment?’

We stopped what we were doing to give him the attention he required.

‘You’ll probably be surprised to know . . . that I’ll be turning fifty in a couple of weeks.’