As I frenziedly lather up my hair, alternating between feeling relieved that he and I hadn’t crossed the line and regretting that I’d somehow allowed him to think that we might, I can’t help but wonder how he’s feeling this morning. Now that the whisky has worn off, I imagine he’s woken up mortified, though the evening’s events will be woefully misrepresented in his mind due to the convenience of memory loss designed to save us from ourselves.

I’d half expect the man I met, before the one who downed four whiskies in quick succession, to call today to offer his apologies. Though if he doesn’t do it this morning, he’ll be too embarrassed by this afternoon as his fragmented flashbacks will have begun to piece together a bigger picture.

Perhaps I should call him, so that he doesn’t have to worry about that on top of everything else.

By the time I get downstairs, I’ve resolved to do exactly that, not just to ease his awkwardness but to check he’s actually OK, which should be my primary concern.

‘Do you want a coffee?’ asks Leon as I walk into the kitchen.

‘Oh, I thought you’d already left,’ I say, moving towards the dining table where my laptop is. After the fright of yesterday, I wasn’t going to chance leaving it down in the office overnight.

‘I just thought I’d give myself a moment’s peace,’ he says. ‘Because I’ve got a feeling the next few days are going to be a bit full-on.’

‘Where exactly was that file?’ I ask, oblivious to what he’s just said.

‘Just on the table,’ he says casually, as if it means nothing. I suppose it doesn’t to him.

‘But I looked here,’ I exclaim. ‘Again and again.’

‘Well, it must have been there.’

‘No,’ I say resolutely. ‘No, it wasn’t. I looked high and low, especially on this table.’

‘Well, that’s where I found it,’ he says. ‘You must have been looking straight at it.’

I swing around to look at him. ‘No, you must have had it,’ I say, not sure whether my relief is enough to outweigh the frustration I feel that he didn’t check his things properly yesterday, when I asked. It would have saved me a lot of time. And anxiety.

‘I haven’t been anywhere near that table since being back.’ He comes towards me with a steaming mug of coffee and puts it down on a coaster. ‘Whose is it anyway?’ he says, taking his life into his own hands.

I close my eyes and grit my teeth. It’s not his fault that the missing folder kickstarted a chain of events that had me thinking I was about to get killed.

‘Erm, Jacob Mackenzie’s,’ I say blithely.