Jack’s oblivious and regards me seriously. When I return my glass to the table he asks, ‘Are you okay? You know you can tell me anything.’

He’s right. I can tell him things I’ve not even told Rory. That’s the problem.

Rory is so good, with a very strong moral code. That’s what I’d fallen in love with. Somehow being with him just made me better. Nicer. His softness sanded down my edges. We complement each other – I help him when he needs to be tougher, and he makes me see reason when I’m being too hard. And I’ve never doubted his love for me. But sometimes I worry that he sees me as he wants me to be rather than as I really am. And I’ve let him because I prefer myself through his eyes. When I’m with him I can believe I really am a good person.

My moralistic radar is so off kilter sometimes that I don’t always know if I’m doing a good or a bad thing. But since the mess I left behind in London, I’ve really been trying. Yet today, with that card, I feel as if I’ve failed some test.

I try to explain this to Jack, but he stares at me with confusion. ‘I don’t think what you did with the card was wrong, though. You’ve got a good nose for a story. That’s what being a journalist is all about. There’s a story behind that card. Clive – or Deirdre – had enemies. That’s worth exploring.’

I fidget in my seat, feeling uncomfortable. ‘It’s not just that.’ I fiddle with my beer mat. Behind me a few lads whoop and cheer at something and Jack flinches. I turn around but they’re busy thumping one of their group on the back and congratulating him about something. ‘I need to tell you what happened in London.’

Jack frowns, his eyes flickering to the lads, then back to me. ‘Like I said earlier, I think I know. The scandal. It was all over the news. Were you involved?’ He rips open both packets of crisps and places them between us with a help-yourself gesture.

Behind him, through the window, I can see that it’s already getting dark. It’s still a few weeks until the clocks go forwards. People are scurrying past on their way home from work, huddled under umbrellas. I think of the walk to the Welsh Back and shudder, remembering the footsteps the other night, the sense that I was being followed. I could really do with a glass of wine.