‘How have you been?’ he asked. ‘I thought I saw you here the other day. I’m so pleased it’s you! Are you new here?’ His face was indisputably kind. Some people just have those faces you want to tell everything to, and Paddy – Patrick – Hummingbird’s was one of them. ‘I mean, you look great, I have to say.’ He loosely gestured to my athleisure wear with his thick fingers, the veins on his forearms popping.

I shook my head. ‘Noooo,’ I said, self-consciously touching my face. I didn’t have a lick of make-up on and could feel the sweat on my brow had already turned to a salty crust. ‘I’m a mess. You don’t have to say that.’

‘I know I don’t,’ he countered. ‘But I am. Look at you …’ He trailed off, catching himself and changing tack. ‘Are you married? Kids? Getting a good rate on a self-investing pension plan?’

It was such an innocuous question. If you hadn’t seen somebody in almost twenty years that’s the question you’d ask, isn’t it? And I should have just smiled and waved a hand. I should have said something sweeping and general, and I started to, kind of. I started to say, ‘Oh pfffft. No news on my end!’ But I couldn’t even get the whole sentence out. Up until what had happened, I adored being asked about Alexander because I got to show off my ring and whip out a photo of us on holiday in Cornwall, demonstrating how much I had my life together, how loveable I was after all. But now, urgh. I was sobbing out my guts before I could stop myself. It was all very undignified.

‘Are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—’ Patrick was lunging at me in sympathy. He was a blur, though, because of the tears in my eyes. Jeez, that had escalated so quickly I’d not even noticed it was happening.

I waved my hands in front of my face. ‘This is mortifying,’ I insisted, batting at the air to cool my eyes and stop them leaking. ‘I’m so sorry.’

I suppose everyone else in my life knew what my situation was. Meeting this stranger – this old friend – was the first time I’d had to search for the words that now summarized my new relationship status. I’d not said it in years. It’s just me. I’m single.

I’m single. Isn’t that code for: I’m not good enough?

‘Come and sit down,’ he insisted, pulling on the sleeve of my jumper and picking up my backpack for me. ‘Just for a minute. I’m so sorry if I’ve upset you. I honestly didn’t mean to.’