‘That’s probably true. But I’m an artist, Grace.’ I flinch as he uses my fake name. I want to hear him say my real name. ‘You can tell what I care about from my work.’

I think of all the paintings of Sabine. ‘So you and Sabine…’

‘She’s just a model.’ He smiles. ‘A stand-in. Why, are you jealous?’ His smile turns to a grin.

‘No,’ I say. ‘A stand-in for who?’

‘For someone I’m still looking for.’ He winks.

‘Right…’ I say, breaking our gaze. Because now he’s the one using a recycled line, one he’s probably used a million times before, but my heart is dumb as shit and she’s banging so hard against my ribs it’s like she wants to jump from my chest into his.

‘Any other questions?’ he asks, his arm touching mine.

‘Oh, just whatever you’re most scared to tell me.’ I smile, our eyes meeting again.

‘Sure,’ he says, and we both turn to face each other. ‘If you think you can handle it.’

‘Of course I can handle it,’ I say.

He reaches forward and tucks a piece of hair behind one of my ears, and says, ‘I think I like you, Grace.’

My breath is shallow and the dizziness is back.

‘What are you thinking?’ he asks.

His eyes are sparkling like the fucking Eiffel Tower and we’re standing on a rooftop in Paris. And I may not believe in love, I may not do the love stuff, but that doesn’t mean I’m immune to the rush. My brain pumps out the same lethal cocktail of dopamine, serotonin, norephedrine, oxytocin, and all the other things that shut down our critical thinking faculties better than a bottle of gin. The only difference between me and the rest of the world is I know I’m high.

And high people shouldn’t make decisions.

I hear my voice crackle as it says, ‘Nothing.’

And then I stand there, my pulse thumping in my throat as he takes a step towards me. And just like that I know what’s going to happen next. He leans in and I lean forward too. His mouth meets mine and he tastes like metal and salt and booze.

His hands are in my hair and he’s pulling me towards him; he’s so warm. But then something cold hits my cheek. Then my forehead. It’s raining. We both pull away and look up at the sky as the downfall starts in earnest. I squeal as he takes me by the hand.

‘Over here,’ he says, leading me to the shelter in the corner of the roof.

We stand there for a moment, under cover, leaning against the deckchairs, his arms around me as we listen to the rain pelting harder and harder on the tin above us. Both grinning like idiots. A bright ‘ping’ sounds in the darkness and he pulls his phone from his pocket, glances down at the screen and then places it beside us on a big metal barrel with an ashtray on top of it. Then he turns to me slowly.