Her passcode is her date of birth – people can be so predictable – and as soon as the phone is unlocked I regret it. There are a mind-boggling number of selfies in her photos, endless suggestive texts to numbers and names I don’t recognise, and her most recent email exchange was with Helen Wang. The subject of which appears to be me. I keep reading the final message Rachel wrote before we met that night.

I know Jack is a loser, but a friend in the force could have been useful. You’re right though, I’ll end it tonight. Maybe a goodbye shag to soften the blow?

So Rachel planned to dump me and Helen knew.

The front door slams. I slip the phone back into my pocket, just before Priya reappears in the kitchen. A jiffy is by no means a specific length of time, but she must have been gone over half an hour. Longer than I expected, at any rate. She doesn’t appear to have bought anything either. A lifetime of living with my mother, my sister and Anna, has taught me to know when a woman doesn’t want to be asked any questions. It’s late and we’re both exhausted. So – despite feeling a suspicious blend of curious – I don’t ask.

‘This looks and smells delicious, thank you,’ I say, as Priya puts a plate of food down in front of me. I’m not lying, it really does look great, and I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal. ‘I wasn’t expecting this,’ I add.

‘Were you expecting me to cook a curry?’

‘God, no, I just meant that…’

‘What? You didn’t think I could cook?’

I can see from her face that Priya is teasing me. Sarcasm is a language that I am fluent in, but one which she doesn’t always seem to understand. The beer appears to have loosened her tongue, and made us both more relaxed in each other’s company. She sits down beside me, perhaps a little too close.

‘It’s nothing special, just Nigella,’ she says.

‘I think Nigella is pretty special,’ I reply with a grin, and she gives me one of her polite smiles in return, as though maybe I have offended her in some way.

I’ve always found women to be far more complicated than men, and wonder what I’ve done wrong now. She can’t possibly be upset because of my comment about Nigella – half the nation has a crush on the woman.

It’s odd, really. I’ve always thought of Priya as just a girl until tonight, but she seems far more grown-up in her own home environment. At ease with herself, unlike the way she behaves when we’re working. Perhaps that’s why I feel so comfortable in her company this evening. More relaxed. Possibly too relaxed.

‘Where did you go earlier?’ I ask, unable to stop myself.

Her eyes widen and she looks as though I just accused her of something terrible.

‘I’m so sorry…’ she says.

‘What for?’

‘I forgot, then I remembered, then I forgot again.’

She stands up from the table, abandoning her half-eaten food, and leaves the room without another word. I’ll admit I’m feeling a tad uneasy, but then she reappears in the doorway holding a bottle of ketchup.

‘I know how much you like this stuff with your chips, sir. You always practically drown them in it, but I didn’t have any. I went out to get some – I wanted you to enjoy the food – but then I forgot and…’

She looks like she might cry, and I conclude that women are in fact a different species.

‘Priya, the food is delicious. You really didn’t need to go to all that trouble.’

‘I wanted everything to be perfect.’

I smile at her.

‘It already is.’

I relax a little more now that I know where she went – it was sweet of her, really. She seems to unwind too. She clears our plates away and gets us both another beer from the fridge, without asking if I want one. I can’t decide whether she is just being a good host – my bottle was empty – or whether I’m right to be worried about the direction things are travelling in. Her hair is down again. I notice that she’s unbuttoned the top of her shirt, and I swear she sprayed herself with perfume the last time she left the room. I take a large swig of my beer, and decide to face this head on, like the man I suspect she thinks I am.

‘Priya, look, this has all been lovely, but I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.’

She looks appalled.

‘Did I do something wrong, sir?’

‘No and, once again, there really is no need to call me sir, especially when I am in your home, eating your food and drinking your beer. Christ, I should have brought something. That’s so rude of me—’

‘It’s fine. Really. Jack.’

The sound of her using my actual name feels wrong too. I realise I’ve probably had more than I should have to drink, especially as I was planning on driving home. This was all a big mistake, and I need to set things straight before I see her again tomorrow.

‘Look, Priya. I… like working with you.’ She beams and it makes this even harder. I remind myself that I’m significantly older than her, and that I need to take charge of the situation before things get out of hand. ‘But…’ Her face falters, and I conclude this speech would be much easier to deliver if I just stare at the laminated wooden floor. ‘We work together. I’m a lot older than you, and while I think you’re terrific and a very attractive young woman…’

Fuck, I think that last sentence could be construed as sexual harassment.

‘… I don’t think of you or see you in that way.’

There. Nailed it.

‘You think I’m ugly?’

‘Christ, no. Shit, is that what I said?’

She smiles and I have no understanding of the current situation. I wonder if perhaps the rejection has caused her to lose it.

‘Sir, it’s fine. Honestly. I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression,’ she says. ‘I was making you food all the time at work because, well, I like to cook for other people, and at the moment I don’t have anyone to do that for. I bought you cigarettes because I thought you might need them. And if I sometimes hang off your every word, it’s because I think you’re great at your job, and I want to learn from you. But that’s it.’

I’m confused, but women do tend to have that effect on me. I can’t quite interpret the look on her face, but I fear it might be pity. I feel foolish and old and delusional all of a sudden, and perhaps I am: why would someone so young, intelligent, and attractive be interested in a man like me?

Priya gets up and I notice for the first time what pretty little feet she has, with soft-looking brown skin, and red-painted toenails. She crosses the room, grabs two glasses and a bottle of whisky – one I used to drink with Anna – then sits back down next to me. A bit closer than before.

‘I would like to propose a toast,’ she says, pouring two rather large measures. ‘Here’s to a long and happy strictly professional and platonic relationship. Cheers.’

‘Cheers,’ I reply, clinking my glass with hers.

She downs her drink – bit of a waste really, it’s good-quality stuff – but I drain my glass too.

And then I kiss her.

Her

Wednesday 21:00