A crumb clung to his lip. I opened my mouth and drew breath to tell him, but then I stopped myself. What, he asked. Nothing, I replied.

So he carried on talking about Tara Palmer-Tomkinson, and why she was the most misunderstood “it” girl. But all I could think about was that little chunk of Bakewell tart hanging from his snogger. He paused, what are you looking at? I said, nothing, and he looked over his left shoulder and scrunched his brow with a confused disdain. Well… and then I picked up his affogato and rinsed his face with it. And the crumb was gone. And I could finally rest.