He wondered what Astrid was doing. Neither of them were on Facebook, which Astrid hated, but he could see the attraction of it now. Just to know where she was, who she was with. Have some small idea how she was spending her time.

Bill sighed. For years he’d been slightly baffled by the romantic dramas of his friends, while he and Astrid had moved along like swans swimming over a pond, cool and respectful. Now he felt the draw of all kinds of unSwedish behaviour. Hacking into her emails. Begging her to take him back. He knew it was over, they both did, but it was surprisingly hard to let go.

He remembered he’d left his phone in the saddlebag of the bike and he thought maybe he’d text her, or see if she’d texted him, or something. Even holding the piece of plastic in his hand would be some pathetic link to her. He slipped down the side of the garden, leaves brushing his face, past Jake’s empty tent – the boy was so awkward and unhappy, Bill wished he knew him well enough to try and offer some words of wisdom – and ducked into the garage, which was bigger than his and Astrid’s lakeside home in Sweden. Actually, it was just hers; she’d had it when Bill had met her, on a post-university bike ride through Scandinavia, three years older than him and a hundred per cent cooler.

The garage smelled of oil and woodchip from the stack of logs all along one wall. Karen, Bill knew, was staying in the office on the floor above; he could hear the sound of beeps drifting down. Jake must be playing a game of some kind. A two-storey garage: Ali and Mike had really bought into the post-Oxford cult of possessions. Ali had been funny about the room situation earlier, asking Mike why he’d put Karen there. ‘I was saving it for Bill.’

‘Bill can have Benji’s room.’

‘I know, but . . .’ She’d seen him listening and smiled, in a fake shiny way that made his heart hurt. The old Ali had never smiled like that. He gathered she thought it more appropriate for him, a single man now, to sleep out here, rather than Karen on her own. Old-fashioned. Was that who Ali was now – or maybe who she’d always been? He could hardly claim to know her after all this time.

He found his phone: no messages. A feeling of desolation came over him, as if Astrid was moving further and further away with every hour that passed.

‘So this is where you sneaked off to.’ Karen was in the garage doorway, eyes glittering. She was very drunk, he thought.

‘Not sneaking. Going to bed?’

‘No way. Need a cardy. S’colder now.’ But she didn’t go upstairs. ‘So. You’re single now.’

‘Guess so.’