But it simply didn’t make sense. He had been going out with Imogen for the period Ellen referred to. He wouldn’t have two-timed her with some girl from the internet. He remembered – cringing slightly – how loopy he’d been about her: their saccharine nicknames and text message after text message in which they’d make rote statements of mutual adoration.

Ben reached behind him. His laptop was on the bed. He opened its shell and booted the thing into life. He’d closed it on some long-read about artificial intelligence that he had no intention of finishing; he opened a new tab and pulled up Facebook. He found her without difficulty: Imogen Berry. Friends since January 2009. Her profile picture was her and a man he presumed was her current boyfriend. In fact, it seemed he was her fiancé. As Ben scrolled down her page he found a post from February: ‘He liked it so he put a ring on it.’ Lots of people from school had added likes and hearts and congratulations.

He went into her photo albums. He knew the one he was looking for: she’d made it after they’d gone on a day trip up to London. He wondered if she would have deleted it, but no, it was still there: he was still there, so skinny, with his floppy fringe in his eyes, and his big brown loafers that he’d hoped would help them get into pubs in the capital (they hadn’t). The album was dated April 2009, which – he reckoned – would have been the same time as he was supposed to be involved with Ellen. He remembered that day in London quite well, considering it was a decade or so ago. They’d gone for lunch at a PizzaExpress near Victoria Station. There was a picture of Imogen smiling, holding a glass of Coke, a straw between pouting lips. Ben could not imagine taking Alexa on that sort of date. He was fairly sure that after PizzaExpress they’d gone to Oxford Street so that Imogen could go shopping. And then they’d tried unsuccessfully to get into a series of pubs near there, before getting the train back home.

He closed the laptop’s lid. He stared at the wall again for a few minutes, until he thought he could hear his housemates downstairs. He heaved himself up from the bed, shuffled to the door and opened it. There was a distant clatter of pans in the sink. He took the two flights of stairs at pace. He craved some uncomplicated conversation.

‘Alright,’ he said, as he wandered into the kitchen.

Max and his boyfriend, Matteo, were sitting at the kitchen table, Matteo eating a bag of Nik Naks. Pete was at the sink, scrubbing at the baked-bean-encrusted pan.

‘Aha, Casanova returns,’ Matteo said, raising an eyebrow.

‘Ha,’ Ben replied, flushing slightly with his own success, in spite of everything.