I shrink into the padded cushions of my chair in the back corner. The only reason I ever agreed to meet here is there are suddenly so many of these ridiculous places that you’d never find anyone unless you knew precisely, by exact street corner, which one they’d chosen to hide in. Star-Bucks, I think, turning the name over and over in my mind. It’s not even a word, is it?

Up ahead, the door clangs again, a group of girls, all string vests and cut-offs, shimmying their way along the counter into a fresh funnel of steam. I crunch an empty plastic cup into my hand as I stand, squinting into the cloud. Even though the fog dulls the gloss on their hair and paint on their lips, it’s no match for the 177frizz peeping up at the back of the line. And there, as the steam evaporates, is, most definitely and unmistakably, Julie.

The cup splinters into my hand as I sit back down, blood thumping through my head like I’ve stuffed it even further into the bloody oven. I know she’s seen me. She’s the one who told me where to sit.

‘I almost didn’t recognise you,’ she says as she sits down in the chair opposite. ‘Golly, the heat’s unbearable, isn’t it? It’s not even August anymore.’

‘That’s good, right? You told me to cut my hair short…’

I trail off to clear my throat. I haven’t spoken all day. Our meetings have got further and further apart, but she looks the same as always. I wonder if she ever cuts her own hair. It never seems to change, always the same-length circle of fuzz around her head. It’s probably the most reassuring thing about her.

‘Aha! I knew I had some somewhere.’ She rummages in her bag, holding out a packet of polos. ‘Try one, go on. You’ll be amazed how cooling a strong mint can be.’

‘I’m alright,’ I say, frowning as the string-vest girls settle down across three tables next to us in a squawking cloud of perfume. ‘Can we go for a walk, now you’re here?’

‘If that’s what you’d like,’ Julie says thickly through the polo in her mouth. ‘It’s no cooler outside though, to be honest. In fact, the traffic makes it worse.’

I stand even though she’s still talking, glancing through the swing door up ahead.

‘We’re better off in here,’ she says, looking up at me. ‘Come on, love. Would you like a muffin? I might get myself a little something…’

I sit back down. She smiles at me.

‘But I don’t want a muffin, OK?’