He won’t let go. Clinging onto my arm while he slides down onto the floor, onto his knees, right against me. I can feel his breath on my legs. I grab my dress at the back and pull it as tight as I can. His fingers digging into my arm and the others laughing or whistling or turning their bastard faces away so they don’t have to intervene.

‘Let. Go.’

I try to pull away but he’s not having any of it. I can hear a bus pulling in to a space nearby and pray it’s full of people.

‘I will,’ he says, ‘believe me. But first I have to say this. This might seem a bit sudden…’

‘Tommy, you absolute wanker,’ someone says laughing, ‘you can’t propose to every girl with a nice pair of legs.’

‘What’s going on?’

A new voice coming from the other direction. Tommy lets go of my arm and I stand back. There’s a row of red marks where his nails were digging in.

‘You alright, love?’ the man says moving in front of me, looking back and forth. He’s wearing a navy polo shirt with a white stripe at the collar. Tall and wiry with close cropped fair hair. His jeans all dusty at the knees.

‘These idiots bothering you were they?’

I nod and Tommy stands up, tries to steady himself. He holds his hands up in surrender and the others don’t know where to look.

‘Just a bit of fun,’ he says, ‘no need for any trouble, mate.’

‘It didn’t look like she was having a lot of fun to me, sunshine. Four against one? Is that the only way you can manage to get yourself a woman?’

Someone laughs. Tommy’s face is going pink. He puts his hands down and swipes behind him at whoever happens to be in line.

The man turns back to me. ‘Going home or into town?’

I hesitate. Just for a second, making my mind up. ‘Town.’

He offers me his arm and if it wasn’t for the scruffy clothes he could be a gentleman in one of Mum’s Sunday night costume dramas. ‘Come on then,’ he says, ‘I’ll walk you in.’

The underpass slopes down into the gloom. The rubber floor tiles are all slippy from the rain. I hold onto the metal railing to steady myself and take it slow.

‘Careful,’ he says.

‘I’m fine. It’s just these heels.’

‘It’s not you, it’s this bloody floor. See the way the grooves run from top to bottom?’

‘Yeah.’

‘The tiles were supposed to be laid horizontal – you know – across the grain, to create some resistance. Some idiot messed it up and now it’s a bloody death trap.’

‘How do you know?’