‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he snaps back, defensively. ‘I was born here, would you care to be a little more racist?’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant, where are your bloody manners? I am aware that I look like I live under a bridge, but that’s because I’ve been crying. What is your problem?’

‘No, you see, I was trying to distract your attention from what’s in the bag so I stupidly said the first thing that popped into my head, right? Look, I’m sorry, luv, but you do look a bit shite.’

I’m so annoyed that I cry, ‘What’s in the bag?’ thinking I’ll pay him out, since he’s clearly embarrassed about whatever he’s given me. I open it and grab the contents, holding them up on display for all to see.

Oh.

It’s one of the post-surgery bras that O gave me for alteration. It must have fallen out of my bag at the kebab shop. Now it’s catching the light and a little bit of rain, too, and passers-by are glancing at Roman and me and then glancing away.

Roman is showing his dimples again and looking pointedly at the fruitseller’s display on the pavement nearby.

‘Well, I’ve got to go,’ he says. ‘I have a lot of work to do.’

‘So have bloody I.’

‘Yo, Horse!’

I can hear Shandy’s heels thundering across the pavement from the bus stop. I turn, and there she is in full sail: her zebra-print furry coat flying open (lined with purple velvet), her silver hair sticking out like spikes, and her attendant AR menagerie of three-headed snakes, pink cats and Rodney the unicorn bounding around her. Rainbows spring up behind her so vividly that I have to take out my earring or I’ll end up with a migraine.

‘You look shite,’ she says. ‘Who’s this? Client? He doesn’t seem pervy enough, guess you can’t tell by appearances. Hey, I have some great ideas for cashing in on this publicity rush, my brain has been fizzing and popping like a— Watchoo staring at, mate? Didn’t you ever see a grown woman with a pet unicorn before? Watch out, the horn is sharp and you’ll feel it even if there are no visible injuries. Just ask that copper from Swansea who tried to— What? Horse, stop poking me.’

‘Roman, this is my friend Shandy. Shandy, this is Roman. He’s a consultant with the Met.’

Roman gives me the most pathetically grateful look, presumably for introducing him as if he has a real job. I don’t big him up to Shandy for his benefit, but to spare myself from having to listen to her stream of insults if she should find out he’s from the Dream Police and operates part-time out of a kebab shop.