I follow him into the pub and the air is thick with smoke and testosterone. There’s hardly a woman in sight. He finds us a table and goes to order the drinks. I don’t even know his name. The walls are covered with old signs and coasters. It looks like a setting for a 1930s gangster movie. The brown and green tiles and the landlord working the beer taps like a pro. There’s a big mirror hung behind the bar, edged with some kind of pattern and spotted with age. He catches me looking over as he’s paying and his reflection smiles back. I wedge my handbag under the seat, behind my feet. Somebody laughs and bumps into the table as they push past. All the voices and singing, the sound of the darts hitting the board and the groans and the coins clinking as money changes hands.

‘One Bacardi and Coke,’ he says, putting the glass in front of me, ‘and a packet of crisps so no one can say I didn’t show you a good time.’

I laugh and hold my hand out. ‘Karen,’ I say, ‘nice to meet you.’

‘Bloody hell, you’re right!’ he puts his drink down and wipes his hand on his trouser leg, he shakes my hand and his grip is so firm it almost hurts. ‘Ian.’

‘Thanks for earlier, Ian.’

‘What, those idiots?’ he says, ‘it was a pleasure.’ He takes a sip of his beer.

I keep waiting for the dodgy chat up line, for a reason to leave after I finish this drink. But he doesn’t try anything on. He doesn’t say nice legs, what time do they open? or ask me if I bruised myself when I fell down from heaven. Nothing feels awkward.

He knocks a cigarette on the table. ‘Do you mind?’

‘No. Go ahead.’

He flicks at his lighter but before he can work up a flame a strange bloke slips onto the seat next to me, right next to me, and grabs a cigarette from Ian’s packet.

‘Hey!’

‘Allo, allo, allo,’ he says, like a comedy policeman from the telly, ‘who do we have here then?’

Ian snatches the fag back out of his hand. ‘Piss off, Langie.’ His voice is all quiet and tight. The smile is long gone.

The man turns to me as if we’re old friends. He smells of unwashed clothes and fried food. His face is all pockmarked and scabby; his head so small it looks like someone shrunk it in the wash. He’s too close. I look at Ian and he shakes his head. He gives me a look as if to say he’s sorry for whatever’s about to come.