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I groan. ‘Restructure, not enough work for all of us, and I stupidly didn’t apply for the new PM jobs when they came up, thinking I’d be okay.’

‘That is so crap. Please tell me you got a decent pay-out at least?’

‘Sixteen months.’

She gives a low, impressive whistle. ‘Well, that’s something. Takes a bit of pressure off. What did Tom say?’

‘Haven’t told him yet. I only found out half an hour ago, left work and stopped in here. I don’t want to tell him on the phone – he’s going to hyperventilate about me losing the seventeen per cent superannuation benefit.’

‘Fair enough. Hey, I’ve got to run to a meeting, but I just wanted to check you were okay. I’ll phone you tonight. I won’t say anything to Marc until you’ve told Tom.’

‘Thanks. Chat later.’

I end the call and casually glance at the two people who came in while I was on the phone. They’re on bar stools facing each other, knees touching. One runs her finger along the hem of the other’s skirt, then rests her palm on her knee. My job woes are momentarily forgotten as a pang of longing flares. I miss those tiny actions that carry such loving sentiments, and in moments like this, I miss my ex-girlfriend Lily, or at least, what we had in the beginning. I thought I might’ve found it with Tom, but it’s obvious now that I chose him for all the wrong reasons. Still bruised from Lily’s infidelity a year after we split, I wanted a safe relationship and Tom provided it – older than me, sensible, his own home, a trusting energy. My love for him grew as our relationship developed, but it was never a love that fully consumed me.

Would I ever meet someone who would fully consume me long-term? There was someone once who might’ve done that, but she never gave us a chance. I grab my phone and open Instagram, then type ‘Casey Vassell’ into the search field like I’ve done countless times over the years. It brings up no one familiar, so I type ‘Casey Vassell London’. That changes the results, but I still don’t recognise anyone, and the few accounts I do check are set to private.

I’ve asked myself so many times why I didn’t find out more about Casey or why I didn’t tell her more about myself, but we lived for the moment and I thought we’d have plenty of time for that. She wasn’t on socials, or so she said. Besides, the big social media platforms that are popular now either hadn’t started then or weren’t for our age group. She talked about art and her best friend – I recall her name was Jaz. She didn’t say a lot about her family, but neither did I because we were young and trying to find our place in the world independent of our families. Talking about them just made me miss them more. Maybe it was the same for her.

I gaze out at the narrow street. What would I do if I found her anyway? Send a DM and say, Hi, remember me? I’m the one you spent an incredible two weeks with in Berlin when we were twenty. The one you ran away from and cut all contact with. The one who turned needy and tried to move to London to be with you and has forever regretted speaking those words. Oh, and by the way, I’ve never forgotten you, my heart has never healed, and you ruined me for every relationship that followed. So, how have you been?

‘Another?’

I spin around. ‘Sorry?’

The barperson points to my glass. ‘You’ve finished. Would you like another?’

I look at the empty glass. ‘Oh, so I have.’ I shake my head. ‘No, thanks.’ I pick up my camera bag and hold it up. ‘I’m going to take some shots around the city before the sun disappears.’

‘You’re a photographer?’

‘In my spare time.’

‘Are you any good?’

I shrug. ‘It’s been a hobby for a long time, and I studied photography at uni.’ I open my Insta profile and pass my phone. ‘Judge for yourself.’

He scrolls through my feed and nods appreciatively. ‘You do events?’

‘It’s not my speciality, but I’ll do it for friends. I mainly do architecture and street photography. Sometimes portraits.’

He passes my phone back and pulls his own from his back pocket. ‘What’s your username? I’ll give you a follow.’

‘Oh, sure. It’s Holly Craddock Photography. That’s C-R-A-double D?—’

‘Found you.’ He smiles. ‘You’ve got yourself a new follower, Holly Craddock Photography. We’re actually looking for a photographer for an event tomorrow night. What do you charge?’

‘Oh,’ I say surprised. ‘Like I said, events aren’t my speciality.’

He scrolls through his phone. ‘Well, I’m looking at your feed now and you’ve got some good people and food shots here, wherever this was.’ He turns his screen towards me.

It’s a photo of Nat holding a large knife, the tip sunk into a layered chocolate cake. Her dark-blue eyes glint and I’ve captured her mid-laugh. ‘Ah, that was my friend’s thirtieth birthday. Thanks, but you don’t need to feel sorry for me because I lost my job.’

He grins. ‘I do feel sorry for you, for sure, but that phone call I was on when you came in was the photographer cancelling. I don’t have time to find another one by tomorrow.’ He gestures to my camera. ‘That looks like a shit-hot camera. You take great photos, and we need a photographer, fast.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s a small event. Just some snaps of guests, some wines, food. It’s for our new website and our socials.’

I open my mouth to say no but catch myself. Why am I saying no? ‘Can I get back to you about the fee?’

‘Great! Of course.’ He opens his arms wide and for a moment I think he’s going to gather me into a hug. ‘I could hug you right now, but that would be inappropriate, so…’ He sticks his hand out. ‘I’m Caleb.’