He nodded. ‘I guess.’

‘When did she die?’

‘Three years ago. She fell down the stairs. I guess she was a little overweight.’

‘That’s hard,’ I say, trying not to smile. A little overweight, to him, must mean something in the region of three hundred pounds. His face takes on a blank expression – his colours shift into the spectrum of dull greens and silvery-greys that I associate with the negative emotions.

He blames himself, of course. I know. The stair-carpet was loose, perhaps; he was late from work; he stopped by the boulangerie for a fatal ten minutes too long or sat down on a bench to watch the girls go by—

‘You’re not the only one,’ I said. ‘Everyone feels the same, you know. I blamed myself when my mother died . . .’

I took his hand. Beneath the flab his bones felt small, like a child’s.

‘It happened when I was sixteen. I’ve never stopped thinking it was somehow my fault.’ I gave him my most earnest look, forking my hand behind my back to stop myself from laughing. Of course I believed it – and with good reason.

But Nico’s face lit up at once. ‘That true?’ he said.

I nodded.

I heard him sigh like a hot-air balloon.

I turned away to hide a smile and busied myself with the chocolates that were cooling on the counter at my side. They smelt innocent, like vanilla and childhood. Nico’s type rarely make friends. Always the fat boy, living alone with his fatter ma; lining up his substitutes against the arm of the sofa while she watches him eat with anxious approval.

You’re not fat, Nico. Just big-boned. There you are, Nico. Such a good boy.

‘Perhaps I shouldn’t,’ he said at last. ‘My doctor says I oughta cut down.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘What does he know?’

He shrugged. The ripples went all the way down his arms.

‘You feel OK, don’t you?’ I said.

That sheepish smile. ‘I guess I do. The thing is . . .’

‘What?’

‘Well – girls.’ He flushed. ‘I mean, what do they see? This great big fat guy. I thought if I lost a little weight – toned up a bit – then maybe, you know . . .’

‘You’re not so fat, Nico. You don’t need to change. You’ll find someone. Just wait and see.’

Once more he sighed.

‘So. What’s it to be?’

‘I’ll have a box of the macaroons.’

I was tying the bow when Alice came in. I’m not sure why he needs a bow – we both know that box will be open long before he gets it home – but for some reason he likes it that way; tied with a length of yellow ribbon, incongruous between his big hands.

‘Hi, Alice,’ I said. ‘Just take a seat. I’ll be with you in a minute.’