I find Alastair standing at the entrance gates to the market. Part of me was worried that I wouldn’t recognize him, but I do, of course. He looks just the same. And then something happens that I wasn’t expecting: a heat in my chest, something flipping in my stomach. Those kinds of feelings. I swallow hard, pushing them away.

When I come up to him, I don’t know whether to shake his hand or what, so instead I just stand there, both hands holding tight to the shoulder strap of my handbag, my arm like a barrier across my chest. He has a bag slung over his own shoulder with what looks like a bundle of files inside.

He smiles at me. ‘Shall we head in?’

The covered market is swarming with people too; it always is. The avenues are narrow in here, everything crammed in together, shop fronts pushing out right into the walkways, sandwich boards set every which way to catch your eyes.

‘Any place you’d recommend?’ Alastair asks. I try to think of some trendy place that he might like, but I never come here and there’s nowhere I can think of to suggest. There are smudged skylights above, columns of flags hanging from the rafters, banners, shop signs. It’s colourful, vibrant, crowded, claustrophobic.

‘Anywhere,’ I tell him. ‘Anywhere you’d like.’

‘Here?’ he says a moment later, pointing to a simple coffee and sandwich bar.

‘Sure,’ I nod. I kind of just want to sit down.

As we pull out chairs, I catch sight of my reflection in the window, a see-through outline, barely there. I try to glimpse what Alastair might see.

You seemed a kind and thoughtful person.

I try to read that somewhere in my silhouette, but instead what looks back at me is someone who looks thin and skeletal, stretched and elongated in the glass.

‘Here’s the menu,’ Alastair says, lifting the plastic cards from the little wooden table block they stand in. ‘It seems nice, and they have special lunch-time options. Not too pricey.’

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Sure.’

We sit down at the slatted table in the covered avenue outside the café, even though it isn’t very warm. The table rocks, one leg too short, and the slatted wood of its top risks things sliding through. There’s a flower, a single stem, in a little glass on the table between us: pretty, but when I touch it, I discover it’s not real.

It’s not a date, it’s not a date, it’s not a date.

Alastair hands a plastic menu to me.

‘Thank you for coming to see me the other day,’ he says. ‘I would never have known about Sarah otherwise.’