I remembered so well rushing to the phone, willing it to be you, desperate to hear your voice and to know that you were okay and that you were thinking of me.

‘Oliver phoned me every few days to fill me in. He told me you were fine but not really asking about me. It wasn’t long before he told me you seemed to be moving on. He said he’d let me know when it was safe to come back. The police were still looking for me so I decided to stay put.’ You emptied your glass, downing the lager in one swig. ‘Same again?’

I nodded, lips pursed, willing the end to come but knowing there was more.

You joined the men at the bar, gently pushing forward; an outsider in the men-only club. You were wearing light brown slacks, Italian, finely cut with sharp defined creases down the front. A fine cream woollen jumper was tied round your shoulders, loosely knotted in a fashion statement and slung over a white linen shirt. You told me you weren’t vain; you just loved clothes. It was a weakness, you said. I disagreed. You were vain in the extreme. You always knew what you had and how to use it.

How easily you could suck me back in with fabricated storylines and throwaway charm. Your looks would ensure the conquest. If you told me you’d done time for murder, at that very moment I’d have forgiven you; so I could hold you one more time, lie with you and feel you close. I was petrified. My only trump card was that you might feel the same way.

‘When were you going to tell me about Oliver? It’s your turn now.’ Your mood changed from self-confessional to accusatory. Your expression set as you sat back down. I clutched my glass in both hands.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘That you slept with him barely a month after I’d gone.’ It might have been my imagination but a very fine film of tears covered your eyes, faint but defined.

‘I didn’t do any such thing. Where did you get that from? Oliver?’

‘Yes. I’ve the photos to prove it. He sent me pictures of you sleeping alongside him and a note explaining you were together; an item. He was sorry but he’d taken his chances and hoped I’d understand. That was why I didn’t come back.’

The room swam, the yellow lights moving up and down against the black and white images of Hadley Wood and High Barnet which lined the walls; photos of a past age. My breathing became laboured. The log fire was like a furnace as it hissed and spat. The men by the bar laughed; conspirators with their backs to us.

‘So you don’t deny it?’ You moved sideways, away from me, dislodging your thigh so we were no longer touching.