Davina sits on the edge of the sofa, her back impossibly straight, as though her spine’s a steel rod. She manically twists the corners of her cardigan, her fingers white. The same way she did when we were in the car together and I was asking her questions about Wayne. Is this about Wayne now? Guilt surges through me. I had practically concluded he wasn’t even real – a figment of Davina’s overactive imagination; someone she’d made up to feel better about herself. To fit in. Now, it seems I was wrong. And worse than that, it appears Davina may well be in an abusive marriage. I’ve let her down.

I pull the curtains; I don’t want anyone – Wayne – looking in and seeing her. ‘Davina,’ I say, softly, crouching down on the floor in front of her. ‘What happened?’

She looks at me. Her hazel eyes look dark and strangely blank; devoid of emotion. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says.

‘Nothing to be sorry for. I should’ve …’ I should’ve what? Been a better friend? I can’t in all honesty say those words because I’ve never been a friend to Davina. We’ve spent time together during the past couple of weeks – and my opinion of her has altered over that period – but I still can’t call it a friendship. But now, seeing her bruised up, quiet and vulnerable in front of me, I feel sadness. Shame. I blocked her out, ignored her where possible. Before I needed her. And all the time she’s obviously needed me.

I can still make up for it now.

‘I didn’t see this coming,’ Davina says.

‘What?’

‘Me liking you,’ she says, a sad smile playing on her lips.

‘I … I’m not sure I’m following.’ There’s something strange about the way she utters the words. The words themselves. Me liking you. I’d always assumed she’d been desperate to be my friend.

‘You were always so aloof. Standoffish. I thought you were a snob. I thought you were like Barbara. Unreachable. Purposely keeping people out.’ Davina slouches now, and sticks her head forwards, her eyes inches from mine. ‘I didn’t think it would matter,’ she says. A tear slides down over the darkening bruise. She moves her fingertips from her cardigan to her face, gently dabbing at the tear.

I back away from her towards the chair, sitting down heavily.

This is sounding like it’s going to be some sort of confession. I get the feeling I’ll need to sit down for whatever is coming. ‘Right, I see.’ But I don’t see, not yet.

‘Then you asked me for coffee.’ She smiles now. ‘Let me into your house. Into your life. And things were different than I imagined.’

‘Different how?’