Every man Sarah paused on was … It wasn’t my call. I wouldn’t be dating them, sucking them off. Still, I couldn’t help hoping she would hit the jackpot and swipe right on someone with obscene wealth and impeccable table manners, a condom and latex-gloves junkie whose greatest ambition was to date a married woman while providing an unrelated financial stipend for her long-suffering hubby and kids.

* * *

At work the next day I flipped between pretending to be focused on urgent tasks to not even pretending. Biddy was flying high, in love, happy. Sarah was … she was low. She was looking for someone to love her, respect her, excite her. She was looking for me but didn’t know it, had to go through a process of elimination with every other man on the planet. I could help her. I could speed that process along. And when she realised her folly, she’d be happy, and her happiness would … I didn’t know. Maybe it would allow me to fly high with Biddy, be guilt-free, be happy with Sarah, desired by her.

I scrolled through my Facebook feed, got my phone, opened Instagram. Zac’s latest post – a man fixing a car in some backstreet – had been liked by more than a hundred people. My latest, a selfie at home with Sophie and Oliver, had six likes. The one before that, of Oliver holding up a baby tooth, blood on his lips, had twelve.

Agnë walked past, smiled. I smiled, clacked my keyboard, continued with my work, the main component of which was to find a stock image of a man of the kind I wanted Sarah to date so I could text it to her with a funny message.

And … Yes, ha, bingo. There he was, the chap I was looking for: a commercial airline pilot with salt-and-pepper hair, maybe in his late forties, standing on a runway in front of an Airbus. He was probably a model in real life, not a pilot. I could investigate that further but –

I put my monitor to sleep, went to the bathroom, sat, attached the image, texted Sarah: Thanks for the laughs last night! Here’s your guy, I reckon. Urbane, handsome, wealthy, he flies you across the Pacific in his private jet before passing the controls to his co-pilot and sky-diving with you to a private beach where he fashions a hut from coconut shells, hews a bed with his bare hands from palm trees and rides you all night long.

That’s what I wanted for her – not someone greedy and grabby of the Vernon type.