But Grace isn’t my name so I don’t turn around. I’m too busy double-checking the price of my Uber – Why are they so expensive? – and reconsidering the metro.

But then it comes again, louder this time, and closer too: ‘Grace?’

My heart recognises the timbre of his voice a split second before my mind does. It starts pumping double time. Then my breath follows suit as I swivel on my heel.

There he stands: blue jeans, white T-shirt, black leather jacket. His blue eyes watching me turn.

Noah.

My cheeks grow warm. ‘Hey,’ I say, a flood of incompatible thoughts and feelings downloading simultaneously. If I were a computer, right now, I’d crash. Because my body is happy to see him. My blood is speeding up. But my mind is pissed, hardening: Why is he here?

‘How did you find me?’ I ask.

‘Instagram,’ he says, unapologetically. He moves in towards me. He’s close enough that I can smell his skin, his hair – metal, rain, peppermint – and a small electric shock runs through me.

‘We need to talk,’ he says. Serious.

I swallow hard. I don’t want to talk. I want to go home before I make anything worse for myself. I know who he is now: an opportunist who married a woman ten years older than him to get what he could from her and then fucked around. With me. And probably with Sabine too.

‘Noah, look, don’t worry about Friday, it’s fine,’ I say, my eyes meeting his for a millisecond before glancing back down at my phone. It’s not fine, of course, but no amount of talking it through will fix it.

I’m about to confirm my ride when he says, ‘No, it’s important, Grace. Let’s go grab a drink. I need to explain what happened.’

I look up at him. ‘There’s nothing to say,’ I reply, a little less blasé and a little more snappy than I’m aiming for. ‘It’s fine.’

He exhales loudly. ‘Are you serious?’

I stare him down and say, ‘Yes.’

His eyes narrow. ‘So I chase you down like a fucking rom-com and you won’t even talk to me? Not even for one drink? My feelings are hurt.’

I can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

My heart is banging in my chest and shit, shit, shit. Because I don’t want to get further tangled up in this but I do want to know what Sabine said on Friday night when he went after her; whether she’s deleted that file or what she plans on doing with it. I’m not a fan of surprises; I like to know how big my problems are upfront.

‘Fine. One drink,’ I say. Firm.

‘Great,’ he replies, nodding to the bistro across the street. It’s pale pink brick with creepers in shades of red, amber and green lit up by the glow of yellow streetlights, and there’s a row of tables outside looking onto the pavement.

A motorbike drives past, then a black Mercedes with a red taxi sign lit up on top. And as we weave between them, crossing the road, Noah reaches for my hand. His hand is big and warm and his fingers intertwine with mine. But when we get to the other side, I pull mine away.