The first time I laid eyes on Jack had been four years earlier at a house party, shortly after completing my degree at the University of Birmingham. When I think back, it’s strange how fate can bring people together. I almost didn’t go – I rarely socialised and have never been comfortable amongst large groups of people. But my friend Reggie had nagged me to go along with her and I finally capitulated, albeit reluctantly.

The gathering was in a huge and rather grand three-storey terraced Victorian property, in the leafy suburb of Edgbaston. Our host was an irritatingly uptight junior doctor called Zakir, the friend of a friend. The house belonged to his evidently affluent parents, who were holidaying in the Seychelles. He was anxiously following people around, ensuring that no one was spilling beer on the Persian rugs or knocking over any invaluable ornaments. And smoking was a complete no-no.

To cut a long story short, I was bored rigid. Apart from my flatmate, Reggie, I didn’t know anyone, and most of the other guests were medical students, whereas my own current area of expertise was the poetry of John Donne. I felt like a fish out of water.

Reggie, who’d dragged me along insisting I’d have a great time, was in the early throes of a relationship with an aspiring forensic pathologist from Liverpool. They had disappeared upstairs, leaving me hovering like a spare part. It was a cool autumn evening, and after leafing through Zakir’s dull CD collection, I’d wandered out onto the patio for a smoke (a student habit that I’ve thankfully since kicked).

‘They’re very bad for you, you know.’

Startled, I looked round to see an amused pair of piercing blue eyes peering at me from behind a huge potted spruce, still flecked with strands of tinsel from Christmas.

‘I’m sorry? Oh, the fags – I know, I keep trying to quit.’ I could feel the colour rising in my cheeks. I felt as though I’d been caught doing something illicit.

The owner of the eyes stepped out from behind his cover and I gave him an appreciative once-over. He was tall; well built with broad shoulders and narrow hips, his hair dark and wavy, his complexion tanned. He wore a battered leather jacket and faded jeans. I saw that he, too, had a cigarette in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other.

I raised an eyebrow. ‘Hmm. Sounds like a case of what they used to call “the pot calling the kettle grimy arse”!’

He smirked. ‘Oh, I only smoke at parties. Gives me something to do. I can’t be bothered with the small talk, so it’s a good excuse to get out into the garden.’