The Flatshare

52 Leon

So. I’m standing in between two suits of armour, wearing a woolly jumper, staring into the middle distance.

My life has got stranger with Tiffy in it. Have never been afraid of a strange life, but lately have grown rather . . . comfortable. Set in my ways, as Kay used to say.

Can’t stay that way for long with Tiffy around.

She’s helping Katherin style us models. The other two are waif-like teens; Martin is staring at them as if they’re edible. They’re nice, but conversation dried up after we caught up on this year’s Bake Off, and I’m now just counting down the minutes until Tiffy next gets to come over and adjust my woolly jumper in indiscernible ways that (I’m pretty sure) are just excuses to touch me.

Lordy Lord Illustrator flits around set. He is a pleasant posh ­gentle­man; his castle is a little ramshackle, but it has rooms and suitably epic views, so everyone seems happy.

Except Martin. I joked with Tiffy about plotting his downfall, but when he’s not salivating over the other models, he looks as if he’s trying to work out the easiest way to push me off the battlements. Can’t figure it out. Nobody here knows about Tiffy and me — we thought that was simplest. But am wondering if he’s worked it out. If he does know, though, why would he care enough to glare at me so much?

Ah, well. I do as I’m told and stare in slightly different direction. Am just grateful to get away from the flat this weekend; had a bad feeling Justin would appear. He will eventually. Clearly wasn’t finished when he left last Saturday. And yet he’s been quiet since. No flowers, no texts, no turning up wherever Tiffy is despite having no way of knowing where she might happen to be. Suspicious. I’m worried he is biding his time for something. Men like that don’t go away after a little scare.

Try not to yawn (have been awake for many, many hours, with only small naps). I let my gaze drift in Tiffy’s direction. She’s in wellies and blue tie-dyed jeans, lounging sideways on an enormous Game of Thrones-style chair that stands in the corner of the armoury and probably isn’t intended for sitting on. Catch a glimpse of smooth skin as she shifts, her cardigan falling open. Swallow. Return gaze to particular bit of middle distance insisted upon by photographer.

Martin: All right, let’s take a twenty-minute break!

I make a run for it before he can commandeer me into doing something other than talking to Tiffy (so far, have had to spend my breaks moving ancient weaponry, hoovering up errant straw, and checking tiny graze on finger of one of the waif-like models).

Me, on approaching Tiffy’s throne chair: What is that man’s problem with me?

Tiffy shakes her head and swings her legs around to get up.

Tiffy: Really, I have no idea. He’s even more of a dick to you than the rest of us, though, isn’t he?

Rachel, in a hiss, from behind me: Run! Flee! Incoming!

Tiffy doesn’t need telling twice. She grabs my hand and drags me away in the direction of the front hall (gigantic stone cavern with three staircases).

Katherin, shouting after us: Are you leaving me to deal with him on my own?

Tiffy: Bloody hell, woman! Just imagine he’s a Tory MP in the seventies, all right?

I don’t turn around to see Katherin’s reaction, but can hear Rachel’s snort of laughter. Tiffy pulls me into ornate nook that looks as if it might once have housed a statue, and kisses me hard on the mouth.

Tiffy: All this staring at you all day. It’s unbearable. And I am viciously jealous of everyone else getting to do it too.

Feels like sipping something warm — spreads downwards from my chest, pulls my lips into a smile. Don’t know quite what to say, so kiss her instead. Her body presses mine against the cold stone wall, her hands twining around my neck.

Tiffy, against my mouth: Next weekend.

Me: Hmm?

(Am busy kissing.)

Tiffy: It’ll be just the two of us. Alone. In our flat. And if anyone interrupts us or drags you off to administer to an eighteen-year-old’s scratched finger, I will personally have them executed.

Pauses.

Tiffy: Sorry. This whole castle setting is clearly getting into my head.

Pull back, search her face. Have I not told her? I must have told her.

Tiffy: What? What is it?

Me: Richie’s trial is on Friday. Sorry. I’m staying at Mam’s for the weekend afterwards — didn’t I tell you?

Feel a familiar fear. This will be the start of an unpleasant conversation — have forgotten to tell her something, am changing her plans . . .

Tiffy: No! Are you serious?

Stomach writhes. Reach to pull her in again, but she bats my hands away, eyes wide.

Tiffy: You didn’t tell me! Leon — I didn’t know. I’m so sorry, but — Katherin’s book launch . . .

I’m confused now. Why is she sorry?

Tiffy: I wanted to be there, but it’s Katherin’s book launch on the Friday. I can’t believe this. Will you tell Richie to call when I’m in the flat, so I can apologise properly?

Me: For what?

Tiffy rolls her eyes impatiently.

Tiffy: For not being able to come to his appeal!

Stare at her. Blink a bit. Relax as I realise she is in fact not angry with me.

Me: Never would expect . . .

