We talked and walked and ate together on those Mondays, and the rest of the time Nassim left me alone. He kept himself happy in his own life and allowed me to disappear.

And then on that fourth Monday, I became frustrated. I didn’t know that was going to happen, that all of a sudden, sitting and talking and walking wasn’t nearly enough for me. What was this? I let my hand, holding a vegetarian kibbeh, drop away from my mouth.

‘Why are you doing this, Nassim?’ I said. ‘Are we friends? Do you do this for lots of girls? Or are we besties now? Are you gay?’

And Nassim laughed and looked down at his fingers – lovely fingers, I thought – and breathed a long breath out.

‘No, Anna. I’m not gay.’ He didn’t look up, but spoke to his own hands. ‘I’m doing it because I really like your brain and I want to be around it. If this is all you have to give at the moment – you know, 99.95 and all that – then this is what I’ll have to take. But no, I’m not gay. And I’m not doing this with any other girls.’

I thought about this. ‘So, just my brain then?’ I said.

He glanced up at me quickly. ‘Oh Anna, don’t be an idiot.’ He shook his head and looked at me directly, a long look full of something thrilling, then he shook his head again and looked down. ‘But I don’t want to complicate your life and your plans, and that sort of thing always complicates, and,’ Nassim breathed a large breath, ‘and I’m fairly confident that I’m in pretty deep here, Anna, so if you don’t mind, I’m just going to sit quietly, over here,’ he drew a line with his hands between himself and me, ‘and play the long game.’

The kibbeh in my hand hung there in space, suspended in front of me, while for a moment the tightness around my heart that always sat there, like a vice, driving me to study, to achieve, to think of the next thing, and the next, to plan my escape, loosened for a moment, and I saw him, really saw him, his beauty so breathtaking, his mouth all mine, it had to be mine – and I didn’t even think as I dropped the kibbeh on the grass and climbed onto him and he fell backwards and I pressed my lips to his and he returned the pressure, and his hands were on my face, and at the back of my neck, and my hands were on his chest, pressing hard, the firm and soft feel of him beneath his clothes . . . And then the kiss relaxed into softness and his body was warm through his clothes, and his fingertips traced my chin, dragged lightly down my neck, rested on the skin above my breast. Where I was straddling him he grew hard, and I drew his gentle hand down to cup my breast, dragging his thumb over my nipple . . .