Tom stopped, tilting his face up to the ceiling.

‘I’m sorry.’

I expected him to keep walking, but instead he turned around, his expression wary.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. I didn’t know what I was doing. Or why.

Or if I was doing anything at all.

‘I don’t even know why I said that.’ I exhaled. ‘It’s long. Mostly boring. Slumps in the middle.’

I caught his eye. He smiled, but only just.

‘But I have other ones,’ I went on. ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

‘So, maybe …’ He looked at me for what felt like an unbearably long time. ‘Come for a drink?’

And despite myself, I nodded.

I didn’t know what I was doing, I thought, as I changed out of my work clothes. Or why. I didn’t like him; not the way Nic’s raised eyebrows and oversized grin suggested I should. I didn’t really like him at all; he was a doctor, and I’d met enough doctors, self-important and cerebral and ultimately out of my league, even before, when my hair didn’t live in a bun and my boots had heels and weren’t scuffed. But something about him sparked something in my gut: a memory, or the memory of a memory. A memory of something that had never happened.

The clothes I put on were only marginally cleaner, jeans and a t-shirt so old I couldn’t remember where it had come from. I doused myself in more candy-coloured deodorant—Sassy, this time: vanilla and the back seat of a school bus in February, toxic enough to make me cough—and re-did my hair, pulling it back neatly.

As I walked out, Nic grinned at me. ‘He’s waiting outside,’ he said, much too cheerfully. ‘Have fun, Caitie.’

‘You too, Nic,’ I answered. ‘Give Alex my best.’

Outside, I planted myself in front of Tom, staring at his shoes. Ancient, faded trainers, but even they were clean, looked after.

‘Hey,’ I said to his feet, suddenly nervous.

‘Hi.’

I glanced up. He was smiling, and I wasn’t sure why.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

I shook my head, wishing we could go back inside, where I knew what I was doing. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, when his smile faded. ‘I don’t—this is a terrible idea.’

‘What? The drink?’ His voice was light, but I caught a note of resignation.

I shook my head again, forced myself to hold his gaze.

‘Do you do this a lot?’ I asked after a moment.

‘What?’

‘This.’ I looked at the space between us. There wasn’t enough of it. ‘Pick up waitresses at fancy restaurants.’

‘All the time,’ he said, then laughed softly. ‘No, I only go to one fancy restaurant. And I’m not picking you up.’

‘Oh.’ I bit my lip, suddenly desperate for a cigarette.

‘One drink,’ he said. Gently.

I frowned. ‘Why?’