I don’t know why, but food was suddenly assuming a vital importance: instead of thinking what I’d say or do that evening, I was obsessed with what would happen if we got hungry. It wasn’t until I remembered the ever obliging Laurier Bar-B-Q that my anxiety lifted a little. With that aspect of the evening taken care of, I had the other, more important one to deal with: I’d been determined to get in touch with Mathieu and now I’d done it, but I wasn’t too sure about my intentions. It was like when you’ve been dreaming for months about buying something and then after you have it, you realize that desire was a lot more ­exciting than possession. Now that Mathieu was on his way I didn’t know if I even wanted to see him.

And when he rang the bell I almost didn’t answer it. It wasn’t the jitters now, it was a full-blown panic attack: I was chilled, my chest felt too small for my heart, my hands were shaking . . . If only Mélène had been there, her little bark would have comforted me. In fact it was the thought of her that made me decide to open the door: we’d laugh about it tomorrow morning over a good cup of coffee; I’d give her every detail, even add a few to spice it up. Another chapter in the madcap adventures of a wild, foolhardy, gay Montrealer. In New York I’d have run the risk of torture, even decapitation; in Montreal the worst that could happen would be an evening of boredom. But I was just as scared!

The first thing I did after I opened the door was tell him to dry his hair, the way my mother nagged me when I was little. There was rain running down his neck and he could catch his death. And the first thing he said to me was: “I don’t know what I’m doing out on a night like this!”

He didn’t just dry his hair, he took a shower. Luckily there was a clean bath towel and for once my bathroom didn’t look too disgusting. I’m very careful about how I look but I have a tendency to splash . . .

After his shower, Mathieu sat in the living room, on his best behaviour. In a bathrobe. His shirt and jeans were spinning in the dryer. And that was when I sensed that the evening wouldn’t be a write-off: I felt as if I was the visitor, with no responsibilities to entertain. And probably because of that I was the perfect host. My apologies weren’t ­embarrassing but actually quite amusing; I told him with disconcerting ease why young actors scared me; I even ­confessed that I’d called him out of stubbornness, to help shed my guilt.