A bit like now. He whacked the ball against the wall and, for the umpteenth time, it flew by her faster than the speed of light.

He’d won. Thank God. They could stop.

‘I think that’s it,’ he said modestly.

‘Oh, really? Shame. Let’s have another match.’

He looked surprised, but game. ‘OK. You serve first,’ he said, kindly.

She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. ‘I will never play this game again as long as I live. Which might only be another four minutes.’ She opened the door and gulped in the air of the corridor: it was slightly stale and vaguely chlorinated but mercifully less sweaty (much of it her sweat) and cooler than the air in the squash court.

She was vaguely aware of her dishevelled appearance but the time to care, or be able to do anything about it, had long passed. ‘I just couldn’t keep up. What have you got on the sides of your trainers – wings?’

He laughed. ‘I enjoyed that.’

‘You would. You won. And without breaking a sweat. What was that squash club you used to play for back at university?’

‘Ah . . . that was the national team,’ he said sheepishly.

She stared at his grinning face and realized she’d been had.

‘But I did play for the uni club too. Just forgot to tell you the other bit.’

Becky started to laugh until tears ran down her face, mixing with the rivers of sweat, and she thought she probably looked even more unattractive.

‘Right. Now you’ve made me run fifty-seven miles in a small box like a deranged hamster, I’m starving. Where are we going?’

They were in his neighbourhood this time, partly to take advantage of his gym membership. After showering and changing, Adam took her to a Lebanese restaurant on the high street. They ran in from the needle-sharp sleet to a smell of warm spices. It was packed, being a Saturday night in Clapham, and they were immediately asked if they could vacate their table by nine as the restaurant ran two sittings.

‘Nothing like being made to feel welcome,’ said Adam after the waiter also suggested they ordered within the next five minutes ‘before the table of ten, otherwise you’ll be waiting for your food’.

‘Here’s the welcome,’ said Becky as a belly dancer shimmied towards their table, her dark-rooted blonde hair and false pink nails incongruous against her authentic costume. Being seated meant naked flesh at eye level. Neither knew where to look and, embarrassed, Becky ended up burying her nose in her wine and Adam stared at the picture on the wall behind her head. Then, to their relief, the belly dancer moved on.

‘She was quite good,’ said Adam politely and Becky couldn’t help giggling.

‘Are you a dancer?’ she asked.

‘Good God, no. Actually, funny story: I used to do Morris dancing.’ He smiled expectantly, and Becky wondered if she’d missed the punchline.

‘Actually . . . maybe more of an embarrassing story,’ he amended.