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Simone was twenty when I knew her, a slim, pretty girl of medium height, with dyed blonde hair cut short and intentionally ragged. She had thin, smiling eyes, a short pointed nose and a wide mouth with thin lips over large straight teeth. She talked loudly with a surprisingly deep voice, but laughed almost silently, closing her eyes and shaking, her face reddening, until she sighed and gasped her way back to composure with eyes glazed and watery with delight. Her laugh is what I remember. We were colleagues of a sort; I worked in marketing as a graphic designer and she was with finance, two tables away. The office, home to a mail-order greeting card company, was a small, young, friendly place where everyone knew each other’s name and tolerated work with a light-hearted cynicism born of the knowledge that nothing we were doing was all that important. We worked by the river in a low, rambling, airy building built in the late sixties, when work-life balance, although it wasn’t called that then, was balanced very much in favour of life. We had inherited a similar attitude, which was largely why the company never turned a profit and went under shortly after the events I’m describing took place.

On summer evenings we often went out as a group to the Apple Grove, a pub made from a reconditioned manor house, which was favoured by employees of the many high-technology companies that inhabited the landscaped industrial park nearby. The pub was a bearable fifteen-minute walk down the towpath from the office, a journey we generally made at a giggly half-trot, so elated were we to be suddenly ...

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