‘Mitch.’ Perhaps we didn’t need to say any more. Perhaps there was no need.

You handed me my glass, Sauvignon Blanc, our favourite. It tasted delicate, aromatic and like nectar. We chinked glasses, holding the receptacles by the stems to hear the chime, crisp and celebratory.

‘You look gorgeous.’

You smiled deep into my eyes with the same effortless charm. You were even more handsome than I remembered, if that was possible. Age had afforded you character wrinkles, faint but distinct at the corners of your eyes; the deep brown eyes which still melted my heart.

‘Love the haircut,’ you said.

‘You haven’t changed at all,’ was a safe rejoinder.

The wine slipped down and fed our courage. You went to the bar, relieved, I suspected, to escape the intensity of the moment. I recalled all those times I’d watched you order drinks; flirting with bar staff, and joking easily with customers. I remembered the pangs of jealousy as you freely shared yourself.

‘Ten years is a long time,’ you said when you returned. ‘Where are you living now?’

We exchanged innocuous details. You lived in Barnet, in a rented flat but had been in Italy until six months ago, teaching and learning the language; eating too much pasta and drinking expensive Barolos. Where had I been?

Australia seemed distant enough and a bizarre pride that I’d managed alone in such a far-off place fuelled my storytelling. Ayers Rock, the Great Barrier Reef and the Sydney Opera House all got a mention. Perhaps we had never been honest, never done more than skirt around the surface of each other’s souls.

Around ten, we decided to go into the village and have a meal; Italian, of course. It would provide an interlude to our unfolding drama.

‘Mitch, what happened? Tell me.’ The wait was over.

‘I never meant to leave. Not for good. I did something bad and had to get away.’ A slight hesitation as you cast your eyes downwards.

The instinct to hold, comfort and entwine my body with yours was unbearable. ‘I got into drugs. It started off innocently enough, a few snorts of cocaine with the lads from the rugby club but before I realised, it had spiralled out of control.’ You watched me, waiting for comment. I stayed silent. I had nothing to say.

‘It was coming up to Christmas and some of the lads came over to the flat, bringing supplies with them. All lads together.’ You tried to smile, gritting your teeth and willing me not to judge you too harshly. You drank steadily. Perhaps I’d never understood addictive personalities until that moment. We shared the characteristics.

‘We had a fun evening; no girls, I promise. You were the only one for me in those days.’ You stalled. ‘Still are.’

‘Was Oliver involved? Did he “do” these evenings?’ Churlish, hurt and angry, I wanted the truth.