‘Okay, well –’ he stretched his arm out and scooped me into him, so I rested on his chest – ‘I’ve noticed there’s this big thing for gin. They all say they love gin.’

‘Interesting,’ I said. ‘I’ve noticed women using gin as a personality replacement before. There’s an implied sophistication with gin. A woman who is of another time.’

‘Yes, they’re usually the ones whose photos are all in black and white.’ The depth of his voice reverberated through him and hummed on to my cheek.

‘Do you know what the personality replacement is for men?’

‘What?’

‘Pizza.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, they all think pizza is way more of a lifestyle choice than it is. Every other Linx profile includes a reference to pizza. “How do you like to spend your Sundays?” Pizza. “What is your ideal first date?” Pizza. The other day, I saw a man put his current location as Pizza.’

‘What else?’ he asked.

‘They all say they love napping. I don’t know why. I don’t know who told all these grown men that what women really love are giant pizza-guzzling babies who need sleep all the time.’

‘Heterosexual women should be decorated like war heroes just for loving us,’ he said with a sigh, his fingers gently separating the strands of my hair. ‘I don’t know how you all do it.’

‘I know, bless us,’ I said. ‘We’re really putting our shifts in and it’s such a thankless job.’

He turned on his side so we were face to face and kissed me, soft and tentative, then pulled me closer towards him by my waist.

‘I can’t stop thinking about you,’ he said. ‘I think about this curve where your neck meets your shoulder. And the shape of your mouth. And the backs of your arms. That’s next-level fancying, isn’t it? Wanting to kiss the backs of someone’s arms.’

‘Top-tier fancying,’ I said indifferently, deciding not to tell him about the platters of memory canapés or how I’d imagined him at home doing his laundry.

‘The last girl whose arms I remember wanting to kiss the back of was Gabby Lewis. She sat in front of me in chemistry. She had a ponytail that swung every time she turned from side to side. Which she did a lot. I think she did it on purpose actually, I think she knew it drove me crazy.’

‘You sound like an incel.’

‘She had these perfect arms, like yours. And I used to stare at them, counting every freckle. I actually blame her for my D, I was predicted a C.’

‘I think that’s adorable.’

‘Bit creepy?’

‘It would be creepy if I didn’t find you so hot. The rules of attraction are so unfair.’

‘I was very much not hot.’

‘Come on.’

‘I wasn’t, honestly. I was a huge hairy teenager with no friends. I played chess with my grandpa after school every day. He was the only person who wanted to hang out with me.’

‘So that’s why I like you so much. Accidentally hot people. They’re the best.’

‘What were you like as a teenager?’

‘I was nearly exactly the same as I am now.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, it’s so boring. Same height, same face, same body, same hair, same interests. My level of attractiveness was fixed at thirteen and has never really gone up or down.’

‘I’ve never met anyone who’s said that before.’

‘Can I tell you my theory?’

‘Go on.’

‘I know it’s much more compelling to have a story of transformation. But I think having twenty years to get used to how you look is no bad thing. I think about the way I look much less than my friends who are still striving to be beautiful, waiting for the final stage of their transition.’

‘You are beautiful.’

‘I’m not saying it to be modest. I don’t think I’m unattractive. But I have never and will never be a great beauty. And it’s freed up a lot of energy to be other things. Also,’ I said, then paused for a short while to wonder if I was talking too much. ‘I think that’s why I’ve been doing quite well on Linx so far.’

‘Why?’

‘I think men are all so insecure that too much beauty overwhelms them. I think they probably see a profile like mine – sweet face, very unremarkable hair, sense of humour – and they feel like they’re home.’ Max laughed loudly, tipping his head back into the grass. ‘You know what I mean though, don’t you?’

‘I suppose you do have a … welcoming quality, but not for the reasons you think you do.’

‘I’m like a service station on a motorway. They know they can stop in for a cup of tea and a cheese sandwich. They know what they’re getting with me. It’s familiar. Men like what’s familiar. They don’t think they do, but they do.’

