‘That sounds nice,’ I said, mechanically. I was dazed. So, just like that, she wouldn’t be around any more for cigarette breaks and knowing looks exchanged over the bar. ‘When did you decide to look for a new job?’

‘Only a few days ago,’ she said, ‘Francis told me about it and said that he’d have a word with the manager there for me. He said that he knew I had problems working hours that suited Raymond.’

Francis! That big meddling bastard Francis, pretending to be sympathetic, sticking his fat chef’s paws into everything. He’d never mentioned anything about the idea to me. And nor had she, for that matter. I looked forward to seeing her at work: it was the only thing that now made bartending at Delauncey’s bearable. Without her presence there, all the point drained out of my day.

‘What business is it of his where you work?’ I said, sourly.

There were pictures of a Russian cat circus on television: a grey tabby was walking across a trembling tightrope while spectators cheered it on.

‘For God’s sake, Jacky, he was just being nice!’ Eve shouted suddenly. ‘I’ve gone and got a new job. When most women get new jobs, their boyfriend takes them out somewhere to celebrate. But I don’t even expect that much. You could even just say something like “I’m glad for you” or “Well done” and I’d be happy. But you sit there, staring at the TV. You’re locked in your own little world, with your mysterious scars and your own bloody secret thoughts. You don’t care what happens to me, or if you do you don’t show it. Tell me why I should care what happens to you?’

She stopped, a little shocked by the force with which she had spoken. I looked at her white face, still pale with anger. When she said that about the scars she had looked almost nervous for a split second, as though shocked by her own readiness to wound. For a moment I felt sorry for her, but the feeling was drowned in a fresh wave of rage. I did care what happened to her. The truth was, I cared too much. She could hurt me just with a slight inflection of her voice. I had bought her flowers only the day before: they stood in a tall blue vase across the room, with their stupid yellow heads nodding at my stupidity. The sight of them inflamed me with fury at what a fool I was to love someone so selfish, what a blundering clown to go trailing around after her with my absurd floral offerings. I might as well have worn a snap-on red nose and a greasepaint tear.