I push out of the swing doors and into the main concourse, looking for the signs to the Heathrow Express to whisk me into London. There’s a huge crowd of people all jostling for position as they wait expectantly, if not patiently, for loved ones, relatives or business colleagues. And there, jostling along with the best of them, holding a piece of crisp, white card with LYSSA ALLEN written on it in thick black marker pen, is Jake. He’s standing behind the chrome barrier looking nervous. My heart has no idea what to do now—whether it should sink or beat faster, so it does a mixture of both, leaving me feeling dizzy and nauseous. His face brightens when he sees me. I’m not sure what my face is registering—beyond initial shock.

‘Hi. Hi,’ he says, pushing his way through the crowds to the side of the barrier where he stands in front of me.

‘Hi.’

‘Well. Well,’ he says. ‘You look…’ He gives me the once-over, searching for the right words. Fucking miserable, I’d conclude. ‘You look great.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’ve come to take you home,’ Jake says, sounding very earnest.

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ He doesn’t look as if he’d been expecting me to question his motives. Jake glances nervously at the crowd of people surrounding us.

‘Yes. Why?’

‘I’ve missed you,’ he says plainly. Then he lowers his voice and checks no one else is listening. ‘I realise I’ve messed up and I want to make it right. I sent you an email.’

‘I saw it,’ I tell him. ‘It didn’t say very much.’

He looks hurt. ‘A lot has happened,’ he informs me. I could well say the same thing. ‘I checked with the airline when your plane was arriving,’ he continues, pleased with his ingenuity. ‘I wanted to surprise you.’

‘You have.’ I’ll give him that much.

‘Let me take your rucksack,’ he offers.

‘It’s heavy.’

‘I can manage.’ I swing my rucksack from my back and hand it over. Jake staggers slightly under its weight.

‘I warned you.’ He shrugs my bag onto his shoulders and tries to look as if it weighs no more than a feather.

‘The car’s in the Short Stay multi-storey across the road,’ he says. It seems as if Jake is about to reach for my hand, but I block the movement with my body and then fall into step beside him, a suitable distance apart. He looks disappointed. I don’t know if he expected me to fall into his arms and be grateful, but I can’t. I can’t even manufacture it.

My ex-boyfriend tries a smile. He looks exhausted and there are fine, dry lines on his face and his eyes are shot through with red flecks that speak of sleeplessness.

‘Did you take a day off work to do this?’

Jake chews his lip. ‘In a manner of speaking.’