Ben had decided he’d walk home. It would only take about half an hour and he had spent five hours sitting under those oppressive eaves. He could do with a reminder that the sky was, in fact, limitless. On a sunny spring Saturday, south-east London was thronged with people: at the cluster of cafes around Queen’s Road, twenty-somethings nursed coffees, though some had already started on pints. Harried mothers corralled children down the road, towards the big Morrisons. As he rounded Rye Lane, he narrowly avoided being knocked over by two boys riding a single Boris bike, one perched in the basket, his knees around his ears. The boys laughed as he leaped out of the way. By the time he’d made it to his front door, there was a light sweat on his forehead.

Ben shook his head to return himself to the moment. He shrugged off his jacket and unlaced his shoes. He would text Alexa, he decided. He really wanted to. He’d been delighted about last night – their date, what happened afterwards. Even the attic hadn’t been so bad – he’d enjoyed sitting beside her, watching her movements, trying to read her mind – until everything had started to go wrong.

Ellen. Her accusation that he’d been ghosting Alexa had struck a nerve, it was true. Ben had been dithering about Alexa – before last night, anyway. He hadn’t been sure what he wanted. Ellen’s remarks had made him feel exposed. And he’d been worn out by the ordeal of the other accusations, the ones about MSN. Ben hadn’t expected to have to fight on another front. But he would text Alexa and try to put things right. He’d ask her out again. He really hoped she’d say yes. Despite that clumsy kiss in the hallway.

But Ellen’s story. He didn’t understand any of it. She was so certain that he was that person. And certainly, he almost could have been. There was no doubt that their lives had run in near tandem: they knew all the same people, had been to all those same parties. It was a small place. And she had recognized his MSN name immediately. So why didn’t he remember her? Could he really not remember this whole section of his life? A disturbing thought. Ben supposed there must be huge swathes of time that he couldn’t remember, but the idea that he could simply erase something that had been so momentous to another person did not sit well with him. Not to mention the fact that if he had done it, it would have been an unkind thing to do. Could that be why he couldn’t remember any of it?