‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I meant to tell you but I got caught up with work. Anyway, it’s tonight at 7.30.’

‘Oh,’ I say, feeling crestfallen. ‘So you’re going to be out tonight? That’s a shame. We’ve hardly seen each other this week.’

‘I know. Which is why I want you to come and join me. It’ll be fun.’

‘But you know I don’t like boxing,’ I say, flinching as one of the girls lets out a shriek of laughter. ‘It makes me squeamish.’

‘Oh, it’s not a full-on bout,’ he says. ‘It’s more of a corporate evening, an exhibition fight.’

‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘I really wanted a night in with you this evening. It’s been a long week.’

‘It won’t go on for long,’ says Connor. ‘An hour max and then we can go and have a nice meal somewhere. What do you say? I’d love it if you could come.’

I think for a moment, imagining the long evening ahead, all alone in the flat with just a bottle of wine and the Dream Property app for company. It’s been like this for a few weeks now, I realize – Connor being out a lot. Not that I mind a quiet night in. But now he’s inviting me along, and I know that I should make the effort. He’s been to enough of my works gatherings and family lunches. And it’s unfair of me to want him all to myself.

‘Okay, I’ll come,’ I say, closing down my computer. ‘What’s the address?’

‘That’s brilliant, baby,’ he says. ‘I’ll text you the details now.’

‘I love you,’ I say, but he has already clicked off.

One hour later I’m walking up and down Shoreditch High Street trying to find Redchurch Street, where, Connor informed me in his text, I will find a black-painted building with no number or signage. Huh, not very helpful. ‘It’s a pop-up venue,’ he’d replied vaguely when I’d texted him from Sloane Square station expressing my confusion.

At last I find Redchurch Street and see what looks like the right building. I try the door but it’s locked. Beside the door is a strip of buttons with no names next to them, again unhelpfully. I press the top buzzer and wait. After a minute or so I hear someone on the other side. The door opens and an elderly man with a goatee beard stands in front of me. He’s wearing a grubby dressing gown and is holding a mug of tea.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, taking my phone and bringing up Connor’s message. ‘Er … I’m looking for … this isn’t the Ultimate Clash boxing event, is it?’

The man regards me for a moment then starts to laugh.

‘I don’t think so, love,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Not with my knees.’