I strode up Gower Street towards the campus where Andrew worked, light on my feet and joyful in the way my disappointment was unhinging me. I was very late back to work and did not care. Term might not have been fully under way but there were a lot of young people with backpacks looking up at the buildings around us in the way that newcomers to the city do. You could have such a fine time in these streets when the other people were in their offices.

I had only ever walked past the courtyard of the campus at a clip, seen it out of the corner of my eye, but it made a different impression when you turned into it and looked up at the grand roof on its white stone pillars. It was a long way from the college on the Elephant and Castle roundabout. I sat on a bench and took it in.

But enough of that. When I stood up I asked a woman if she knew where the History department was, and she directed me out onto Gordon Square. It was only a few doors down from Virginia’s house, from John Maynard’s. I walked past the reception and smiled and headed up some stairs. No one I passed in the corridor looked at me like I didn’t belong.

Eventually I found Andrew Lancaster’s office. Nothing stuck to his door but his name and one piece of paper which listed one office hour. I knocked. Nothing. I turned the door handle and it opened. I looked up and down the corridor then stepped in, closing the door behind me. It was a big room, with tables pushed together with enough chairs around them to accommodate a seminar group. Two walls were completely covered with books, and outside his window was a big oak tree, and beyond that was Gordon Square. The light of his computer tower was flickering at his desk by the window. I strummed his keyboard and his screen turned on. Password required. I typed ‘EmilyNardini1981’ and other variations, before it told me I needed to wait half an hour to try again. His desk was stacked with books and scribbled notes. I read the notes. They were not salacious. And leaning against his monitor was a photo of Emily, looking up from an outdoor café table somewhere – Paris? – a mock-suspicious look, coquettish and sceptical, the why-do-I-love-you? look.