I wandered through to the kitchen, expecting to see him there, hovering by the kettle as he so often did, like the housemates I’d lived with at university, one reclusive boy who I only ever saw at the kettle, making coffee or noodles, running his hands through his oily hair. But Jake was not there either. I walked up the stairs, picking up items belonging to Paddy and Ted as I went, two jumpers, a sock, pieces of an abandoned puzzle.

Jake? I called up the stairs.

He was in the bathroom, with a tin of white paint and wide brush, covering over a scribble Ted had done with a crayon years ago.

Hi. He turned around briefly, then back to the wall. Unusually, he was wearing jeans, old ones he only ever wore around the house, loose around his bottom, pulled in with a belt at his waist. A threadbare T-­shirt: a band he used to like fifteen years ago.

Thought I’d better keep busy, he said, still looking at the wall, dabbing an already-­pristine corner with the brush. He breathed out slowly. Still weeks until the hearing.

He emphasized the last two words, slanting his voice into a mocking tone. He’d already told me that he’d say his finger slipped, sent the email by mistake. He wouldn’t bring me into it. If – when – he went back to work, he promised me, there would be no more Vanessa. He’d resign from the working groups and committees they’d shared, avoid her in the corridor.

Listen, Jake – I was twisting my hands, looking for words I hadn’t already said to him. Not sorry, which seemed to have been said so many times – by both of us – that it had lost any meaning, was now a kind of joke, provoking derisive laughter every time.

Thank you – I went with this – I don’t know if I’ve said that. Thank you, for keeping me – for owning up to it.

Owning up?

I had managed to say the wrong thing, after all.

I didn’t mean – I just wanted to say. Thanks.

Owning up, Jake said again, moving his head from side to side, as though he was weighing this phrase, judging its merits.

That’s not quite right, is it, Luce?

He put the brush down, went to the sink to wash his hands. There were small flecks of white paint on his jeans, on his forearms, on his face. He walked towards me, and without thinking, I reached up a hand to wipe some paint from his cheek.

Very fast, he stopped my hand in mid-­movement, held it in the air. Without meeting my eyes, he kissed me, harder and harder, his tongue in my mouth, the kind of kisses that are not asking for a response. He began to push me backwards, gently, and then with more force, his arm around my back, my legs moving with his.