Tiffy: Are you joking? You didn’t think I was going to be there? It’s Richie!

Me: You really wanted to come?

Tiffy: Yes, Leon. I really, really wanted to come.

Poke her in the cheek with one finger.

Tiffy, already laughing: Ow! What was that for?

Me: You’re real? A real-life human female?

Tiffy: Yes, I’m real, you idiot.

Me: Implausible. How are you so nice, and also very pretty? You’re a myth, no? You’ll turn into an ogre at stroke of midnight?

Tiffy: Stop it. Bloody hell, you have low standards! Why shouldn’t I want to come to your brother’s appeal? He’s my friend too. I actually spoke to him before I spoke to you, I’ll have you know.

Me: I’m glad you didn’t meet him first. He is much more attractive than me.

Tiffy wiggles eyebrows.

Tiffy: Is that why you didn’t mention the appeal date?

Scuff feet. Thought I’d told her. She squeezes my arm.

Tiffy: It’s all right, honestly, I’m just teasing.

Think of the months of notes and leftover dinners, the never knowing her. Feels so different now I’ve met her. Can’t believe I wasted all that time — not just those months, but the time before that, the years of dawdling, settling, waiting.

Me: No, I should’ve told you. We should get better at this. We can’t keep relying on snatching days together as and when. Or on colliding by accident.

I pause, testing a thought. Could switch to the occasional day shift? Stay in the flat one night a week? Open my mouth to suggest it, but Tiffy’s eyes have gone wide and serious, almost nervous, and I freeze, suddenly sure it’s the wrong thing to say. Then, after a moment:

Tiffy, brightly: How about a calendar on the fridge?

Right. That’s probably more appropriate — it’s early days. Am being far too keen.

Glad I didn’t say anything now.

53 Tiffy

I stare up at the very distant, very spiderwebby ceiling. It’s absolutely bloody freezing in here, even under a duvet and three blankets, with Rachel’s body heat to the left of me like a person-shaped radiator.

Today has been an extremely frustrating day. It’s unusual you get to spend an entire eight hours staring at the person you fancy. If we’re honest, most of my day has been spent fantasising about all of the other people in this castle being vaporised, leaving just me and Leon, naked (the vaporiser also took our clothes), with many exciting places to have sex in.

I’m still clearly a mess about Justin, and as things progress with Leon I can feel nice-scary tilting towards scary-scary a little more often. When Leon started talking about making more time for each other, for instance, the panicky trapped feeling tightened right in again. But beneath that, when I’m thinking clearly, I have such a good feeling about Leon. He’s where my mind goes when I’m feeling my best. He makes me even more determined to get over what happened with Justin because I don’t want to be carrying the weight of that with Leon. I want to be light and footloose and fancy-free. And naked.

‘Stop it,’ Rachel mumbles into her pillow.

‘Stop what?’ I hadn’t realised she was awake, or I’d have had that whole little thought episode out loud.

‘Your sexual frustration is making me tense,’ Rachel says, turning over and dragging as much of the duvet as possible with her.

I cling on and yank it back an inch or two. ‘I’m not frustrated.’

‘Please. I bet you’ve just been waiting until I go to sleep so you can hump my leg.’

I poke her with a very cold foot. She yelps.

‘My sexual frustration cannot be stopping you sleeping,’ I say, conceding the point. ‘If that was possible, nobody would ever have been able to sleep in Victorian times.’

She turns over to squint at me. ‘You’re weird,’ she says, rolling away again. ‘Go sneak out and find your boyfriend.’

‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ I say automatically, the way you learn to from the age of eight.

‘Your special friend. Your beau. Your squeeze. Your—’

‘I’m going,’ I hiss at her, throwing back the duvet.

Hana is gently snoring on the other bed. She actually looks like quite a nice person while she’s sleeping, but then it’s hard to look bitchy when you’re drooling into your pillow.

Leon and I have come up with a plan to see each other tonight. Martin has for some irritating reason moved Leon into a double room, sharing with the cameraman, which means we can’t sneak into bed together. But, with Hana and the cameraman fast asleep, there’s no reason why we can’t slip out and go for a castle adventure. The idea was that we’d each get some rest, and then meet at three in the morning, but I’ve been too excited to sleep. Still, just-woken-up is nowhere near as good a look as Hollywood would have you believe, so it’s probably a good job I’ve been lying here awake for hours thinking inappropriate thoughts.

I hadn’t counted on it being this bloody freezing, though. I’d imagined I’d wear just my underwear and a dressing gown — I brought sexy negligee-style underwear and everything — but right now I’m in fleece pyjama bottoms, woolly socks, and three jumpers, and there’s no way I’m taking these off. So I just slick on some lip gloss, give my hair a ruffle, and ease the door open.

It creaks so much it borders on cliché, but Hana doesn’t wake. I slip out of the door as soon as it’s just about wide enough, and pull it closed behind me, wincing at all the groaning noises.

