‘What? Lovelier than Lottie’s surprise?’ he says, gesturing to the silver-and-pink helium balloon floating, ghostlike, at the end of the bed. It had arrived in a box delivered by courier last night while Connor and I were having dinner. A card was attached to the string of the balloon. Inside, Lottie had written: Happy Birthday, you old fart! Now hurry up and come home. Love you, Lottie xx

It was typical Lottie, masking her true feelings with humour. Yet it’s true I’ve been spending more and more time at Connor’s place these past couple of months. Most of my clothes are here, hanging in his large wardrobe, and I’ve got duplicate sets of toiletries and make-up in the bathroom. I’m still paying rent on the flat I share with Lottie and I make sure I spend at least three nights a week over in Fulham but when I’m away from Connor it feels like I’m missing a limb. It’s a strange feeling, one I’ve never experienced before.

When we met for brunch that day in Battersea Park, the morning after the Royal Court play, I knew that something incredible was happening. I’d ordered my staple fare of toast with jam and orange juice, and he’d smiled and said that when he was a little boy his mum would make him toast with strawberry jam if he was feeling ill. ‘Sugar lifts the spirits,’ he said, taking a piece of my toast and feeding it to me, almost without thinking. After brunch we went to the little petting zoo in the park and spent the afternoon watching the otters playing. When I tried to tell Lottie about it later that day, it had sounded trite and uneventful. That’s the problem with love: it makes no sense to anyone but the two people in it.

Beside me, Connor has fallen back to sleep. I gently ease myself out of his arms and get out of bed. It’s a cold morning. I take Connor’s fleece dressing gown from the hook on the back of the door and wrap it round me, then head down the passageway to the narrow galley kitchen. The kitchen has a little door that leads out to a small but beautiful roof terrace. I unlock the door and let in a blast of morning air as I fill the kettle. While I wait for it to boil I go outside and sit on the bench, looking out across the rooftops of Queenstown Road and Lavender Hill.

The sun begins to creep above the skyline and as I watch the sky turn from deep violet to pinky blue my thoughts turn, as they always do on my birthday, to my mother.

‘Thirty-two, eh, Mum?’ I whisper into the air, hoping it will carry the message to wherever she is. ‘Who would have thought it?’