‘I was just a little bit tipsy,’ I mutter, teeth gritted, wishing this wasn’t being discussed on the main stairwell of my workplace. ‘I was hardly lying comatose on the pavement with my knickers on display.’

‘I think you’ll find you were more than just a little—’

‘Don’t I-think-you’ll-find me!’

‘What?’

‘It’s a thing you say. It’s so patronising. “I think you’ll find the fan heater’s fine.” “I think you’ll find reptiles are dry-skinned, Viv”.’

‘What are you on about? Jesus, I really am worried about you. Should you see a doctor?’

‘For anti-depressants, you mean?’ I snap.

‘Well, for something anyway. I don’t know …’

‘Don’t try and come over all concerned about my mental health now. It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?’

‘I’m only saying,’ he cuts in.

‘Who saw me, anyway? Who saw me doing that thing?’

‘Erm, Estelle did,’ he says quietly.

I let this new information sink in for a moment as Jean approaches on the stairs. Seeing me, she raises a brow and makes a knife and fork motion with her hand. I nod and will her to move on. More people are coming now; it seems to be a craze right now, this taking the stairs rather than the lift. At least, amongst us older ones it is. The youngsters seem to ride up and down in the lift all day, slurping their calorie-laden lattes, without worrying about it.

I wait until no one seems to be around. ‘She saw me?’

‘Yes, she did, I’m afraid, just after she’d left my flat, on the way to her own car.’

‘But …’ I push my hair back from my clammy forehead. ‘How did she know who I was?’

Andy sighs heavily. ‘She, erm … recognised you from seeing pictures on my computer and stuff.’ So he’s shown her our family photos? ‘And she took a picture of you with her phone, and I said yes – it was definitely you.’

‘She photographed me? Isn’t that a bit creepy?’ It’s a little hard, at this stage, to maintain any sense of indignation.

‘I think it was kind of justified,’ Andy says wearily.

‘Oh, do you? And you confirmed my identity?’

He sighs. ‘Yes, of course I did. She was just concerned, that’s all, seeing a woman out on her own, staggering about—’

‘I wasn’t staggering!’

‘And she knew it was my car, so she thought she’d better take a photo as evidence.’

‘Why didn’t she just come over and say something?’

‘Because you looked, I don’t know … kind of scary, I guess.’

‘She was scared of me?’

‘Yes! I would’ve been scared, seeing someone running rampage with a tortilla.’

‘Can you stop saying “tortilla”?’ I say sharply as I start to head up the stairs. ‘This is Glasgow, not Madrid. It’s a ridiculous affectation.’

‘Omelette, then,’ he mumbles.