‘You’re not a bouncer and you’re not behind the bar,’ she says, trying to work it out. ‘So you’re running the place?’

‘Not running the place.’

By ten-thirty Bilal Lelouche still hasn’t come over for a chat and Jamal is surprised when a waiter puts the bill on the table. Not that he’s complaining, but Layla made it sound as if the meal was on the house. She reaches for the bill before he can and takes out her purse.

‘Put it away,’ he says gruffly.

‘We’ll go halves,’ she says, looking at the bill, and her expression changes at once. Her eyes meet his as she hands it over.

Breakfast tomorrow, 9 am. Lette Le-Hyphen and a friend.

For most of the short walk home it’s like old times and Layla and Jamal argue about whose plan has worked best.

‘Lette Le-Hyphen found out I was on Facebook.’

‘Yes, but through my message to Gigi.’

Inside her building, Layla reaches for the stairwell light. The moment it’s illuminated they hear a sound further up the stairs. Instinct has him taking her hand. ‘Stay here,’ he whispers.

‘Who’s there?’ Layla calls out.

A young blonde looks down at them from the stair rail. Layla leads him up to her flat where the woman, dressed in a suit, stands holding a plastic Marks & Spencer bag. Layla lets go of his hand.

‘Some of the things you left behind,’ the woman says, holding out the bag. ‘Toiletries from the ladies’ room.’

When Layla takes the bag she seems surprised by the weight of it. The two exchange a look Jamal can’t read before the woman heads down the stairs.

‘You shouldn’t have lasted this long typing,’ Layla calls out after her. ‘You’re better than being the next Vera. That’s what I meant back then. So next time someone gives you advice, listen to them.’

There’s no response and Layla clutches the bag to her.

‘What was all that about?’ he asks, his heart sinking because he understands now. The reason she was in her room crying. The carton on her bed.

She doesn’t respond. Jamal takes the keys from her and wordlessly opens the door.

Inside he sits at the piano, tinkering. Layla disappears into her bedroom and when she returns she seems composed. She comes to sit on the bench beside him and tries to remember the beginning of Für Elise. He takes her hand and guides her through it. When they were younger he’d be rough, jabbing her fingers against the keys. Tonight he lets his linger over hers. He plays the opening strands of Clapton’s ‘Layla’. He used to play it to her back when life made sense. Back when Layla Bayat could have had him on his knees begging for the rest of his life.

‘Any requests?’ he asks.

She looks at him and then suddenly laughs. ‘No way. Are you the piano man at that bar?’

Playing the piano and playing football. They were the two things that held his life together in Calais.