“It’s a sort of shallow cup,” I say absentmindedly, trying to catch the eye of the waitress. “Always has two handles, and it’s usually silver or wooden. I think it’s mainly ceremonial now: the cup of friendship, that kind of idea. Ah, here we go.” The waitress has spotted us and is approaching with a big smile which doesn’t dim in the least even as she tells us it’s a thirty-minute wait for a table.

“Why don’t you settle over there and I’ll get us drinks.” I point out two unoccupied wingback chairs by a low table. “What do you want?”

Armed with Carrie’s order, I settle myself on one of the high bar stools to wait for attention from the bartender, a pale beanpole figure in super-tight black jeans and a sleeveless black T-shirt who is almost as edgily cool as Carrie. The artistic type: I went through a phase of those at university. If this was fifteen years ago, and I had my way, by the end of the evening I’d be making his close acquaintance up against a wall in a storeroom, or a bathroom, or out back behind the bins. I can imagine it now, I can see it unfold, I can even see the pale of the skin on his stomach, the marks left there by his tight jeans . . . but in an odd way, that removes the desire. There’s nothing new to be discovered. Instead I concentrate on trying to read the phrase tattooed down his ropy forearm in a cursive script. I can only pick out a word or two: if and love. What words could be so important, so monumental, so timeless that he’s prepared to carry them with him forever?

A man has approached the bar, squeezing into the space between myself and another customer. He’s looking away from me, over his shoulder, nodding in response to something a friend is calling to him. His height and his tousled caramel locks look disturbingly familiar, but I can’t see his face. Then he turns back and looks directly at me, a ready smile already in place that turns abruptly to surprise.

“It’s you,” I blurt out.

Something lights in his clear blue eyes. “You remember?” he asks. His face is broad and open. Even the wayward locks grow away from it, declining to obscure.

“Seeing you at the hotel? It was only yesterday.” Does he think I’ve forgotten the events of one day ago? He’s wearing jeans and a smart light blue shirt now, but it’s definitely the same man.

The light in his eyes fades, and he shakes his head. “Sorry. Yes, of course. I just thought . . . Sorry, where are my manners?” He sticks out a hand. I’m too puzzled to do anything except numbly shake it. His hand is warmer than mine. “I’m Ben. Ben Rankin.”