Leon and I are meeting in the kitchen, because if anyone finds us there we’ve got a good excuse (given the number of biscuits I consume at work, nobody will have trouble believing that I need a midnight snack). I powerwalk down the carpeted hall, keeping a close eye on the rooms that line the corridor in case anyone else is up and about to spot me.

Nobody. The powerwalking is warming me up a bit, so I take the stairs at a jog too, and by the time I arrive in the kitchen I’m slightly out of breath.

The kitchen is the only bit of the castle that looks loved. It’s been redone recently, and, to my absolute delight, there is an enormous Aga at the far end. I plaster my body against it like a girl who’s found a former One Direction member in a nightclub and doesn’t plan on leaving without him.

‘Should I be feeling this jealous?’ Leon says from behind me.

I look over my shoulder. He’s standing in the doorway, his hair freshly smoothed back, in a loose T-shirt and jogging bottoms.

‘If your body-heat is higher than this Aga’s temperature, I’m yours,’ I tell him, turning to warm my bum and the back of my legs, and to get a better look at him.

He closes the space between us, casual, unhurried. There’s this understated confidence to him sometimes — he doesn’t show it much, but when he does it’s impossibly sexy. He kisses me and I get even warmer.

‘Did you have any trouble sneaking out?’ I ask, breaking away to push my hair back over my shoulders.

‘Larry the cameraman is a very heavy sleeper,’ Leon says, finding my mouth again and kissing me slowly.

My heart is already thundering. I feel a little dizzy, as if all the blood that usually hangs around in my head has decided it has other places to be. Our lips barely parting, Leon lifts me up so I’m sitting on the Aga warming plate, and I wrap my legs around him, linking my ankles behind his body. He presses against me.

I become gradually aware of the heat from the Aga working its way through my flannel pyjama bottoms and beginning to scald my bum.

‘Ahh. Burny,’ I say, pushing forward so Leon takes my weight. He lifts me up, koala-bear style, and moves me to the sideboard instead, his lips slowly beginning to trace patterns all over me — neck and chest, lips again, neck, collarbone, lips. My head is starting to spin; I’m barely thinking. His hands find the narrow opening between my jumpers and pyjama bottoms, and then his hands are on my skin, and barely thinking becomes not thinking at all.

‘Is it bad to have sex on surface where other people prepare food?’ Leon asks, pulling away, breathless.

‘No! It’s just . . . clean! Hygienic,’ I say, pulling him back to me.

‘Good,’ he says, and suddenly all my jumpers are off in one go. I’m not cold at all any longer. In fact, I could do with wearing fewer clothes. Why the hell didn’t I wear the negligee?

I yank off Leon’s T-shirt and tug at the waistband of his jogging bottoms until he slips those off too. As I slide my body up against his he pauses for a moment.

‘OK?’ he asks hoarsely. I can see the control he’s taking to ask the question; I answer with another kiss. ‘Yes?’ he says, mouth against mine. ‘This means OK?’

‘Yes. Now stop talking,’ I tell him, and he does as he’s told.

We’re so close. I’m almost naked, he’s almost naked, my head is full of Leon. This is it. It’s happening. My inner, sexually frustrated Victorian almost weeps with gratitude as Leon pulls me towards him by the hips so I’m pressed up against him, his body back between my legs.

And then, there it is. The remembering.

I stiffen. He doesn’t clock it at first, and for three deeply horrible seconds his hands are still moving over my body, his lips still pressed hard against mine. It’s very hard to describe this feeling. Panic, perhaps, but I’m completely immobile and feel strangely passive. I’m frozen, trapped, and have the odd sensation that some crucial part of me has detached itself.

Leon’s hands slow, coming to a halt on either side of my face. He lifts my head gently to look at him.

‘Ah,’ he says. He disentangles himself from me just as I begin to shake all over.

I can’t seem to get that part of me back. I don’t know where this feeling came from — one moment I was about to have the sex I’d been fantasising over all week, and the next I was . . . remembering something. A body that wasn’t Leon’s, hands that were doing the same thing but I didn’t want them there.

‘You want space, or a hug?’ he asks simply, standing a foot away from me now.

‘Hug,’ I manage.

He gathers me to him, reaching for the heap of jumpers on the counter as he does so. He drapes one over my shoulder and cuddles me close, my head pressed against his chest. The only giveaway of how frustrated he must be feeling is the thud-thud of his heartbeat in my ear.

‘I’m sorry,’ I mutter into his chest.

‘You never should be that,’ he says. ‘Not sorry. OK?’

I smile shakily, pressing my lips to his skin. ‘OK.’

