But I am allowed to blog about him. Unrelentingly.
My friend looks sceptical.
The next day I’m sat at reception, with a dusty orchid for company. My phone flashes up with a new message. It won’t be from him.
It’s from him. My colleagues know something’s up; I’m smiling before midday. I even offer to make them all tea.
That afternoon, I text my friend, letting her know he has been in touch, but that it probably doesn’t mean anything. She sends back:
‘I’m saying nothing.’
That wasn’t part of the agreement.