Inevitably, I found myself reliving it all, everything with Damian. Ruminating again. I’d told you all about him when you asked. The new guy starting at work, catching his eye and an overly long smile when he was brought over to say hello, the chats in the office kitchen long after the kettle had boiled, flirting by email, the drunken nights in the pub when we’d inch closer and closer together, shouting out jokes to each other, the cold drips creeping down my glass of gin and tonic, then the final night, feeling his hand on my leg under the table, the thrill of it, everyone melting away, and it was so late I’d forgotten about my last Tube, and then suddenly the alley and the cold stone under my back. His tongue was in my mouth. His hand was between my legs. My knickers were gone. The whole alley stank, and behind us, over his pumping shoulder, I could see people walking on the main road. I didn’t want this – no, I hadn’t wanted it – but it was too late to stop him and he was in me. There was pain – then it was over. I’d been breathing tight against his shoulder, wet on his Paul Smith shirt.

‘Oh God,’ he’d gasped. Then he slipped out and I was hunting for my underwear, my hands shaking with what had happened. Out on the main road he was distracted, checking his phone. ‘I better shoot. Last Tube’s almost gone.’ And he’d left me and I had to find a cab, and I’d no money, and I had to make it stop for cash, and I saw six missed calls from Nick on my mobile, and it took me three goes to text him: Missed train on my way. When I got home, I tiptoed to the bathroom. I washed between my legs, which made me wince. A shower would have been too suspicious. When I crawled into bed, holding my breath, Nick said in the dark, ‘Good night then?’

‘Mm . . . sorry. I just missed the train.’

A pause. ‘You stink of booze.’ He rolled over.

I waited for morning, and my punishment. The next day when I picked up my handbag from the stairs, I could smell piss had sunk into the leather from where it had rested on the ground, and I couldn’t get it out, no matter how much I scrubbed.

When I told you this story, you went very still. ‘If he comes near you again, I’ll kill him.’

How I loved you for this. Your anger. I linked my arms around your neck – we were in the Travelodge, where we used to meet. A bland, even unpleasant room, somehow made perfect by your presence. ‘How would you kill him?’