‘Shall we try somewhere else nearby?’ he suggested, stepping into the road. ‘I think there’s a Red Lion or something down here.’

‘We could.’ She stepped after him and gazed into his face, finding it warm and open. ‘Or’ – she pointed a finger – ‘different idea. We could get a few drinks and go and sit in Soho Square?’

‘Gins in tins,’ he said, after a moment’s consideration. ‘I like it.’

He took her hand and she squeezed it, emboldened.

They were about ten minutes away and they still had to wend their way through Soho’s narrow, congested streets – a tale of two Londons with their split bin bags and puddles of urine pooling outside restaurants where a starter cost £20. It was hard to have a meaningful conversation while they navigated this hurly burly, though they chattered away easily about nothing much in particular. Ben led, clasping her hand tightly and turning regularly, as if to check she hadn’t been swallowed by Soho’s maw.

He stopped at the first available newsagent’s, and insisted on buying the drinks (two Tyskies for him, two slimline gin and tonics for her – and an extra pink gin to share, he’d declared, twinkling – and Alexa felt a little self-conscious). Ben presented the drinks at the till with a flourish, and the man rang them up wordlessly, with his eyes trained on a football match playing on a small, wonky telly in the corner (the colours were all wrong and, every few seconds, rainbow-coloured lines would stretch across the screen). Ben grabbed her hand again when they left the shop, the blue plastic bag swinging on his other arm.

Soho Square was busy too – and there were more pigeons in residence than Alexa would have liked – but it was warm enough and this was definitely, definitely better than stomping through the streets trying to find somewhere with a seat. They sat down – he crossed-legged, facing her, knees touching hers – after making an exhibition of checking the ground carefully for cigarette butts (or worse). He handed her a gin in a tin and opened his own Tyskie, inclining the can towards hers in cheers. She took a sip: sugary and fizzy and a touch chemical.

‘Shall we?’ she asked, mischievously.

‘Oh, go on, then.’ He gave her a cocky grin. ‘Let’s do it. The debrief.’

‘Well’ – she laughed again – ‘I’m not totally certain how to begin –’

‘Well, it wasn’t exactly how I imagined that morning going,’ Ben interrupted, but warmly. There was a pause; his expression hardened slightly. ‘But look, well, I feel like … I feel like a lot of things were said that were maybe said because of the stress of the … situation –’

‘I don’t know, Ellen is often quite highly strung,’ Alexa interjected, feeling a little mean and disloyal, but also gratified when Ben laughed.