I’m hit with a wave of exhaustion. Three cocktails on no sleep was probably not a good idea. “Would you mind if we just went back to my place? I can cook something, or order takeout.”

He hesitates, then smiles. “Sure. No problem. Lead the way, Hardy-girl.”

“This is it—not much to see. Kitchen and living room—bathroom through there. And my room.”

It’s hardly a tour—I can stand in one spot and see every room in my flat, but it’s mine and it’s safe. Quiet. I always used to be able to sleep here. Max wanders round, looking at the kitchenette with its shiny cream units, the big brown sofa that doubles as a bed for guests. I want him to see past the bland rented flat furniture and see the things that are me: the shelf I’ve put up in the kitchen with all my vintage teacups, the books, the ornaments. Nothing valuable, but each one treasured. But his eyes skip past the shelf and the battered leather chair that sits next to the plain sofa. Does he notice the turquoise cushion with the pink and orange pompoms that sits proudly against the brown leather? I hadn’t noticed how much in the corners and shadows I’ve placed these pieces of me. Shy, hidden expressions of personality. They look hesitant; they look staged.

The bathroom’s probably most obviously me, with every surface crowded with bottles of bubble bath and lotions and potions. I can’t remember if I’ve picked all the clothes up off the floor, so I don’t open my bedroom door.

“Wow,” he says, staring down at my flashing answering machine. “You have a lot of messages.”

I feel a sick thud. They’ll all be from the school.

“I’ll listen to them later,” I say, turning my back on the blinking light. After all, the deed is done—doesn’t matter if I listen to them or not, now, does it?

“You don’t have any plants,” Max says, looking around.

“No, I don’t like houseplants. I like plants to live outdoors.”

“I never imagined you living somewhere without some kind of garden.”

“Can’t afford a house or even a garden flat on a teacher’s salary.”

“Not here, no. But then, I never imagined you living in the city, either. You were always a country girl.”

“Were being the operative word there. You haven’t seen me in ten years. I was sixteen then, a kid. So were you.”

“Didn’t expect you to have changed that much, though.”

“Oh eff off, Max. Stop being so sanctimonious. God, so I’m a teacher in a flat, so what? I’m not a goddamn crack dealer, am I?”