‘I’m at a loss to know,’ he says with an over-bright laugh. ‘Still, you don’t want to hear about my futile yearnings. Tell me all about this new man.’

And I do—spilling the beans on Dean is something that doesn’t require much encouragement. I almost feel moved to pull out a photo of Dean, but then realise that although Charlotte and Monica might well coo over him, Pip is highly unlikely to. Instead, I wisely rely purely on my powers of description to bring my lover to life. Pip digests all my lovelorn ramblings without comment.

‘So what are you going to do?’ he asks when I finally stop babbling.

The only bit I’ve left out is the fact that Dean hasn’t replied to any of my emails since I’ve been back. Something that I’m finding increasingly worrying. Perhaps out of sight is indeed out of mind.

‘I don’t know.’ The distance between us seems insurmountable. ‘We’ll find a way,’ I say more bravely than I feel. ‘If we both feel the same, we’ll find a way.’ And, if I had it, I’d pay a million pounds to know what was going through Dean’s head right now.

‘You ought to tell Jake about this guy,’ Pip advises. ‘We blokes like to know exactly how hopeless our situation is.’

‘I don’t know….’

‘At least he’d realise what he was up against then.’

‘We’re not exactly communicating very well,’ I tell him.

‘I know,’ Pip says. ‘There are things he needs to talk to you about too.’

‘Like what?’ I pull my coat around me. Suddenly I’m feeling very cold. ‘I thought you were his appointed spokesperson.’

‘Not for this,’ Pip says. ‘This is too important. You need to speak to Jake.’

And that’s something that I’m trying steadfastly to avoid.

Chapter seventy-two

Chapter seventy-two

‘I don’t want to come out.’ I’m tidying my desk and getting ready to face the long trek home again. ‘Really, I don’t.’

‘You do,’ Monica insists. ‘Even if it’s just for a short while.’

‘We’ve got to celebrate your first day back at work,’ Charlotte chips in.

I’m not sure that ‘celebrate’ is the word I would have chosen. Or ‘work’, if it comes to that matter. Ignoring the mounting pile of copy and letters accumulating on my desk, I spent most of my afternoon compiling an email to Dean. One, like Goldilocks’s porridge, that was not too hot and not too cold. One that smacked of shared intimacy but wasn’t too desperate and gushing. It’s bloody difficult, I tell you.

‘Just one quick drink,’ Monica cajoles. ‘Maybe two.’

‘You’ve told us nothing about your trip yet,’ Charlotte says. ‘We were thwarted in our lunchtime gossiping session. We saw you going off over the river wrapped round Pip.’

I can feel that I’m losing this battle.