‘That’s fucking weird.’ The twang of his South London accent took me back, all the times we’d smoked together, gone for drinks, lingered in the kitchen to talk. More than once we’d sat on that bench over there eating lunch. I could almost see our past selves if I blinked.

‘You didn’t – you don’t think the same person could be doing it?’ I said.

I didn’t even ask if it was him, though that had been my initial thought. I could tell from his reaction on seeing me that I’d barely crossed his mind in all these months.

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know.’ My ex-lover’s wife? That is, my other lover? But how would she even know about Damian, or care? I couldn’t put the pieces together. I’d been sure it was you who smashed up the car, but you couldn’t be doing these things to me.

‘The thing is, Suze . . .’ His old nickname for me, in the circumstances, felt cruel. ‘I always thought maybe that was you.’

‘What? You thought I busted up your car?’

‘You know, a woman scorned and all that.’

I gaped at him. This man had been my friend for two years. Had been more than that. ‘I wasn’t – you didn’t scorn me. Jesus, Damian, that’s not what happened at all. We crossed a line, and I felt terrible about it. I’m married, so I ended it.’

He shrugged. I could see him thinking, you tell yourself that, if it helps. ‘Water under the bridge. If anything else weird happens, I’ll let you know. Get you on Facebook?’

I could hardly say, don’t contact me publicly, because Nick will see it, and if he knows I’ve spoken to you I’ll be in a whole world of pain. I couldn’t admit this, not to him, a man I’d thought cared about me, who it turned out was only after five minutes inside my knickers. ‘Maybe just email. I have a new one. Here.’ I typed my secret one into his phone, feeling the awkward intimacy of the gesture. It seemed disloyal, giving him our private email account. But you were gone, and I’d never hear from you again.

‘Listen, Suze . . .’ He scratched his head. ‘What you said that time . . .’

Fear ran through me. I couldn’t have this conversation, not with everything that was going on.

‘I’m sorry if you . . . if it wasn’t what you wanted. I thought it was.’ Was that an admission?

What could I say? ‘I . . . felt so terrible afterwards.’

‘I know. Me too. You think it’s going to be so sexy, but instead it’s just – you feel like crap. Seedy.’