Then I saw that on the windowsill, right by my head, was a framed photograph of him and a young woman with their arms around each other. There was a hand mirror on the windowsill, and a toilet bag, a box of tissues, but no other framed photographs. I picked it up and studied it. It looked as though they were at a work do or fairly formal get-together, a Christmas party or a New Year’s Eve bash. Matty had a piece of tinsel over one ear and an inane grin. The young woman was in a cocktail dress, pale blue chiffon, old-fashioned for her age or maybe retro – perhaps it was a 1920s-themed event. She had a fascinator clipped to her blonde fringe, white net with a feather. Her hair was wispy, layered. I thought, rather meanly, that although she was young and pretty in a conventional kind of way, it was already possible to see what she would be like when she was middle-aged and the kind of woman who chaired the Parent–Teacher Association. She looked brisk and competent. She looked like the kind of woman who would throw food away the minute it was past its sell-by date.

‘Who’s this?’ I asked, and Matty turned.

He smiled, and I had the irrational thought that he might have placed the photo on view deliberately that morning, knowing I was coming round. He rolled his eyes, with the same look of weary irony he had worn when he had made the tosser gesture behind his flatmate’s back. ‘Last year’s model. My ex.’

‘Why do you still have a picture of her on your windowsill?’

His tone was light. ‘That a problem?’

‘No, of course not.’ I thought about our conversation in the pasta place, less than a fortnight earlier. I thought of how, when he was questioning me about Ian, I had never once suggested to him that he had no right to ask.

‘Just curious, that’s all. Never seen you wearing tinsel. She looks nice.’

He smiled at me then, the knowing, heart-flipping smile he gave from time to time – not often enough; I could never have enough of that smile. It was a smile that said I had done something particularly lovable, that I amused him and that being amused by me was his favourite thing. ‘Well, she obviously wasn’t that nice, was she? Otherwise I would still be with her.’ He came towards me, bent down and kissed the end of my nose, then he went back to his wardrobe.

‘What was her name?’ I put the photo back on the windowsill as I asked this. He had already caught me studying it longer than my pride should have allowed.

‘Helen,’ he replied, pulling a polo shirt from his wardrobe and holding it up. ‘Have I got time to shower, do you think?’

‘Depends how quick you are.’