She bent to scratch the top of the dog’s head. ‘Hey, buddy. Hey there.’ She straightened up. ‘Nice dog,’ she said. ‘Take it easy, both of you.’

‘And you,’ he said. ‘God bless.’

She was a good, good person.

We stood there a moment longer.

‘Can I ask you something?’ I said.

‘Ok,’ she said, ‘you can ask.’

‘What advice would you give your twenty-seven-year-old self?’ I asked, cringing even as I heard myself asking.

Rachel arched an eyebrow. She looked faintly disappointed and faintly amused, both at the same time.

‘Twenty-seven, huh?’ she said, and it was all I could do to stop myself blurting out, Yes, today.

She sighed. Under the orange streetlights she looked 39even older than I’d thought: she could be forty, I realised. I couldn’t tell anything for certain any more.

‘If something doesn’t work out,’ she said, ‘a date – an encounter – it’s not necessarily your fault. It’s not necessarily anyone’s fault.’

‘Ok,’ I said.

‘I’d also say,’ she said, ‘don’t rush to give away all of yourself, instantly, because someone has happened to express the slightest interest.’

She paused, and I waited for her to go on, but she didn’t.

Black taxis were cruising past the boutique hotel just down the road, and Rachel put her arm out. ‘I’m going to get you a cab,’ she said. ‘I want to make sure you get home safely.’

‘I want to walk,’ I said.

She sighed. ‘Whereabouts exactly are you?’

‘Weavers Fields.’

‘Ok,’ she said, ‘come on.’

‘You don’t have to,’ I said. ‘Seriously. Honestly, I’m fine.’

‘If something happened, I’d feel responsible,’ she said. ‘I’ll walk with you. Only we might have to get some falafel or something on the way.’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘There’s that place on Brick Lane, by the railway arches, if we go that way?’

There was a queue outside Damascu Bite. We leaned against the wall as we waited to place our orders, breathed in the apple shisha and listened to the Syrian radio station the owner always played. 40

‘I want to say again,’ said Rachel, ‘I really, really don’t want things to be awkward for you at work. Will you promise me it’s going to be ok?’

‘I don’t even know your name,’ I said. I laughed, but it might not have been entirely a laugh.

She looked at me. ‘Are you taking the mickey?’ she said.

‘Your full name,’ I said. ‘Your real, whole name. I have you in my phone as Rachel Work.’

Now it was her turn to not-quite-laugh. ‘Ok,’ she said. ‘Ok.’

For a moment, neither of us said anything. Through the serving hatch, the owner shaved his shawarma and flipped slices of halloumi on the griddle, rattled the handle of his deep-fryer and shouted out finished orders, all in a sort of dance. We were next-but-one.

‘Falafel wrap with everything?’ she said.