Quinn had borrowed one of his father’s old jackets for the occasion. It was a beautifully cut blue woollen blazer, hand-made on Savile Row. His father was a slighter build and it was too tight for Quinn across the shoulders. Extending his arm caused him to hunch uncomfortably.

Quinn had met Polly six months ago. He’d spent the summer backpacking around Brazil with his university friend, Mike. It had been a rare opportunity to escape London, afforded by his aunt coming over from the US to hold the fort at home. Quinn and Mike had run into Polly and her friend Gina in a bar in Salvador. The girls were in Brazil on their gap year, planting trees for a charity. The four of them had spent the evening comparing travel tales and drinking caipirinhas so full of lime they made their eyes water. Quinn had been besotted with this beautiful, funny, generous soul, from that first caipirinha.

‘So what shall we make our toast to?’ Polly asked, picking up her glass.

‘Your academic brilliance,’ said Quinn.

‘What about your birthday tomorrow?’ suggested Polly.

‘How about finally being in the same place?’ said Quinn.

Polly had only returned from South America in August, and then she’d started university in Reading that September. Quinn would go and visit her for a day at weekends, but found it hard to stay away overnight. He sent her train tickets so she could come up to London, but Quinn was still living at home and Polly often felt awkward staying with his mother.

The waiter arrived and presented their main courses. Hers, delicate slices of duck balanced on a tower of red cabbage and gratin potato, a perfect obelisk of food in the middle of a large white plate. His, the pan-fried sea bream he estimated at about ten pounds a mouthful.

‘Wow, this looks spectacular,’ said Polly, her eyes dancing with delight. ‘I don’t want this evening to end – maybe we should go clubbing later? Imagine if we could stay out until four and then spend all of tomorrow in bed,’ said Polly wistfully as she rubbed his leg with her foot beneath the table. ‘But I’m not sure that would be allowed at your mother’s house.’

Quinn glanced down at his lap. Living at home did mean there were some restrictions on his nocturnal activity – his bedroom was right above his mother’s room. A couple of times he had splashed out and hired a hotel room for an evening, just so they could be free of any inhibitions, but he felt seedy taking Polly to a hotel where they checked in at seven and out at eleven.

As if she knew they were talking about her, Quinn’s phone began to vibrate.

‘Right on cue,’ Polly said quietly. ‘Go on then.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, leaving the table to take the call out in the corridor.