I don’t know the answer to that. As women, we are raised to believe all men want to screw us. When one doesn’t, especially when it’s the man you love, it’s incredibly confusing. It feels like the problem must be me.

Until now. Michael isn’t making me happy. He isn’t who I thought he was. But then look at me; a middle-aged woman regretting my past and present over a gin and tonic while I avoid work and my child. As if that is going to make anything better. I finish my second drink.

A man heads over and sits next to me at the bar. He orders a beer. He didn’t need to sit in that chair, there are plenty of others to choose from.

‘Waiting for someone?’ he asks me.

‘No,’ I reply. Wishing I’d said yes. I really want some time on my own.

‘Drinking alone in the afternoon? That’s usually a sign of one thing.’

‘That I’m a single woman out gagging for sex and should therefore be approached by men I don’t know and hassled until I give it up?’ I say, accusing him, when actually it’s kind of true. I am gagging for it.

He is around fifty, annoyingly handsome, well dressed in quality casual clothes and he blatantly wasn’t hitting on me. I realise that immediately.

‘I wasn’t going to say that, actually. I was going to say that drinking alone in the afternoon usually means you have something you should be talking about. But sure, I’m a man, so presume the worst.’ He picks up his drink and walks away to a table in the corner. I feel like an idiot.

‘Hey,’ I say, calling him back. He stays where he is, so I go over. ‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair.’ He looks up at me.

‘I have a daughter. You just did what I’ve always told her she should do. So I guess I should just sit over here and shut up.’

‘You don’t need to shut up. Again, I’m sorry. I’m not having the best day.’

‘So maybe you do have something you need to talk about?’ He pushes a chair out with his foot. And gestures to the barman to get me another drink. I don’t turn it down. ‘Or we can sit here for a few hours, play backgammon and pretend our real lives aren’t happening?’

‘That sounds like a really nice idea.’

I guess I’ll have to pump and dump.

Coming out of a pub drunk when it’s still light is like walking down a tunnel towards a fleet of trucks, all with their headlights shining right into your face. I’d maybe fall to the ground if the man wasn’t holding me up. I never caught his name. It’s not like you can ask again after an hour of sitting with someone in a pub, is it?

He remembers mine.

‘Beth, I’ll hail you a cab,’ he says. I shout the word ‘Booooooring’ like a thirteen-year-old girl who has just been told to button her top up to cover her cleavage.