‘Yeah,’ I said but, really, I felt the wind was hostile; against us, pushing us back, making our walk more difficult. It swirled around my nose and forced me to breathe it in. Let me in, it said, trying to get inside my body and I refused as long as I could, denying it access until I had to gasp.

‘Do you remember that night we came here in August?’ Rohan said once we’d taken our seats at our usual table and given our drinks order. Now he’d shed his coat, I saw he’d made an effort with his clothes, wearing a shirt I hadn’t seen before in that navy that he knew I liked. His beard was neatly groomed and he smelled fresh and clean. Shame licked my insides as I touched my old sweater self-consciously.

I flicked through the menu, although I knew what I’d have. It wasn’t a fancy restaurant, but I wished Mr Ho would change the tablecloths from the cloying pink that made it look so dated. It was like one of those ads that used to pop up at the cinema before the main film, crackling and old-fashioned.

‘It was so hot that night,’ Rohan said. ‘Do you remember? It felt like the summer would go on and on.’

‘Was that the night it rained?’ I said. ‘I remember thinking that thunder sounding like the world had split in half. Everyone jumped.’ I shivered and Rohan took my hand across the table but then Mr Ho arrived with the drinks.

‘Haven’t seen you for a while,’ he said. I was never sure if his abruptness was a language thing, or just his manner.

‘I’ve been in New York,’ Rohan said.

‘New York? You find nice Chinese food there?’

Rohan laughed, his big, social laugh, and rubbed his hands together. ‘Maybe. But never as good as here. How’s the family?’

‘All good,’ said Mr Ho, clearly not willing to say more tonight. It was quite busy; several tables had been pushed together to accommodate a large and loud party of women in tiaras and feather boas – a hen night, or a birthday, maybe, since I couldn’t see any of the usual hen paraphernalia.

I ordered a bottle of Chianti. Mr Ho opened it at the table, then poured me a splash to taste. I swirled it in the glass and breathed in its scent, before tasting it and nodding.

‘It’s good,’ I said to Mr Ho, who gave me the slightest side-eye: as if he would serve bad wine. He poured me a glass and placed the bottle on the table.

‘You want a straw with that?’ he asked, and there was a heartbeat of a shocked silence before he burst out laughing. ‘Joking! What can I get you to eat?’ We ordered, and he left us.