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Ian returns at just before midnight to find Emma curled up on the sofa, watching some old movie. ‘You’re back early. How was Golden Boy?’

‘Awful,’ she murmurs.

If Ian feels any glee at this, he doesn’t let it into his voice. ‘Why, what happened?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it. Not tonight.’

‘Why not? Emma, tell me! What did he say? Did you argue?. .’

‘Ian, please? Not tonight. Just come here, will you?’

She shuffles up so that he can join her on the sofa, and he notices the dress that she is wearing, the kind of thing she never wears for him. ‘Is that what you wore?’

She holds the hem of the dress between finger and thumb. ‘It was a mistake.’

‘I think you look beautiful.’

She curls up against him, her head on his shoulder. ‘How was the gig?’

‘Not great.’

‘Did you do the cats and dogs stuff?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Was there heckling?’

‘Little bit of heckling.’

‘Maybe it’s not your best material.’

‘Bit of booing.’

‘That’s part of it, though, isn’t it? Everyone gets heckled sometimes.’

‘I suppose so. I suppose sometimes I just worry. .’

‘What?’

‘That I might just be. . not very funny.’

She speaks into his chest. ‘Ian?’

‘What?

‘You are a very, very funny man.’

‘Thanks, Em.’

He rests his head against her and thinks about the small crimson box lined with crumpled silk that contains the engagement ring. For the last two weeks it has been tucked inside a balled-up pair of walking socks, waiting for its moment. Not right now though. In three weeks’ time they’ll be on the beach in Corfu. He imagines a restaurant overlooking the sea, a full moon, Emma in her summer dress, freshly tanned and smiling, perhaps a bowl of calamari between them. He imagines presenting the ring to her in an amusing way. For some weeks he has been devising different romantic-comedy scenarios in his head — perhaps dropping it into her wine glass while she’s in the loo, or finding it in the mouth of his grilled fish, and complaining to the waiter. Getting it muddled up with the calamari rings, that might work. He might even just give it to her. He tries out the words in his head. Marry Me, Emma Morley. Marry Me.

‘Love you lots, Em,’ he says.

‘Love you too,’ says Emma. ‘Love you too.’

The Cigarette Girl sits at the bar on her twenty-minute break, her costume on beneath her jacket, sipping whisky and listening to this man as he talks on and on about his friend, that poor pretty girl who fell down the staircase. They’ve had some kind of row apparently. The Cigarette Girl tunes in and out of the man’s monologue, nodding every now and then and glancing surreptitiously at her watch. It is five minutes to midnight, and she should really get back to work. The hour between twelve and one is the best for tips, the high-water mark of lust and stupidity on the part of the male customers. Five more minutes and she’ll go. Poor guy can barely stand up anyway.

She recognises him from that stupid TV programme — and doesn’t he go out with Suki Meadows? — but can’t recall his name. Does anyone watch that show anyway? The man’s suit is stained, the pockets bulging with packets of unsmoked cigarettes, there’s a sheen of oil on his nose, his breath is bad. What’s more, he still hasn’t even bothered to ask her real name.

The Cigarette Girl is called Cheryl Thomson. She works most days as a nurse, which is exhausting, but does an occasional shift here too because she went to school with the manager and the tips are incredible if you’re prepared to flirt a little. At home in her flat in Kilburn her fianc'e is waiting for her. Milo, Italian, 6' 2", once a footballer, now also a nurse. Very good-looking, they’re getting married in September.

She would tell all this to the man if he asked, but he doesn’t, so at two minutes to midnight on St Swithin’s Day, she excuses herself — got to get back to work, no I can’t go to the party, yes I’ve got your number, hope you and your friend work things out — and leaves the man alone at the bar, ordering another drink.

1996–2001

Early Thirties

‘Sometimes you are aware when your great moments are happening, and sometimes they rise from the past. Perhaps it’s the same with people.’

James Salter, Burning the Days

MONDAY 15 JULY 1996

Leytonstone and Walthamstow

Emma Morley lies on her back on the floor of the headmaster’s office, with her dress rucked up around her waist and exhales slowly through her mouth.

‘Oh, and by the way. Year Nine need new copies of Cider With Rosie.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ says the headmaster, buttoning up his shirt.

‘So while you’ve got me here on your carpet, is there anything else you’d like to discuss? Budget issues, Ofsted inspection? Anything you want to go over again?’

‘I’d like to go over youagain,’ he says, laying down again and nuzzling her neck. It’s the kind of meaningless innuendo that Mr Godalming — Phil — specialises in.

‘What does that mean? That doesn’t mean anything.’ She tuts and shrugs him away and wonders why sex, even when enjoyable, leaves her so ill-tempered. They lie still for a moment. It’s six-thirty in the evening at the end of term and Cromwell Road Comprehensive has the eerie quiet of a school after hours. The cleaners have been round, the office door is closed and locked from the inside, but still she feels uneasy and anxious. Isn’t there meant to be some sort of afterglow, some sense of communion or well-being? For the last nine months she has been making love on institutional carpet, plastic chairs and laminated tables. Ever considerate of his staff, Phil has taken the foam cushion from the office armchair and it now rests beneath her hips, but even so she would one day like to have sex on furniture that doesn’t stack.

‘You know what?’ says the headmaster.

‘What?’

‘I think you’re sensational,’ and he squeezes her breast for emphasis. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do without you for six weeks.’

‘At least it’ll give your carpet burn a chance to heal.’

‘Six whole weeks without you.’ His beard is scratching at her neck. ‘I’ll go crazy with desire—’

‘Well you’ve always got Mrs Godalming to fall back on,’ she says, hearing her own voice, sour and mean. She sits and pulls her dress down over her knees. ‘And anyway, I thought the long holidays were one of the perks of teaching. That’s what you told me. When I first applied. .’

Hurt, he looks up at her from the carpet. ‘Don’t be like this, Em.’

‘What?’

‘The woman-scorned act.’

‘Sorry.’

‘I don’t like it anymore than you do.’

‘Except I think you do.’

‘No I don’t. Let’s not spoil it, eh?’ He places one hand on her back, as if consoling her. ‘This is our last time ’til September.’

‘Alright, I said sorry, okay?’ To mark a change in subject, she twists at the waist and kisses him, and is about to pull away when he places one hand on the nape of her neck and kisses her again with a gentle scouring action.