‘Happy New Year, Arthur,’ she said. ‘I do hope you had a pleasant holiday.’ Could she have sounded any more impassive? She straightened out her skirt, pleated her hands across her lap. ‘I had a card for you and I forgot to leave it by your desk. I’m sorry.’ The truth was, it was still in the back sleeve of her portfolio, untouched, because she hadn’t had the courage to deliver it. She’d thought it better to stand firm, await a card from him and then reciprocate. But nothing came. For the past few weeks, she’d fretted about what to do when she returned to Liverpool, admonishing herself for her mistakes last term. Like a fool, she’d tried to mother him with corned-beef sandwiches. She’d played silly schoolgirl games, pretending not to see him, being aloof. It hadn’t worked.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’ve got no mantelpiece to put it on at any rate.’ He smiled his winsome smile and her hopes lifted.

After they’d withstood two hours of Mr Flynn expounding on the convolutions of Hooke’s Law, everybody was released. They filed out of the lecture hall as though a funeral had ended. In the crowded corridor, Arthur waved to her. ‘Come and see your gift.’

As she followed him upstairs, she saw the wobbly stitches in the elbows of his jumper where he’d darned them, and felt worse about herself. It turned out that he’d organized a wooden locker on the first floor – one drawer of a plan chest with a little key. ‘I thought you’d like to share this with me,’ he said. ‘Useful when it’s raining and you’ve got that big portfolio to lug around. I’ll get you a key copied.’

She’d tried to get a locker months ago, but there’d been none available, and she’d not put her name down on the waiting list. Had she told him this, or had he just intuited the fact? ‘It’s very thoughtful, Arthur. Thank you. You must let me pay my share of the deposit, though.’

‘Don’t be daft. I’ll get it back when we’re both finished here.’

The key clunked in the lock and he pulled out the drawer. Then, with a delicacy he’d never shown for handling his work before, he lifted up the single sheet that was inside. It was a square of heavy Whatman paper on to which he’d illustrated her initials in tall, serifed letters, the F entangled by what looked like ivy, the G by a climbing rose. ‘I was practising,’ he said, ‘and I got tired of writing my own name. So, happy Christmas.’

‘What a lovely thing. It’s beautiful.’

‘You really think so?’

‘Yes. It must’ve taken ages.’

‘Near enough a month,’ he said. ‘But if a job’s worth doing … You can leave it in there, if you like. Don’t feel obliged to take it home with you.’

‘Nonsense. I can pick out a nice frame for it in town.’

‘I’m glad you like it. Truly.’

She set her case upon the plan chest, slid the illustration into it. All the while, she was aware of his proximity, the passage of his shoulder next to hers, their hips barely an inch apart – and, in that space, the most unnerving static, a crackle she felt spreading through her blood. He must’ve known it, too, because he asked abruptly, ‘Did you fetch your programme yet? I didn’t get a chance on the way in. Come with me?’