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‘We’re a bit desperate.’

He types something, fake I’m sure, and then looks up.

‘I’ve already said no to the festival at least five times.’

‘I know. But we have a new idea for a session, and we thought you might…’ Now I falter. I’ve been using my I’m-at-work-and-this-is-a-professional-interaction voice, putting my walls up as fast as possible, but I don’t know how to persuade him without speaking more honestly.

‘What’s the idea?’ he asks, back looking at his laptop screen as if he couldn’t be less interested.

‘Look,’ I say. ‘It wasn’t my idea and I didn’t really actually agree to it, and your mum was going to be the one to ask but she dropped everything because—’

Now I pause again. Does he know Ettie is in labour? I don’t want to be the one to break personal news to him.

‘Because of Ettie, yes. I know she’s in labour,’ he says.

‘Right. Anyway. Kat actually came up with the idea.’

‘What is this idea you’re so afraid to tell me?’ he says, finally looking up and meeting my eyes and, for a second, it looks like he wants to smile but he stops himself.

‘They thought it might be interesting if you and I were in conversation about your work and overcoming writer’s block and your journey to writing again.’

As the words are coming out of my mouth, I realise how ridiculous they sound. How personal all of this is to him, to us, how complicated it is, and I’m casually suggesting we put it on a stage. I rush onwards.

‘I know I’m probably the last person you want to do an event with, and it’s a topic you probably don’t want to talk about, but I told Hillary I would pitch the idea to you.’ I hesitate, not sure whether to go on. ‘And I thought it would be easier to ask in person,’ I add in an almost whisper.

At this moment, my latte arrives, and we sit in silence and look at each other.

‘Easier in person?’ he says, when the waiter leaves.

‘Yes.’

‘You think this is easy?’

‘No. But a phone call felt too…’ Cold. Distant. Brief. The truth, I realise now is that I desperately wanted to see him again.

‘Too what?’

‘I don’t know. Probably an email would have been better.’ I sip my latte so I have something to do other than look at him.

‘An email would have been better.’

‘Well, next time.’

‘I’m not doing that session.’

‘Okay,’ I say, head down. Now it’s me not meeting his eyes.

I hate that I feel like this, guilty, supplicating him, that I’m acting like I’ve done something wrong when I haven’t. Why should I be ashamed of what happened? He made that mess too. He should be ashamed for how he’s speaking to me right now. I put my head up, square my shoulders. Things with Xavier are ruined, but I still have my job, and it’s important, and I need to do it properly.

‘It would mean a lot to Hillary,’ I say. ‘If you would consider it.’

‘And what about you?’

‘I want the festival to go well and I want Hillary to be happy,’ I say.

‘But do you want to do this session?’ he asks, and for the first time, he sounds like his old self. Like he’s really asking. And I soften a bit.

‘I don’t know. I think it could be interesting. It’s the kind of session I would go to as an audience member. But I don’t know if…’