She put her arm around him, and scooped him close. She wanted to scream at him to get rid of Pippa, but bit down hard on her lip. ‘Are you sure you’re cut out to be a father?’ she said. ‘I mean we didn’t exactly have the best role model.’

‘I know, but I think the fact we didn’t will make me more determined to get it right,’ he said. ‘Be happy for me. Please.’

‘I am, Hugh,’ she lied. ‘I am.’

*

Hugh had been gone ten minutes when Verity grabbed her coat and headed out into the night.

‘Hello, Verity.’ It was the landlady, Clara, dragging a bin from her back garden ready for collection the next day. ‘Where are you off to at this late hour, dear girl?’

‘Just out,’ she said, picking up speed, determined not to let the woman with fluffy white curls and a pastel-coloured dress change her mind, now it was made up.

*

‘What’s your name again?’ The bloke sitting opposite Verity was slumped in his seat, a lit cigarette dangling from his fingers, the sleeves of his denim shirt rolled up to reveal a tattoo of a rose with bloodied thorns on his lower arm. He looked as pissed as she felt. Her ridiculous plan to get absolutely rat-arsed, and screw the first man who paid her any attention was wearing thin now. She’d changed her mind. In fact, she regretted leaving her lodgings. Clara had been right. It had been late, and it was even later now.

This bloke’s aftershave was still as strong as when he first joined Verity at the pub table over an hour ago; it was catching in her throat. Her head was swimming. She rested her cheek on the scratched and battered wood of the bar table. It stank of stale alcohol.

‘I need to go home,’ she said, hating that she sounded so weak – pathetic. ‘I feel awful. Can you take me home?’

‘That’s not what I asked,’ he slurred, narrowing his brown eyes. ‘I asked what your name is.’

She didn’t answer. If he couldn’t recall her name, after they’d knocked back shots together, laughed a bit, flirted even – then he didn’t deserve to know it.