She was doing this, wasn’t she? Seize the day. Because (and she only knew this when the moment came) this was the scene she’d been preparing for, here, on the street outside the theatre in the cool spring air.

Unsuccessful breakup

Phoebe had no reason to think the breakup wouldn’t stick. Why shouldn’t it? Jimmy didn’t depend on her for his happiness. He didn’t depend on her for anything whatsoever. He was, had always been, a self-sufficient person. He would move on smoothly, like a train leaving a station, slow at first, then gradually gathering pace and speeding out of view.

Having summoned her resolve, she met him on a night in May. It had just stopped raining and the air was clear and fresh. She waited outside the Soho restaurant where he worked most nights. A fashionable French place with big windows. She could see him at the bar, polishing glasses with deft movements, wearing a snug-fitting black shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was tall and lanky with grown-out hair. Flicking a white cloth over the bar, he looked up, saw her there and nodded.

‘Coming,’ he mouthed, stepping neatly around the large floral arrangement on the end of the bar, a potentially hazardous concoction of red and orange spears.

Clever, handsome Jimmy! It wasn’t that she didn’t love him.

He came out in his jeans and his Vans, pulling his jacket on. ‘Hey,’ he said.

‘Hey. How was your shift?’

‘Good. Busy. Full house.’

He had to lean down to kiss her. She was small, even scrawny. Early on, Jimmy had remarked that her bony jutting shoulders, prominent collarbone, and closely shorn dark hair created a Les Mis effect, giving her the air of a street urchin or orphan. But this was only an effect – in fact, she had two parents, a mother living in Hong Kong, in what had been their family flat, and a father now at large as a travelling salesman.

Kissing Jimmy, Phoebe tasted peppermint Extra. He rarely tasted of alcohol, even when they went out. Despite his job, he wasn’t much of a drinker. He liked the artistry of the work, not oblivion, he said. And bartending wouldn’t be his final destination, which was another reason he took such pleasure in it.

He entwined his long, elegant fingers – artist’s fingers, she always thought – in hers. As they started walking, the clarity of the night after the rain enlivened her senses, or maybe it was the knowledge of what she was going to do. The street lamps shone like grubby jewels strung out on dark cloth, and the occasional black cab sloshed past through the puddles.