‘There are worse things you could be doing with a Saturday evening,’ Patrick pulled me in towards him as I repositioned myself to rest my head on his chest. We were only a few feet from the bed we hadn’t made it to but the floor seemed like the safest place to be right now. I didn’t trust my legs to carry me.

‘Like arguing about sausage cooking times with my friend’s dad?’ I yawned, slinging one leg over his legs, stretching my arm over his chest, taking as much territory as I dared. He looked at me, confused. ‘Long story,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m very happy with where my Saturday evening ended up.’

He kissed the top of my head and laughed.

‘You knew this was on the cards as soon as you sent me that text,’ he accused. ‘Don’t pretend this wasn’t your evil plan along.’

I lazily traced my fingertips down his collarbone. He had the best collarbone. ‘Evil plan?’

‘Hi everyone, I’m back, I have a new number? Let’s hang out? You know, you could have just called me.’

‘That wasn’t an evil plan, it was a stupid group text,’ I said, rolling onto my stomach and discreetly tucking my left breast back into my bra. ‘I sent it to everyone in my phone.’

‘OK, Ros,’ he closed his eyes and smiled. ‘I believe you even if thousands wouldn’t.’

‘You can believe what you want,’ I replied primly, slightly annoyed to have my postcoital glow tainted. ‘It was a mistake, I deleted you from my phone years ago but it must have been saved in the cloud. I never would have messaged you otherwise.’

‘And why not?’

Resting my head back in his nook, I looked around his flat. His bed was in his living room, in the place of a settee, and what would have been the bedroom was set up as an office, his huge, cluttered desk taking pride of place next to the dormer window that looked out onto the street below. It was a new place but he had filled it with all the same stuff. Worn leather armchair he’d got from his dad, framed maps all over the walls and bookcase upon bookcase upon bookcase. I’d have guessed it in a heartbeat had we been playing Through the Keyhole. Who would live in a house like this? Absurdly expensive custom-made shoes? Eight different vintage editions of Jane Eyre? Enough single malt whisky to get an elephant bladdered? It’s got to be Patrick Parker.

‘Because we haven’t spoken in more than three years and, the last time we saw each other, it didn’t go that well?’ I reminded him. Now that the sex seal had been broken, my words were coming thick and fast. ‘Or have you forgotten?’

Patrick gently shifted my head and sat upright.