‘I seen him coming down this way from the bus station,’ Langie says to me, ‘and I thought that can’t be my mate Ian can it? Not when we was due to meet on the other side of town half an hour ago.’

‘I told you I wasn’t coming, I don’t want nothing to do with any of it.’

‘But now I can see you had a good excuse. If I had a bird like this on my arm I’d be forgetting appointments left, right and centre.’

‘I’m telling you,’ he hisses, ‘now is not the time.’

Langie reaches down into a plastic bag. It’s a white C&A one with the handles all stretched and almost breaking. He brings out a camera, a brand new Polaroid, and sets it on the table.

‘There’s more where this came from,’ he says, looking at Ian, ‘I just need to get the word out. You don’t mind me testing it do you? Your girlfriend would make the perfect model.’

He points the camera at me and gets ready to take the shot. I put my hand over my face, lean away and Ian is half standing up, reaching over to grab it. He knocks my drink and I just manage to catch it before it spills. The flash goes off and Langie stands up, grinning, holding the camera just out of reach.

The photo appears out the bottom. A white square starting to go dark in the middle. Langie takes it out and wafts it in the air. I can’t stop looking. There’s something off about the way he smiles.

‘Don’t worry,’ he says, ‘I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.’

Ian glares at him. The muscles in his neck are twitching.

‘I’ll be in touch though, mate,’ Langie says, ‘we still have things to talk about, you and me.’ He puts the camera back in the bag and drops the photo on the table before leaving.

Ian goes to pick it up but I get there first. Langie’s managed to catch the edge of my arm, but nothing else. The camera must’ve been knocked away in all the commotion. The photo is all Ian. His eyes tinged with red. He looks like a completely different person.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, pushing his stool back and starting to stand up, ‘this was a bad idea.’

‘No,’ I catch his arm, ‘don’t go. Finish your drink at least.’

He sits back down. I watch him take a sip. He’s knackered. I can see that now. He looks away, moving his pint glass from side to side so that the liquid sloshes around.

‘Look at you,’ he says finally and his voice is flat, ‘you really shouldn’t get yourself mixed up with someone like me.’

He sounds so sad. I say, ‘Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?’