The girl in the denim jacket is still alone when I return with another beer. I hesitate, just for a moment. Do I really need to talk to another girl right now? Maybe I should look for a man instead. I’d thought a friendship was what I needed more than a lover, and I’d even thought that Carrie might become both, but things aren’t going to plan and maybe it’s time for a break.

I can’t see her face. It’s obscured by her long hair, her head tipped forwards as she types fast on her phone. A frantic conversation, by the looks of it, or a rant. I walk closer, and see that in front of her on the table is an ice bucket with a bottle of something fizzy, beads of condensation running down the sides. Two flutes and one pretzel, sitting expectantly on a plate.

She’s waiting for someone.

I almost walk away. I do a quick scan, looking for another likely candidate, but everyone else is in couples or groups, and I never join a group if I can help it. Far too risky.

She drops the phone on the table and sighs dramatically. Perhaps she’s been stood up? I take it as my cue.

‘Mind if I sit here?’

She doesn’t look up. ‘Sure, go ahead.’ She has an Irish accent – Northern, I think. Something about it is familiar, but I blink it away. She uses a nail to slice the foil on the bottle, twists it off and rolls it into a ball, then sets about untwisting the wire mesh.

I sit down opposite her, put my beer on the table, and try not to stare. She’s wearing a straw cowboy hat with a black rim. Huge, amber-tinted sunglasses. Her hair is dark and sleek. From the angle, I can’t see her face at all. I’m not going to be pushy. I open my bag and take out Carrie’s laptop, and place it down in front of me, but I don’t open it yet. I take a sip of beer, try to be casual. I’ll wait until she talks to me, because if she does, then I’ll know I was right to come over.

Her hands are working on the cork, and she mutters something under her breath, and I have this sudden flashback to the night I met Carrie, and her accents, and…

She lifts her head, just as the cork releases with a loud pop, and I see her face for the first time. Even with the sunglasses and the hair and the hat, I’m not going to fail to recognise those lips. Her perfect rosebud mouth.

My own mouth falls open in shock. The pop of the cork has given me another flashback – this time to Brad and his fancy hotel. Blood pooling under his face on the posh carpet. I blink.