My apartment should be goon-free now that Faber’s breath has fogged its last mirror. Just in case there are any hostile stragglers, I dial a phoney B&E call into the local blues from Mr Hong down the hall and slip upstairs to Sofia’s apartment when the cruiser whoops up to the steps.

Sofia Delano pulls open her door before the knock reverb fades and stands before me, chest heaving like she’s run a mile to get there.

‘Carmine,’ she breathes. ‘I’ve been waiting so long.’

I slip inside her lobby, passing close, feeling the breath from her upturned mouth on my cheek, seeing the sheen of her lipstick.

Delano reminds me of someone. Not Cyndi Lauper any more; another eighties icon. Blonde hair, blow-dried big. Striped woollen dress, leggings and ballet pumps.

Ghost Zeb puts his finger on it. We’re the kids in America, woh-oh.

‘My Kim Wilde look,’ says Sofia Delano. ‘You always liked it, Carmine. Remember that club? The One Eight Seven? Those were good times.’

She looks wonderful, smells intoxicating. If only I could remember the good times.

‘Mrs Delano . . . Sofia . . . I’m not Carmine. I’m Daniel McEvoy, from downstairs. You hate me, remember?’

She takes my face in her hands. ‘Not any more,’ she says and kisses me hard. Not any more? Does that mean she doesn’t hate me any more? Or she doesn’t remember?

I don’t know, and for a moment I don’t care.

And even though I didn’t share the eighties with this woman, I do remember the decade. And here they are, coming around again. With sweet chocolatey perfume, shoulder pads, the haze of hairspray and soft red lips. This is more than a kiss; it’s a time machine.

I feel Sofia’s sprayed hair scratch my cheek, and hear the moan in her throat like all her dreams have come true, and I want to weep. Is this how low I have sunk, making out with a disturbed woman?

I push her gently away, hearing the soft pop as the vacuum seal of our lips is broken.

‘W . . . wait,’ I stammer. ‘This is not right. I can’t . . . we can’t.’

There is a bruise of lipstick smeared across her upper lip. ‘Sure we can, baby. It’s not the first time. But let’s do it like it’s the last.’

What an invitation. You could sell a movie with a tag-line like that.

‘No, Sofia . . . Mrs Delano. This is not me. I mean, I am not Carmine.’

Then something unexpected. She slaps me in the face, hard. I actually rock back on my heels.

‘Pull yourself together, Carmine. How many lives do you think we get? I’m forty years old next summer, and this is my last second chance. You going to break my heart again?’

I can’t do it. I should, goddamn me, but I can’t find the strength. ‘Okay, Sofia.