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And it is the same here with this man in his steaming chef’s whites and his name over the door of a popular seafood restaurant in one of the most upmarket seaside towns in the country, who has somehow learned to cook better than most other people are able to cook, but beyond that has nothing to mark him out as deserving of turned heads and hushed awe.

I feel ruffled and unbalanced. I see the way Martha looks at him, that flush on her cheeks as though she is in the presence of someone godlike and unworldly.

I look at the man, Paddy, and I see a nobody.

And then I look again closer and I realize that I know this man.

I’ve seen him before. An image flashes into my mind’s eye: a louche young man smoking a cigarette in the alleyway behind a restaurant in Mayfair where I worked briefly in my early twenties.

I was employed by an agency at the time, mainly washing up.

He’d looked at me, this man, narrowed his eyes, and then flicked his stub across the alleyway into the gutter.

“What are you doing out here?”

“Just getting some air,” I’d said.

“Get the fuck back in there,” he’d said. “You’re not being paid to breathe.”

Then he’d turned and walked back into the kitchen, letting the door slam in my face.

I remembered him now, that cocky little man with his tobacco-stained teeth and his mockney accent.

I remember the black shame of that moment, the gnawing rage in my gut.

And more than anything, I remember the bit of me that died in that moment.

And now I smile grimly at Martha and say, “Yes. I imagine it is.”

I see her eyes trailing over Paddy’s restaurant, drinking in all the tiny aesthetic details that make it so alluring, and I know that each element represents some small iota of Paddy himself, of his psyche, his soul, and it feels as though she is drinking him in.

All of me fills with putrid envy. Why does this man, this small man with his nondescript face, his slack belly, his teenage demeanor…

why does he have an empire? Respect? What does he have that I do not, apart from the ability to dress a crab?

“You know,” Martha is saying, “this is what I’ve always imagined my fantasy café to look like.

The vibe. The colors. The feel of it. Don’t you think?

” She turns to me and smiles, and I feel as though she has stabbed me in the heart.

But I smile back and say, “Absolutely. Yes. I can absolutely see you having a place like this. And one day”—I make sure my attention on her is so focused she will forget that there is anything or anyone else in the world—“you will. It’s going to happen. ”

And then, suddenly, Paddy is by our table. “Hi, guys,” he says in his mockney drawl, “how’s your night been? Everything good?”

Martha turns and beams at him. “Oh my God,” she says, breathlessly. “It’s all been incredible. Truly. And this place, it’s just beautiful, the look of it, the feel of it. All of it. You’re a genius. Seriously.” She smiles at him again, showing him all her teeth, her gums, her dimple.

And suddenly something happens. Paddy’s body language changes.

It becomes sexualized. His groin brushes slightly against the back of Martha’s chair, not once but twice.

Then he puts his hand on her shoulder and squeezes it.

He pulls her shoulder back slightly toward him and he says, with a laugh, “Well, I’m not sure about that.

But thank you. I’m so happy you’ve had such a good time.

” And I can feel it, I can smell it, the want that is passing through this man’s body, the want of her, Martha, my girlfriend.

I know that he is inflamed, engorged, that his ego is burnished, and his chest is puffed.

I know what he is feeling because he is a man, and I am also a man.

And I know that he has forgotten that I exist, that I have pixelated in his peripheral vision into nothing more than a blob.

“I hope you’ll come back again?” he asks, and his question is directed at Martha, almost entirely.

“Oh yes,” she says. “We’ll definitely be back.”

I see his fingers squeeze her shoulder again and I hear him saying, “Well, I hope so,” and there is a lustful edge to his voice and I’m not imagining it, I promise you.

It’s subtle, but it’s there. And then there is a weird beat of silence and I see him press his groin once more against the back of Martha’s chair before taking his hand off her shoulder, performing a small bow, and then finally moving along to the next table.

I have never felt how I feel about Martha about any other woman.

I do not want her to smile for another man, feel in awe of another man, be impressed by another man, have any interest of any description in being in the presence of any other men for the reason of their status, achievements, or talents.

Especially not this man. This man who once spoke to me as if I was trash and who has somehow, despite being the same age as me, leapfrogged way ahead of me into the life I’ve always wanted for myself.

Martha looks at me curiously. “Are you OK?”

I nod, then say tersely, “I’m fine.”

Martha cocks her head slightly. “Are you sure?”

I nod again. And then I say, “I just think that guy was a bit inappropriate. The way he was touching you.”

“Touching me?”

“Yes. His hand on your shoulder.”

She laughs and I feel a pulse of anger go through me, but I push it down. “It was more than that,” I say. “He was pushing his groin against your chair. Acting like I didn’t exist.”

“Al,” she says sweetly, softly, “I think you’re overthinking it a little.”

“Well. I didn’t like it. I thought it was very unprofessional.”

Martha pulls my hands toward her across the table and says, “I love you, you know that?”

I smile and nod, allow a tiny smear of tears to spring to my eyes. “I do,” I say.

But the edges of my words are muffled and muted by the deafening thunder of Paddy Swann at the table across the aisle laughing overloudly at something his companion has just said. I turn to look at him, just as he turns to look at me.

Something dark passes between us in that moment, and I know that I am changed.