‘That sucks. It’s always the nice ones, isn’t it? You’ve remembered about tonight, though, right?’ My blankness must have shown. ‘The film? I knew you’d—’

‘Of course. I have . . . remembered. I thought you meant something else when you said . . . The film I have. I’m looking forward to it.’

‘Well, we need to get a move on, then. You know I get all angsty being late and that.’

As I flicked the rest of the cigarette to the ground and we headed off, I heard the surgery door open. I stopped, turned to look. You were oblivious to us. Chatting with Dr Harris as he locked up. You laughed. Forced. I understood. You were holding your linen jacket in one hand and your doctor’s bag in the other. Car keys dangled from your fingers, quashing my wish of us ever getting the Tube together.

‘Constance, for fuck’s sake. What are you doing?’

‘Sorry . . . I—’

‘Who is that?’

‘It’s just Dr Harris. And the new doctor.’

‘Right. Well, can we go, please?’ He tugged my arm to encourage me to move again, causing me to trip on a raised corner of pavement. ‘Why are you so clumsy?’

After walking for a few seconds, he said, ‘The new doctor looks a right dickhead. Where does he get his hair cut – 1995?’

I wanted to glance back at you once more. I didn’t. But noticed that Dale did.

It was a foreign-film festival at the South Bank and they were showing the only Almodóvar Dale hadn’t seen: Talk to Her. The last thing I wanted to do was to sit through some subtitled arty bollocks.

We were informed that the trailers had already started. This was, of course, my fault and he slipped seamlessly into a sullen mood. Before he could argue, I rushed towards the bar and stood on my tippy-toes to get served as quickly as possible. He followed me, once again gripping on to my arm, pulling me away.

‘I need a Coke . . . and a snack or something. I’m starving.’

In silence, he escorted me to the corner of the foyer. His eyes flicked from side to side, paranoid and spy-like. Two triangles of blush appeared on each cheek, and his signature stress-sweat seeped from his upper lip. He lifted the flap of his record bag to reveal two small Lidl apple-juice cartons with attached straws and a stack of cling-filmed cheese-and-piccalilli sandwiches that were as sweaty as he was.

‘Oh right,’ I said.

He dropped the flap back down, wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘Well, you don’t have to.’

‘No, that’s . . . Cheese and piccalilli is my favourite. Thank you.’

The cinema was fairly empty. Dale marched us to his desired spot – centre middle – then stood back against his chair to let me in. ‘Is that OK? I prefer the other person to be on my right.’