When we’d finished the bottle, we walked back towards Archway through the cool, dark summer sunset. We stopped at the gates of the Ladies’ Pond and peered in, along the dirt path. The black silhouette of delicate branches spread across the indigo sky like a chinoiserie plate.

‘I wish I could take you in to see it. We could break in, I suppose.’ I said it weakly because I am not and never have been a rule-breaker.

‘No, no,’ he replied. ‘You’ll just have to describe it to me.’

‘So, that –’ I gestured to the left – ‘is where everyone leaves their bikes. Further down this path on the right there is a patch of grass everyone calls the meadow. That’s the bit that feels like a scene from a Greek myth. It’s magical in the summer. A carpet of languishing half-naked women drinking tins of G&T. Then further down on the right, there’s the pond.’

‘How deep is it?’

‘Really deep – you can’t see or feel the bottom. And it’s always cold, even in the summer. But lots of women pretend it isn’t. In the spring, the ducklings are tiny and they swim alongside you. We swam here in the spring on Katherine’s hen do. And on solstice last year, my friend Lola made me come here at the crack of dawn and do a ceremony.’

‘Is she a pagan?’

‘No, just neurotic,’ I said. ‘It’s my favourite place in London. If I ever have a daughter, I’m taking her here every week as an education on women’s bodies and strength.’

‘See – this is why we’re so frightened of all of you.’

‘Are you frightened of us?’

‘Of course we are. That’s why we’ve always tried to keep you quiet and lock you up and bind your feet and take away all of your power. It’s because we were so scared of what would happen if you were as free as we were. It’s pitiful.’

‘What’s there to be frightened of?’

‘All of it. You can communicate and synchronize with each other in a way men never will be able to. You have tides within your own body. You’re nurturing and magical and supernatural and sci-fi. And all we can do is … jizz on our own stomachs and hit each other.’

‘And make small talk in car parks.’

‘But barely, though.’

‘And change fuses.’

‘I can’t even do that.’

‘Girl,’ I whispered, my face closing in on his.

‘I fucking wish,’ he said, pushing me against the railings and kissing me. The wet, weedy smell of earth and wild water drifted out towards us – the English scent of Special Brew cans floating on canals and lily pads floating on lakes.

We walked hand in hand all the way home, which I hadn’t done since Joe and I were students. I had been transported back to a time of promise and pleasure. I was a teenager again, but with self-esteem and a salary and no curfew. I had discovered a second type of life that could happen with Max – a life that could run parallel to the everyday one with the ill dad and the disintegrating friendships and the monthly mortgage payments. I thought about reality – the sciatica I’d developed the year previously, the physiotherapy I couldn’t afford, the black damp in between my shower tiles that no amount of scrubbing could remove, all those news stories I’d never fully understand, all those local elections I never voted in, the incessant emails from my accountant that always began with: ‘Nina – you appear to be confused.’ As I felt the warmth of Max travel up into me through our hands, I felt like I was uncontactable. Reality could try as hard as it liked – it could text, email and call me – when I was with Max, it wouldn’t be able to get in touch.

He walked me into my building, up the stairs and stood in the communal corridor with its stained petal-pink carpet, peeling wallpaper and dirty yellow light from the bare overhead bulb. I didn’t know whether it was an act of chivalry or seduction – or maybe both those motives hoped for the same outcome. I leant against the frame of my front door.

‘I am obviously desperate to invite you in,’ I said.

‘You don’t have to.’

‘I just think, maybe, you know. We should be grown up. Wait.’ This was only partly true – I also knew there was a pile of laundry on my bed. And possibly some gusset-side-up knickers in the bathroom. There was no milk in the fridge for tea in the morning. And most probably a tab open on a search like: How many hairs on nipple normal for woman 32??

‘We’ve got time.’

‘How are you getting home?’ I asked.