The air was claggy with the stench of fried bacon. He must have noticed my nostrils twitching because he picked up a canister of air freshener from the table next to his chair and squirted fake flowers into the room. ‘Just had my dinner. Anyway, dear girl, you sit and I’ll get the tea.’

Instinctually I began to offer to make it, then stopped myself and sat as requested. Exactly where I wanted to be. Planned to be. In the chair next to the window.

To my annoyance, Edward remained in the lounge, small-talking about a turn in the weather and how he’d wanted to get Jaffa Cakes, but they only had these weird strawberry ones. ‘There’s nothing Jaffa about a strawberry, is there? Terrible idea . . . terrible.’

I smiled, nodded as he wittered on. But all I could think about was you.

Finally, after the obligatory ‘Is a Jaffa Cake a cake or a biscuit?’ discussion, he left the room and I was able to turn to the window.

Tranquillizer injected into my veins.

There you were. Sitting on the sofa, staring at the television. Wine glass in hand, filled with red. Changed into your old David Bowie T-shirt. I recalled its touch, velvety and worn. Watching you intently, I analysed every laugh, every movement, until the percussion of tinkling spoons against crockery broke my trance.

His distorted, quivering hands placed a rose-trimmed cup and saucer, a bowl of sugar lumps and a small matching plate piled with biscuits on the table next to me. I thanked him, though my words fell quiet against the sound of his breathlessness, akin to someone having climbed Everest. The wheezing lessened once he’d dropped into his chair, and I attempted to speak again.

‘Thank you, Edward.’

After sipping the tea, grease coated my lips. I suppressed a gag, imagining the cup languishing in a cupboard since the 1950s.

‘It’s still a little hot,’ I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand and returning the cup and saucer to the table. ‘So anyway, Edward, how’ve you been?’

‘Well, you know. The same as always . . . Don’t forget the custard creams. Come on.’

I took a biscuit, trying not to look at the state of the plate beneath. ‘And how’s that?’

‘Good . . . I’m good.’

I understood his lie.

He removed his glasses and brought them down towards the paisley handkerchief on his lap. It was obvious he could no longer see as he rubbed them clean. I turned away. You were on the phone. Who were you on the phone to?

‘How about you?’ he said.

I returned to looking at him as he raised his glasses back to his face.

‘Me? I’m . . . I’m good too, thanks.’ I smiled. And he stared at me, without saying a word. Making me so uncomfortable that I resorted to taking a sip from the filthy cup.