‘One of the other supply teachers I’m working with asked if I’d meet him for a drink tonight. I said I couldn’t. Obviously. But now …’ He shoves his arms into his navy duffel coat, his dark hair falling over his forehead as he fiddles with the toggles. I call it his Paddington Bear coat. It suits him. It makes him look bookish, but sexy. I long to go to him, to reassure him, but I’m rooted to the spot, unable to do anything but stare as he slips his shoes on without undoing the laces – the same ones he wore for work. He still hasn’t had the chance to get changed.

‘When will you be back?’ I try not to sound whiny. That was how my mum sounded when my dad went out all hours, before he left for good.

He looks at me then, our eyes meeting properly for the first time, and his face softens. ‘I just need some space to take in what you’ve said.’ He attempts a smile. ‘I’m disappointed but I’ll get over it. You know I’ll wait until you’re ready.’ He reaches for my hand, squeezing it. ‘I don’t want anyone else.’

And then he’s gone, leaving me standing alone in the hallway, wondering what I’ve done.

I wish there was someone I could ask for advice. I have transient relationships with the friends I do have, colleagues I’ve worked with, friends from university, and I still keep in touch with Gina from school – although she’s moved to Denmark now – yet nothing deep, no dark confessions over a glass of wine, no insights into what I really think or feel. I’ve never really let anyone in, apart from Heather, and look what happened there. Even with Rory and Jack I still keep a part of myself hidden, preserved.

I slump onto the sofa, my mobile in my lap. We don’t have a landline. It’s easier that way. I think of my mum in Spain, not really knowing anything about my life, too busy with her husband, her friends and her expat community. We’ve drifted further apart over the years. But I call her anyway, suddenly desperate to hear her voice. It rings for a while and just when I contemplate hanging up, she answers.

‘Hello, Jessiebobs,’ she says, her voice tinkling and light, but behind it I can hear the drone of indistinct chatter, the clink of cutlery, the faint laughter that tells me she’s out. Jessiebobs. She used to call me that all the time when I was a kid. ‘This is a surprise.’

I’ll say. We haven’t spoken in months. There are no weekly calls from Spain, no texts to check that I’m okay, not like Rory and his mum.

‘Just thought I’d ring to catch up,’ I say.