At some point during my shift, I let Ben, my fellow bartender, know I need to run to the loo.

“Hurry,” he says. “That bloody lot from the law firm just came in. You know how they love the mixed drinks.”

I wink at him and hurry round the corner, glancing once more at David before I go. He’s in deep conversation with Penny and I can’t help but smile. Most people would dismiss Penny as eccentric and weird, but not David. He loves eccentric and weird. When I reach the toilets, I have to wait in line. I wash my hands and hurry out, ready for Ben to give me a mouthful for taking so long. When I round the corner Ben is fine, laughing with a guest, and David is nowhere to be seen.

“What happened to the guy who was sitting there?” I ask Ben.

He’s juicing grapefruit and he doesn’t look up at me.

“Paid his tab and left in a hurry,” he says.

“Oh,” I say casually. “Did he say anything before he left?”

I try to keep my voice nonchalant, but there is an urgency inside of me. I want to run out into the street and call his name. He can’t just come in like that and then leave without saying goodbye. I need to know what he wants to do. I can’t be kept suspended like this.

“No. Just handed me twenty quid and left.”

I don’t know if I feel confusion or disappointment more, but what had I expected? Maybe he just needed to see how he felt one last time. I suppose he could have even been walking by when he saw me inside, Trafalgar was a popular place for tourists to be wandering around. But he’d said, “I’m here for Yara,” like that had been his plan all along.

When I go back around to check on Penny, she hands me a scrap of paper. There’s a strange expression on her usually impassive face. I breathe a sigh of relief. He’s written me something, I think. A note, or a telephone number maybe. I unfold the tiny strip of paper and blink down at it, confused. Two numbers are written inside in red ink and nothing else.

“Did he say what this meant?” I ask her, holding it up.

She shrugs. He’d written 49. I recognize his handwriting right away, scratchy and slanted. 49? Was it a room number? A date? Should it have triggered a memory of something from our past? I shake my head, tears pooling in my eyes. I turn away before Penny can see me and tuck the slip of paper into my shirt pocket.

I take a cab home that night. I can’t bear the thought of standing in the Tube squashed against all those people when I feel like I’m about to cry. The piece of paper David left with Penny sits open on my lap, the number 49 staring up at me like an accusation. I don’t remember. If he’s trying to trigger something from our past, I’ve forgotten. I search the internet for the meaning of the number. The San Francisco 49ers, a ski resort in Washington state, the DC comic episode 49 where Batgirl makes an appearance. None of it means anything to me. When the cabbie leans back to tell me we’ve arrived, I’m thoroughly confused and already planning on buying another bottle of wine to carry me through the night. I hand him his money and walk a block to the corner shop. I could e-mail David, ask him what his note meant, but I’m too prideful. He obviously thought it would mean something to me. David was the aware one in our relationship. He knew the wine I liked to drink, and he knew my favorite color. When the time came for him to choose a wedding cake flavor and our honeymoon, he did so without pause—because he knew me.

I choose a bottle of white this time. White wine makes me loopy. I’ve been known to strip off all my clothes and try to run outside naked after drinking too much white wine, but I’m desperate to feel something, even if it’s something that makes me behave badly. I carry my bottle up to my flat and search the cupboards for something to eat. I’ve not been shopping for food since before Ethan and I saw the flat. Everything else has been boxed up for the move. I’m too depressed to leave, so I text Posey and ask her to come over and bring food. I expect her to swear at me, tell me to go to hell like she normally does, but instead she texts back: Be right there. Want a curry?

I send her a thumbs up and finish off my bottle. By the time Posey arrives, two brown paper bags cradled in her arms, I’m drunk off my ass and singing Britney Spears circa 2001 at the top of my lungs.

“God,” she says. “I don’t even know who you are anymore. You were always more of a Mandy Moore girl.”

I launch into a shrill rendition of “Candy” while I unpack the bags she set on the counter.

“So why are you drunk at six o’clock in the evening?” she says. Her voice is light and teasing, but I know she wants her question answered truthfully.

“David,” I say, opening the plastic tub of rice. “He came into the restaurant.”

She doesn’t look surprised. “Of course he did,” she says. “And what did he say? Does he need you to be a muse for him again?”

I stop in my spooning of curry to look at her.

“I don’t know why he came,” I say. “He just left while I was in the loo without saying goodbye.”

“Figures.” She licks the dishing spoon clean and I make a disgusted face. “Artists are dramatic that way.”

I reluctantly tell her about the slip of paper he left with the number 49 written on it. I figured she’d make fun of me for not remembering what it meant, but she looks thoughtful instead.

“It’s not an anniversary date then?”

I shake my head. “No. And I’ve ruled out apartment numbers, bus numbers, inside jokes, and songs.”

“Maybe that’s it then. He’s writing a new song and giving you ample warning.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s it. There’s something I’m missing.”

“So why not just e-mail the guy and ask?”

“I feel stupid, I guess. I feel as if I’m supposed to know.”

Posey shakes her head. “Your inability to communicate is going to fuck up your life for good, you know that? And where’s that wanker boyfriend of yours? You walk out on him too?”

“Ethan found out I met with David and won’t talk to me.”

Posey closes her eyes like my drama is overwhelming her. “I suppose you haven’t contacted him either to talk things over.”

“He’s the one mad at me!”

“Oh my God, Yara! You’re such a narcissist. You met with another man—one you used to be in love with—and didn’t tell Ethan about it. How do you expect him to feel? That’s not how a partnership works. I’m not going to tell you what to do, but now seems like the time to apologize to him if you’d like to salvage that relationship.”

“That’s the thing. I don’t know if I want to. Maybe it just ran its course.”

Posey looks dumbfounded. She sets her fork down and just sits there staring at me.

“All right,” I say. “I’m a narcissist and a coward. But, there isn’t really a cure and I’m not always sure what to do. Can we take into consideration that there’s a good chance I’m going to fuck things up with Ethan anyway, so maybe it’s better if I just walk away now.”

“Are you behaving this way because David’s back in the picture?”

“No. And he’s not back in the picture. He’s just reminded me of how awful I am.”

She drums her fingers on the counter as she considers my words. “But not everything needs to be focused on how awful you already are. That’s what makes you a narcissist. Even in the middle of hurting other people you’re focused on yourself.”

“You’re right,” I admit. “What do I do?”

“Stop overanalyzing yourself, first off. You spend enough time thinking about yourself, and even after you obsessively overthink everything you do, somehow everyone else lands up being the bully.”

“Do you think that’s why all of my relationships fail?”

“See, you’re doing it again.”

I sit up straighter. “Okay. Sorry. I’m going to practice not thinking about myself. I’ll call Ethan and apologize for my thoughtlessness.”

“Good,” says Posey. “The first step was admitting you’re a narcissist. Now you need to change the way you think of things.”

“Yes,” I say, determined. “And I’m not allowed to think of myself, right?”

“Well, think more about how your behavior affects others, you know? Don’t be so focused on your feelings that they’re all you see.”

By the time Posey leaves I’m a new woman. I won’t even look at myself in the mirror. I call Ethan and when he doesn’t answer, I send him an e-mail begging for his forgiveness.

He e-mails me back and says we can meet for lunch the following week. We make arrangements and I stumble to bed still half drunk.