‘Hi, James. Yes, it’s me. I’m back. I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye. How are you?’

I took in the room, noted the new paintings, new sculptures. The back of the shop had been extended and Roger’s room opened up. Over James’s shoulder I noticed a small furniture display. Beside his desk leant a battered briefcase; a macabre replica of his dead brother’s.

‘All the better for seeing you. I can’t believe it’s really you.’

He stood with a faint stoop. I had fallen for his self-assurance, his ramrod back, and now wondered at the fickleness of illusion. I couldn’t connect this man with my memories.

‘Listen, I’ll lock up. It’s very quiet. What say we go for a bite of lunch?’

‘Yes, I’d like that.’

‘We’ve some catching up to do.’

He lifted his coat off the stand. I was certain he’d worn the same coat on our last outing. The velvet collar was tired, shabby, and the cuffs visibly frayed.

I stepped outside while he locked up. He then took my arm and led me back to the same place where we used to meet, every Friday evening.

I watched James request a bottle of Châteauneuf du Pape, 1973, from a bemused bartender and wondered if my perfect illusion of Mitch might also one day be broken. Perhaps then the past might finally be buried.

After small talk about London, Australia, and the weather, I picked up the courage to ask. ‘What happened that night?’

‘Where do you want me to start?’

‘From the beginning. Your own beginning.’

The bar where we sat hadn’t changed; only my perception. The lights were now dull, no longer romantic and the air was stale.

‘I arrived home from work one evening, a few days after our weekend away. My wife was slumped in a chair and the kids were crying in the corner. I didn’t have a clue what was going on. She held out an envelope. It was photographs.’ He paused for breath. ‘There was one of you and me boarding a train. Another one of us kissing on the platform. We were holding hands. We seemed so happy. I think that was the worst for her. She told the children that Daddy would be leaving, going somewhere far away and wouldn’t be coming back.’ He emptied his glass and offered me a top-up as an afterthought.

‘It was a nightmare. My overnight bag had been thrown on the bed, along with a random selection of clothes. I begged her to listen, to let me talk. She wasn’t interested. The photographs spoke for themselves. Oliver had sent them.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ I wasn’t sure what for but I felt sad for the narrator. There wasn’t much else I could say.

‘I thought she would calm down, in time, be more rational and let me explain.’