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‘You want something to eat? The kebabs in the Gorbals are heavy banging.’

I could see that his mouth practically watered at the thought, but I couldn’t think of anything worse than eating that. I shook my head, silently hoping the only kebab he’d be munching on tonight would be mine.

‘No, I’m fine, thank you,’ I said.

‘Sound.’ He shrugged. ‘I’d offer you my jacket, but it’s freezing, int it?’ He shivered dramatically and pulled it tighter around himself. ‘We’re only two minutes away anyway.’

Such a gentleman. I couldn’t help but think of Rupert and how many times he’d draped his suit jacket over my shoulders, when we were leaving restaurants or if unexpected rain had started. Such a gesture seemed like second nature to him. But I suppose up here the winters were so brutal that it was every man and woman for themselves.

‘So, where are you staying while you’re up here? With Claire?’ he asked, blowing warmth into his hands.

I nodded, guilt prickling at the web of lies I was spinning.

‘Sound – she’s got a decent place. I’ve partied a few times in there.’

Jesus. I was starting to feel like I was going home with the sixteen-year-old Joseph Ferguson I’d once been obsessed with. Had he not grown up at all?

‘So, what do you do, Joe? Like for work?’ I asked, mildly fascinated to see where adulthood had taken him.

He smiled proudly. ‘Well, I do a couple of things. Dodgy Firesticks, and I sell perfumes ’n’ that too. Like ones from the shop, makeup an’ aw. Proper decent stuff.’

Oh, great. My date was essentially the Avon lady of organised petty crime. Maybe I’d get a free Yankee Candle out of this.

‘I used to graft,’ he added quickly. ‘Like sell drugs, same as every other cunt on the scheme. But I’ve got a wee lassie now, so I had to get my shit together.’

He bit his lip, suddenly a little more vulnerable. ‘It’s not really a big job in London terms, I know . . .’ he mumbled awkwardly. ‘But I had to go legit for the wean.’

My eyes met his, and I grinned. ‘Are dodgy Firesticks legit?’

I did my best to raise a brow, but my Botox made it feel more like a twitch.

He burst out laughing. ‘Well, that’s as legit as it gets here, doll.’ He winked.

We laughed together as he guided me through a small rusty gate. ‘In here,’ he said, nudging me towards a council house that looked eerily similar to my mum’s.

My brain whizzed back to childhood. Was this his parents’ house? I suddenly remembered doing laps up and down this street on my micro scooter, hoping he’d notice me attempting cool stunts, or at least take a moment to acknowledge my existence.

‘Wait.’ I panicked. ‘Do you stay by yourself?’ I asked, hesitating slightly. I knew I was currently living with my parents, but technically I did own a mansion back in Essex.

He smirked. ‘My mum’s place. When I split up from Porsche’s mum, I came back here.’

Porsche.

I blinked.

Coming from the guy who had the cheek to question my, admittedly adopted on the hoof, name.

‘And she doesn’t mind you . . . erm . . . having visitors?’ I asked.

He laughed. ‘Nah, she’ll be in bed. Mon in.’

Joe climbed the steps and opened the door. We were greeted by the aggressive scent of bleach and Zoflora. Jesus. My eyes started watering instantly. I stepped inside, coughing as the fumes clawed at the back of my throat, and followed him into the living room.

His mum’s house was blindingly white. White marble-effect floors, white leather sofa, white glass furniture. It looked like someone had tried to decorate Santa’s grotto inside an operating theatre. The Christmas tree stood in the corner – completely pink. Pink baubles, pink tinsel, pink ribbons. The thing had been styled by Barbie been let loose in a craft shop.

‘Wee Porsche did the tree,’ Joe said, bending down to switch on the lights. The whole shebang exploded into glitter.

I smiled despite myself. When I was younger, I’d have loved a girly tree like that. Although if Rupert and I ever had kids, I knew full well the decorations would still be going on exactly the way I wanted them. I suppose that’s a pretty big if right now.