Rowan met me from work and we walked back to mine together. It had always been the scene for our biggest discussions, for the sake of privacy, I guessed. But I wondered whether his friends knew about this suggestion of his. Christ, it occurred to me as we rounded the corner to my street, did they encourage him? He went in two distinct and different directions with the apologies – implying remorse – and the justifications – implying nothing like remorse or regret. By the time I was putting the key in the door, I had no idea whether Rowan was taking back his suggestion or trying to add further support to it. I listened to the next round of speeches, though, while I filled the kettle and set it to boil. Then I leaned back against the work surface and watched him yammer until he came up for breath. Which he eventually did when the kettle clicked off.

‘It would have to be something we were both comfortable with,’ he said. Which seemed to me one of the daftest comments for anyone to have made during a discussion where the other person – me in this scenario – was so blatantly not comfortable with it. I bit back on speaking, still, while I added water to teabags. When Rowan came to stand behind me, though, and he wrapped his arms around my waist, I jumped so much that boiling water leapt over the side of his mug. ‘I’m sorry.’ He pulled back and reached for a towel. ‘I’m so sorry, Edi, are you okay?’

No. No, I don’t think I am. I nodded all the same and quietly cleaned up his mess, before I slid the mug across the counter to him. See, it didn’t matter whether he wanted it now; he’d wanted it then, when he’d suggested it, and that was enough to cause a clump of something sordid and hard-edged in the pit of my stomach. I pulled in a big breath like I was about to launch into a speech but then swigged my tea instead.

‘Edi, have I totally fucked this?’