It’s late by the time the gig’s over and I really should be getting back to Montreux. But part of me doesn’t want to leave because I feel a weight’s been lifted. Somehow, during the course of the second half, I actually managed to switch off from my worries, stop thoughts of Julia and Anna swirling round my head and enjoy the here and now. Perhaps the feeling of lightness that came over me while talking to Jorge in the interval – I mean, really talking – helped.

I’m nevertheless thinking of slipping away when he comes over, ignores my protestations and grabs my arm to steer me in the direction of another table where his bandmates and friends are congregating. The audience is gradually trickling out the door and the waitress is clearing up.

‘The bar manager usually lets us stay for a bit, so we can have a drink and wind down,’ he says to me before addressing the group. ‘This is my friend Jess, she’s going to join us. Jess, this is everyone.’ He proceeds to introduce me to them individually and I undergo a lengthy round of three-kisses before sitting down next to Jorge. His friends are all talking in French and I can’t understand a word. A man with long hair and tattoos asks Jorge something and they laugh and chat for a minute, until he turns to me. ‘Sorry, is this okay?’

‘Yes.’ I smile. It really is. Just being in this atmosphere, with people my own age who are relaxed, having fun, enjoying life, is good for me. It’s been so long since I’ve done that. Too long.

‘Sam, the saxophonist over there,’ Jorge nods to a slim guy in a black shirt currently pouring wine for someone else, ‘has just been invited to play at a music festival in Bucharest. It’s a big deal.’

‘Wow, that’s great.’

‘And Elliot – he’s our drummer – recently won a prestigious jazz drum competition.’

I nod, eyebrows raised. ‘And you?’

He laughs. ‘Oh, I haven’t done anything particularly impressive lately.’

I look at him. ‘Well, you impressed me,’ I say, and then feel my chest lurch. ‘With your playing, I mean.’

He looks at me and smiles. ‘Thanks, Jess,’ he says, and then we’re quiet, and I don’t know what else to say to break the slight embarrassment I feel. I look away from his brown eyes and think of Patrick, and the wedding ring I still carry in my purse, and the way we spiralled from such a good thing into hurt and frustration and mutual incomprehension; the way I couldn’t even look at him the day he left, the way his betrayal lingers like a bad odour I can’t wash off. The air in the club feels hot and oppressive and I feel my throat constrict, my palms start to sweat.