And then he unclipped the sides of his big beige case to reveal a giant, electric typewriter. With lips pursed tightly together, I looked back at John, wide-eyed. His hand was clamped firmly over his mouth as he tried to look apologetic.

‘Very sorry, sir,’ he said before taking the wine he had poured me out of the fridge, grabbing a second glass and nodding over to a small table with two chairs in the corner of the bar. A closer inspection showed a small triangular sign that declared it reserved.

‘You’re sitting at a reserved table?’ I gasped, following him, wine in hand.

‘It was reserved for seven o’clock,’ he replied as he topped off my glass before filling his own. ‘Either it’s a no-show or they sat somewhere else.’

‘And you’re sure you’re not too busy?’ I asked. I really didn’t want to be on my own.

John nodded. ‘It’s fine. Camille is technically in charge tonight anyway and we’re not that busy.’

I looked over my shoulder at the crowded room. Seemed pretty busy to me.

‘Do you get that in here a lot?’ I asked, eyes lingering on my former neighbour. He had spread out happily, the lid of his typewriter case shoving my bar mix out of his way. Gah, the bar mix. Gone but not forgotten.

‘Rude people?’ John replied, folding himself into the velvet-upholstered chair. ‘Morning, noon and night.’

‘Electric typewriters straight out of the eighties,’ I clarified. ‘And rude people. I can’t believe he’s going to sit there and not order something.’

‘Give him three minutes and he’ll start eating your leftover nuts as well.’

He smiled, a quick, fleeting smile that still had turned-down edges, even when it lit up his light brown eyes. Where everything about Patrick was easy, John seemed at odds with himself. He was too tall, too angular, afraid to smile, sharp and spiky. Patrick was smooth and languid and sure of himself, so much more relaxed. Both of them put me on edge in different ways.

‘You should have a podcast,’ I said, exhaling into my chair and flipping one foot in and out of my shoe. ‘You must have a million brilliant stories.’

‘Bartender Confessions?’ he replied with what was supposed to pass for a mysterious look.

‘This week we explore the curious tale of the man with the electric typewriter,’ I picked up the theme and ran with it. ‘Is he a famous author? A man who has shunned modern technology and social media and writes steamy thrillers under a sexy pseudonym?’

‘Wait, look, he’s going for the nuts!’ John whispered, excited.

The man reached out a furtive right hand and slowly dragged my abandoned bowl towards him before snaffling a palmful directly into his mouth.