Alice and I met 20 years ago today. She was centre stage. A seemingly quiet voice in a searingly quiet room, she tore the place apart, breaking hearts.

Her voice, her love, her kindness were palpable. Her songs beautiful.

Break, break, break.

We talked and walked after the show, after the dance. Alice was out of my league. I was out of my depth, and didn’t stand a chance.

Shake, shake, shake.

Nine months later we were married, and Scarlet was on the way. Scarlet and wine were on the way.

Alice made her decisions, and made them well. The wine and I were less important than Scarlet.

Annabel works the nights. As the sun goes down, she wakes up, drinks her drink from a coffee cup. We all get by somehow.

You first met Annabel longer ago than she cares to remember. You remember.

Annabel walks you through the streets of old Soho. You wonder where this will lead, even though you know.

In her room, she lights the fuse. Fairy lights and subtle cues. Minutes later, the deal is done. The rent is overdue.

For Annabel lately, the years now take their toll. You talk about the times that passed, while Annabel wonders how long her work can last.

For all her lovers who have come and gone, Annabel still sleeps alone.