Then on the Friday itself I got seriously chilly feet. I nearly emailed pretending I was ill. I was ill; I felt sick with nerves. Ness came round when she got back from work to babysit and pass the once-over on my look. She’d been intrigued by the whole Johnny thing since I’d told her about Karl’s Janine up in the Highlands.

I’d been counting down the hours to the date. I’d even bought new clothes for the occasion. I spent ages trying on various combos, eventually resorting to the trusted staple of smart jeans and a plain black top, that casual look achieved with Herculean labour. Ness gave me the thumbs up, a squirt of Jo Malone and a neat tequila before pushing me out of the door. I put my hair up and then took it down, then put it up again and continued to do so the entire tube journey. By the time I got out at Leicester Square, I was almost shaking. I considered turning back. As I walked northwards and down Old Compton Street, I could feel my heart trying to do a runner back down to the tube. But I’d got what I asked for: I felt alive. I felt present.

I walked into the bar.

Johnny was there. He had reading glasses on and was looking at his phone. He glanced up and saw me and smiled. I felt a rush. I walked across the room. He got up slowly and we hugged awkwardly across the little table. He was drinking a dry martini and I ordered the same. He felt familiar and foreign at the same time, like going back to an old house you once lived in: you know the shape of every cranny, but the decoration’s changed. Yes, I knew the shape of him: his voice, his laugh, the way he tapped his fingers together, the way he spoke, slowly, self-deprecatingly, those wry observations. But he was also different: he seemed smaller, his shoulders were hunched, his back stooped; there were marks around his mouth that spoke of disappointment and unhappiness; his spirit seemed heavier.