I watched the back of his neck, the taut brown skin, and I thought of Bill walking me home that night I’d drunk too many vodka Red Bulls in the King’s Arms. Putting me to bed. I’d woken at six, twitchy and furious, to find my bin placed thoughtfully by my bed with a glass of water. Bill, catching a trout off the back of a punt. Bill, folding the tea towel on the counter. Before the worst happened, and the wave hit, and left us all stranded on this alien shore. But there was still Bill, unmoving as a lighthouse. When I was young – when I’d spent most time with him – I used to think a lot about how things happened. How you went from hours sitting on a boy’s bed, talking at right angles, both of you offering up band names and countries you’d been to, collected like Scout badges. Waiting for one of you to make the move, like a grown-up game of Blink. How sweet that feeling was, that delay. I’d had it with Bill, I remembered, many times. Gathering bands I thought he’d think were cool. Nirvana. Pearl Jam. Once, his hand on my foot, stroking gently. Sometimes falling asleep together, but nothing more. He was gay, maybe, we speculated, not knowing where to put a teenage boy who didn’t mark you like his territory. I could have pushed it but I never did. Afraid maybe. That I’d lose what I had with Mike, gossamer-thin as it was. I’d lose my moral high ground too, that sense I’d waited for him so patiently. Or maybe afraid of losing what I had with Bill, the vague delicious sense that he saw me. That I was wanted, to feel I could matter to him a lot, if only I leaned over.

Now I was old, and I’d forgotten how to play these games. When things happened between Mike and me it was as scripted as steps in a dance. Saturday mornings after the gym, or ‘mum and dad’ time on Friday nights. Something we’d said to the kids, now a semi-joke. Mike had said it in front of Cassie once, meaning it as a special wink-wink message to me, only to see her gag. She was ten. We’d both been surprised she understood.

‘Bill.’ I rarely said his name, and it felt so formal. I put my hands on the table as if to steady myself. So expensive. Mike had forbidden any spills or hot food on it. How stupid was that – a table that was no use as a table. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done without you. This past while. You’ve been . . .’

He shrugged off the compliment. ‘I was happy to. But – I can’t stay.’