It takes me a while, but eventually I find him where I want to find him, out and about. Friday night in downtown Peterborough: Dr Matthew Goodison is in the warm, low-lit fug of a curry house called the Bengal Tiger. He is having a meal with a woman who I know, as soon as I see them, to be a new girlfriend – a recent girlfriend, I can tell by the frisson between them, the slight but all-pervasive thrill you get in the early days of someone. I am guessing, as I look at them, that they have had a few dates but haven’t slept together. The static between a couple who want sex but haven’t had it yet is unmistakable.

They are seated in a booth, opposite each other on banquette-style benches covered with deep red velvet. Matty is staring at her while she talks. He reaches out and picks up a piece of naan from the small plate between them, tears off a strip and puts it on the side of her plate. ‘I’m so glad you chose curry,’ he says. He lifts his fork and jabs it in her direction, close enough to her face to make her flinch. ‘You,’ he says firmly, ‘are going to be really good at guessing what I like.’

She looks to one side and smiles, then looks at the piece of bread on the side of her plate and shakes her head. ‘No, you’re alright, thanks. I’ve got rice.’

‘Eat it. You’re too thin,’ he responds.

With another small shy smile, she picks up the strip of naan, dips it into one of the curries on her plate and eats.

As she swallows he says, with an encouraging nod, ‘Good girl. You were saying …’

‘No,’ she shakes her head again, ‘go on.’

He stares at her until she becomes uncomfortable and drops her gaze.

‘The thing you haven’t told me yet …’ he murmurs. He continues to stare at her long and hard with that grey-eyed, assessing gaze, the kind of look that suggests he is trying to bore into her soul.

She lifts her gaze and I watch her look back at him and see it happen before my eyes, her melting beneath the intensity of his concentration. She has very small features, a tiny nose, brown eyes, straight dark hair with a neat fringe. She could be a model for a French clothing line, she’s so trim and petite. You could imagine her in a crisp white shirt and navy pinafore. She is around twenty-three, I’m guessing, twenty-five at most.

‘You’re a single mum.’

She gives an embarrassed half-laugh. ‘Oh God, no, is it really that obvious? When did you guess?’