He rubs at his eyes and slams a clenched fist down on the bar in frustration. The woman on the stool next to him turns with a look of concern etched on her face. I offer a smile to assure her that all is well.

I instinctively go to cover his hand with mine; a silent but staunch reminder that I am here for him. But just as our skin touches, I recoil, afraid that this crosses the invisible line between doing right by my client and helping a friend in need. I ignore the very real possibility that the simple action traverses even the most forgiving of boundaries.

But he catches my hand as I pull away and holds on to it as he looks at me. ‘I’m sorry to have dragged you into this mess,’ he says, offering the weakest of smiles. ‘But I couldn’t have done this without you.’

I attempt to make my hand my own again, but he links his fingers through mine; an act so intimate that it feels as if he’s undressing me. I try to convince myself that it’s just a heartfelt gesture of gratitude, but as I survey the pair of us through an onlooker’s gaze, say that of the woman next to us, for example, all I can see are two star-crossed lovers, revelling in the forbidden time they’ve managed to carve out for themselves.

I know that if I walked in on Leon and a woman in a hotel bar in such a compromising position, I’d be forced to accept that they were in an intimate relationship.

The sickening realization makes me yank my hand away and Jacob looks as if he’s been given an electric shock.

‘I should get going,’ I say, standing up and taking my jacket off the back of the stool.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.’

‘You didn’t,’ I say nonchalantly. ‘But I should be getting home as Leon’s due back anytime now.’ I don’t know why I feel the need to lie.

‘Please stay and finish your drink,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to be on my own just yet.’

I chastise myself for allowing the moment to cloud my judgement. To forget that here in front of me is a broken man, who has been brave enough to leave his home and his job, because that’s what it took to free himself from his abusive wife. He will always be looking over his shoulder, waiting for her to come and claim what she believes is rightfully hers. It’s my fault for taking his need for reassurance as an inappropriate show of affection – not his. I can’t help but wonder if it isn’t also my fault that we’ve found ourselves sitting at this bar in the first place.