She whimpers something back but I can’t quite make it out because there are people spilling out of the gallery now, and they’re talking loudly in French. I glance back at them: one is laughing; a man is lighting a woman’s cigarette. I look around me: a row of parked motorbikes sparkling under streetlights and the red and white neon of a tabac up ahead. But just beside the gallery there’s a narrow, cobbled side street. I duck into it. It’ll be quieter in here.

‘I just don’t know why this always happens to me,’ she says as I move into the alleyway. ‘I try so hard.’

I lean against the cool bricks of the gallery. ‘I know you do,’ I say. She tries too hard. ‘When did it happen, Mum?’

‘Tonight.’

‘Okay,’ I say. She’ll need a day or two. ‘Mum, take a couple of paracetamol and get an early night. We can talk properly tomorrow.’ Here’s a life hack for you: on a purely physiological level, paracetamol soothes a broken heart.

‘Okay,’ she says. ‘I love you, Harper.’

‘I love you too,’ I reply. ‘Sleep well.’

And then we hang up.

The air smells sweet. Spicy. Familiar. But I haven’t smelled that aroma in two years or so. Not since Harrison. I turn around, searching the cobbled street, up then down.

Weed. It’s weed. And then I see him. He’s just a little further down the alley, beyond a light, obscured by the shadows. He’s sitting on the ground and leaning against the wall. He lifts something to his lips; the end glows amber in the dark.

Noah.

I look back down at my phone, pretending not to care whether he’s there or not. In these sorts of situations, it’s best to be the one in control. He needs to come to me.

And come to me he does.

‘Well, look who it is,’ he says, his teeth catching the light as he smiles and stands up. I take him in as he moves towards me: blue jeans and a white long-sleeved shirt with the top buttons undone. His expression is calm and his hair has fallen in front of one slightly pink eye. He’s baked.

‘Hey,’ I say, sweeping my hair from my face. Act cool.

He’s right by me now, leaning against the wall. I can smell his cologne, mingling with the weed, and my eyes move from his face to the joint.

‘Want some?’ His expression is open, like that of a small child offering up a sweet.

I look around. Nobody is here – it’s just me and him. My insides are aching from that phone call with my mother, I’m stressed about seeing him, and yes, yes, I would like some.

I reach for it and our fingers touch. Zap.

‘Might as well,’ I say. ‘We’re all doomed anyway. This might take the edge off.’ I take a deep inhale. The smoke singes my throat and moves into my lungs. My head grows light, my chest grows tight. I wait. Exhale. His eyes are still on me when I look back to him.