He stops and looks at me a little too intently for comfort, and I worry that maybe he did see the newspaper after all and has put two and two together. But then he picks up the bottle of wine and refills my beaker.

‘How about you?’ he says, taking another sip of his drink. ‘Have you always lived in London?’

‘Yes,’ I reply, the wine warming my body. ‘I grew up in Highgate just next to the cemetery.’

‘I think I’ve heard of that,’ he says, his eyes widening. ‘Is it near to Arsenal?’

‘Not far,’ I say, smiling. ‘Though I’m not much of a football fan.’

‘Neither am I,’ he says with a laugh. ‘I mean, whatever Leeds United are playing at the moment, it’s certainly not football.’

‘Are they your team?’

‘For my sins,’ he says, rolling his eyes. ‘Anyway, enough of football. I’m probably boring you to tears.’

‘No, you’re not,’ I say, draining my wine. ‘It’s nice.’

Jimmy fills my beaker again and soon the bottle is empty. My eyes feel tired, though it feels good to be sitting here with someone. Even the football talk is a light relief from the relentless anxiety I’ve been experiencing. For the first time in years I feel relaxed and at ease. Jimmy tells me some more about his childhood growing up in pubs and the close relationship he had with his parents. I like his honesty, the fact that he doesn’t feel he has to be anything but himself. It’s refreshing.

‘Oh God, sorry,’ he says, looking at his watch as I drain the last of my wine from the beaker. ‘I didn’t mean to stay this late.’

He stands up and as I watch him put his jacket on I feel an overwhelming sense of loneliness. I don’t want him to go. I want to extend this feeling of happiness, of normality, for a few more hours. I want to be held.

‘Don’t go just yet,’ I say, standing up from the chair a little too quickly so that white spots dance in front of my eyes. ‘It’s … it’s nice to have you here.’

He looks confused for a moment then his expression softens.

I touch his hand and pull him towards me.

‘You’re lovely,’ he whispers, placing a soft kiss on my cheek.

He smells of peppermint and firewood.

I turn my head and his mouth meets mine. His kiss is soft and butterfly light, so different from Mark’s wet, sloppy lips. I ease forward, letting his tongue explore my mouth, my lips, my teeth, and as I do so everything falls away. There is no reality other than this one, no anxiety, no fear, just pure pleasure.

‘Are you sure?’ he whispers, running his tongue down the side of my neck.

‘Yes,’ I reply, warmth fluttering through my body.

He pulls back then gets up from the table and holds out his hand. Taking it in mine, I let him lead me into the living room, where the dying embers of the fire are crackling softly in the grate. And as he lays me down, a velvet darkness seems to envelop me. There is no Joe, no Mark, no Grace, no screams, no prison cells, no nightmares. There is nothing but the rise and fall of his chest as he lies on top of me, the gentle beating of a stranger’s heart as he holds me close and, for just a few hours, takes away the pain.