Which was how he ended up in A&E at St Thomas’s with a broken wrist, accompanied by a markedly sober Leah. Chris himself was drunk enough to ignore the pain; it was Leah, concerned by the rapid swelling, who had insisted on taking him to hospital. He kissed her in the waiting room. Their faces were still faintly streaked with tiger-stripes from the face-painting session at the zoo. Some of the paint leaked into the kiss, lending it a chalky, floral flavour.

‘Christopher Kimura,’ said the tannoy, and Chris got up to see the doctor.

He came back fifteen minutes later with his wrist bandaged and splinted, feeling euphoric. A wipe-out on the roller-dance floor and a kiss in A&E: he was already imagining how these antics would be received by his Bulford audience.

‘Okay,’ he told Leah as they left the hospital, unable to keep from grinning. ‘I’m aware that, as first dates go, that was an unmitigated disaster. But if I promise, scout’s honour, not to break any more bones, do you think you might let me make it up to you next weekend?’

Leah was confused; he almost sounded pleased about his injury. Nonetheless, turning him down in this condition didn’t seem to be an option. She remembered Callum in the kitchen, serious and stern. ‘Sure,’ she heard herself say. ‘Sure. Next weekend. That would be nice.’

Besides, she had enjoyed herself, more or less. There had been so much to do – the animals, the face-painting, eating in the dark, roller-skating – that she had been spared the usual agonies of conversation. She remembered her last proper date, with a nervous little banker who had actually asked her, after a particularly long silence, what her favourite colour was. Chris, by contrast, was a showman with an endless fund of anecdote and repartee, providing a running commentary on everything from the sex habits of bonobos to the significance of the hijab in Western culture. Apart from the occasional smile, nothing much seemed to be required of Leah; and this, she decided, was nice. It was relaxing.