There was of course the ability to be close to you. The comfort your proximity provided. The luxury of being able to concentrate, analyse your every movement, every stroke of your hair, tilt of your head. Wondering what music you were listening to. If it was our song.

And there was something else. Something I hadn’t accounted for. Unlike when you were rejecting me – requesting coffees, files, fucking me in alleyways then forgetting – it was me, not you, who was in control.

But how quickly we develop tolerance to our drugs.

Initially I was content with hiding against the pillar of the opposite flats, watching as you’d disappear through your door. The exercise completed, finished, like a stamped-out cigarette. But soon it became harder to leave. Staring up at your window, I’d wonder what you were doing, where you were doing it. Desperate to see. Frustrated I couldn’t.

It was then I realized that I needed to increase my dose.

Edward’s flat was …

Edward’s flat was even more eccentric than I recalled.

I hadn’t absorbed it in its entirety the first time. Smoking squirrel, the diving helmet and Ursula were as I’d remembered, although dulled by an additional layer of dust. But somehow, previously, I hadn’t noticed the terrifying shark’s skeleton jaw that hung above the mantelpiece, where you’d expect the elderly to house a fake Constable. And even more disconcertingly, I realized I was standing upon a real tiger-skin rug.

Sensing my disapproval, he said, ‘Don’t you worry – I killed it with my bare hands when it attacked me.’ I laughed politely, but his straight face left me unsure if he was joking.

He was so delighted at my visit that I resented the guilt it created. His crinkled face was warmer, friendlier than on our first encounter. Though to be fair he hadn’t just been attacked by a youth.

‘I’d got biscuits in just for you, Constance, you know, and not eaten them for all this time because I knew you’d come.’

‘Garibaldis?’

‘No . . . no . . . sorry. They’re custard creams. Would you have preferred Garibaldis?’

‘No, no, not at all. Custard creams are perfect.’

He gestured for me to sit. ‘I’d just boiled the kettle as well. I must have known.’

I remained standing, feeling the need to justify myself. ‘I’m really sorry for not coming sooner. I’ve had lots on, and, well, time goes so quickly.’

‘You mustn’t apologize. I was a young man only but yesterday, so am all too aware of how time can slip away . . . Anyway, I knew you’d come eventually.’