She made another face and sent back the pizza emoji too, feeling suddenly, powerfully shy. Now she had to go on a date: she had to sit opposite him for at least the duration of a pizza – and sparkle. And would it be awkward, after last time? She recalled his face again as they’d parted at the end of an excruciating embrace. She had assumed he’d be going the same way as her (he lived in Peckham and she knew they could both get the 343 bus) and she had been testing what she’d say in her head to get him to stay on until New Cross with her. A ‘nightcap’ sounded camp and self-conscious (she might as well wink); ‘back to mine’ was a little clinical. But either way, it hadn’t mattered, because he’d pulled away and gone for the train instead, leaving her watching him slope away into the night. On the way home she’d read and reread their past texts for something torturous to do.

Alexa shook her head to clear her thoughts, and drained her wine glass. She jabbed at her phone again. In an hour it would be 9.07 p.m.; she rounded down to 9 p.m., which was quite late for dinner, she thought, catching herself. ‘Stop it,’ she muttered.

Standing up and slipping her shoes back on, she walked across the kitchen, putting the wine glass on the counter. Noting, with an eye roll, that Jack had left a pot and a shallow bowl covered in cemented-on vegetable soup in the sink, she made her way to her bedroom, collecting her handbag from the banister on the way.

Alexa’s bedroom was a neat and ordered version of an IKEA bedroom: its constituent parts were cheap, but the execution was successful in elevating the overall effect. The posters on her wall – a Chagall print, plus another from an exhibition she’d seen at the Musée Rodin with her mother for her last birthday – were presented inside simple black frames. She had two standing lamps – with long, black, elegant necks – in opposing corners of the room, and a chrome Anglepoise imitation on her wooden bedside stool. All her clothes were folded inside a white chest of drawers with black iron handles, or hung in the Elias-issued wardrobe (it was cheap, made of MDF, and Alexa hated how poorly it matched the rest of the furniture). There were two rows of shelves above the bed – where her novels were arranged in perfect height order – a mirror by the wardrobe, and a small wooden desk with yet another lamp (a small orb) and a MacBook Air whose lid was closed. There was a single tall plant, in a black pot, and a large rug with a pattern of black and white chevrons.