Sometimes, late at night, Mark messages and asks me what I’m up to. It means that he’s bored and wants somebody to share the boredom with. He’ll pick me up in his purple BMW and we’ll drive into the countryside.

He always drives with one hand on the steering wheel, the other scrolling the touch screen, constantly skipping tracks on Apple Play. The driver’s seat is as far back as it will go because of his long legs, and the seat reclines at an odd angle. He’s not afraid of dark and unfamiliar roads and says it’s safer driving at night. He’ll step on the accelerator and talk about anything, his Yorkshire bluff switching subjects as often as the music. Mostly, I’ll sit in silence.

Mark looks like any other lad in his twenties, but I’ve seen through that disarray. The eye can’t see what lies beneath, but I can speculate. With a bit of tidying up, smart haircut, and a good shave, he could be a male model.

I expect that his parents didn’t expect him to be so tall. They are both average height and probably surprised that he outgrew his bed and slept most nights with his feet sticking over the end. He’s over six-foot and lean, not skinny, and certainly not lanky.

In another life, he’d be photographed in his underwear for a glossy magazine and called something like Callum or Luke.

I keep wanting to say this to him, but it sounds pervy and he might think that I’m coming onto him. That’s why I’m mostly quiet.

We’ll drive into the night and might come across an all-night garage where he’ll disappear inside and emerge with arms full of bad things like crisps, chocolate, and cans of Monster.

Then we’ll park in a layby where he’ll switch off the engine so that we’re in complete darkness and demolish it all. He’ll always ask for a cigarette and will get out of the car because he doesn’t want it smelling of smoke, but seemingly oblivious to the empty cans and wrappers that litter the footwells.

We’ll often arrive back in the city during the early hours, say our goodbyes, and I might not see him again for months.