I look down to his hands, searching for a wedding band – but no, there’s no ring. Of course there’s no ring. I’m not some rookie. I wouldn’t have missed that.

‘Fuck,’ Noah says under his breath as he struggles to pull up his jeans.

‘I’ll be right back,’ he says, turning back to me. His jaw is clenched and his eyes are so fucking blue and my heart is beating so fast.

And then I watch him jog across the wet rooftop towards the door while I’m left to try to piece things together.

What just happened?

He opens the heavy door to the stairwell and disappears. I can hear his footsteps fading and then bang. The door slams. And I’m alone in the silence, on a rooftop in Paris, amid glistening puddles.

Just me and my memories of Harrison.

All those times where he wouldn’t let me go backstage after the show because he needed ‘time to decompress’.

All the women I’d see leaving when I was finally allowed access.

All the lies I’d tell myself about how happy we were until he finally revealed that we weren’t. All that pain.

Pour ta femme…

No. Married men are not my bag.

Do no harm, and all that.

My underwear is lying on the ground, a flash of white lace in the low light. I pick it up and slide it into my handbag. The air is cold and I’m shivering as I move over to the wall and look out onto the street. I can see Noah and Sabine arguing, moving down the stairs towards the road.

Fuck this.

I fumble around in the bottom of my bag, find my phone and pull up the Uber app. The time flashes back at me: 00.32.

I type my address into the app – 1 Rue du Regard – and head towards the door. Halfway down the stairs, a notification flashes up on my screen: my driver’s name is Khalid, he has five stars and he’s four minutes away.

I rush down the rest of the stairs, tugging my skirt down as I go.

The hallway is empty when I get there, so I rush out the front door unseen and move up the outside stairs slowly. Carefully. I look down towards the bottom of the stairs; Noah and Sabine are right there, but they’re too busy arguing to notice me. I try to make out what they’re saying, but I can’t so instead I focus on my feet, taking care not to slip on the rain-stained cement that glows orange under the streetlights until I’m standing by the tree where my Uber dropped me off earlier. A notification: Your driver is seven minutes away. I check the app – he must have got lost. Too many one-way streets to circumvent. I look left, then right. The street is silent. Nobody is here. And so I lean back against the cool stone of the building behind me and wait.

But seven minutes later Khalid is still not here and it’s starting to drizzle again. I move through to the app to call him when a notification fills my screen: Khalid is arriving soon. I wait for his headlights in the dark. But all I see is a delivery guy on a motorbike and I’m shivering from cold.