54 Leon

Am not usually an angry person. Am generally mild-mannered and hard to rile. It’s always me who stops Richie fighting (usually on behalf of a woman, who may or may not need any assistance). But now something primal seems to be happening, and it’s taking enormous effort to keep my body relaxed and movements gentle. Hostile posture and tenseness will not help Tiffy.

But I want to hurt him. Really. Don’t know what he did to Tiffy, what in particular triggered her this time, but whatever it was, it has hurt her so much she’s trembling all over like a kitten come in from the cold.

She surfaces, wiping her face.

Tiffy: Sorr— Umm. I mean. Hi.

Me: Hi. You want a tea?

She nods. Don’t want to let go of her, but holding on after she’s expecting me to is probably a bad plan. Dress again and head to kettle.

Tiffy: That was . . .

Wait. Kettle begins to boil, just a quiet rumble.

Tiffy: That was really horrible. I don’t even know what happened.

Me: Was it a new memory? Or something you’ve already talked through with the counsellor?

She shakes her head, frowning.

Tiffy: It wasn’t like a memory, it’s not like something came into my mind’s eye . . .

Me: More like muscle memory?

She looks up.

Tiffy: Yeah. Exactly.

Pour the teas. Open fridge for milk and pause. It’s filled with trays of little pink cupcakes iced with ‘F and J’.

Tiffy pads over to join me, sliding an arm around my waist.

Tiffy: Ooh. These must be for the wedding happening after we leave.

Me: How closely do you think they paid attention to the quantity?

Tiffy laughs. Not quite a full laugh, and a little wet with tears, but still good.

Tiffy: Probably very. Although there are so many.

Me: Too many. I’d estimate . . . three hundred.

Tiffy: Nobody invites three hundred people to their wedding. Unless they’re really famous, or Indian.

Me: Is it a famous Indian person’s wedding?

Tiffy: Lordy Lord Illustrator didn’t explicitly say so.

Pinch two cupcakes and give one to Tiffy. Her eyes are still a little pink from crying, but she’s smiling now, and eats the cupcake in almost one bite. Suspect she needs sugar.

We eat in silence for a while, moving to lean against Aga side by side.

Tiffy: So . . . in your professional opinion . . .

Me: As a palliative care nurse?

Tiffy: As a vaguely medical person . . .

Oh, no. These conversations never go well. People always assume they teach us all the medicine in the world at nursing school, and that we remember it five years later.

Tiffy: Am I going to freak out like this every time we’re about to have sex? Because that is literally the most depressing thought ever.

Me, carefully: I suspect not. May just take some time to work out triggers and how to avoid them until you feel safer.

She looks at me sharply.

Tiffy: I’m not . . . I don’t want you to think . . . he never, you know. Hurt me.

Would like to dispute that. Seems he has hurt her rather a lot. But it’s definitely not my place, so I just go and fetch her another cupcake and hold it up for her to bite.

Me: I’m not presuming anything. Just want you to feel better.

Tiffy stares at me, then, from nowhere, pokes me in the cheek.

Me, with a yelp: Hey!

Cheek-poke is a lot more startling than I’d realised when I did it to her earlier.

Tiffy: You’re not real, are you? You’re implausibly nice.

Me: Am not. I’m a grumpy old man who dislikes most people.

Tiffy: Most?

Me: There are a small number of exceptions.

Tiffy: How do you choose them? The exceptions?

Shrug, uncomfortable.

Tiffy: Really. Seriously. Why me?

Me: Umm. Well. I suppose . . . There are some people I just feel comfortable with. Not many. But you were one before I even met you.

Tiffy looks at me, head tilted, eyes holding my gaze for so long I twist on the spot, itching to drop the subject. Eventually she leans forward and kisses me slowly, tasting of icing.

Tiffy: I’ll be worth the wait. You’ll see.

As if I’d ever doubted it.

55 Tiffy

I lean back in my desk chair, taking my eyes off the screen. I’ve been staring at it for way too long — the castle knitwear photos have been picked up on Daily Mail’s Femail, and it’s weird. Katherin is officially a celebrity. I can’t believe how quickly this has happened, and also can’t stop reading comments from other women about how hot Leon is in those photos. I obviously already know he’s hot, but still, it’s simultaneously horrible and kind of good to get external validation.

I wonder how he’s feeling about it. I’m hoping he’s too technologically incapable to scroll to the comments section on the Daily Mail, because some of the comments are really quite X-rated. There’s obviously a few racist ones in there as well, this being a comments section on the Internet, and everything briefly descends into an argument about global warming being a liberalist conspiracy, and before I know it I have circled my way into the plughole of the Internet and wasted half an hour following people’s outlandish opinions on whether Trump is a neo-Nazi and whether Leon’s ears are too big.

I go to counselling after work. As per usual Lucie sits in borderline uncomfortable silence for a while, and then, seemingly spontan­eously, I start telling her awful, painful stuff I mostly can’t even bear to think about. How cleverly Justin made me believe I had a bad memory, so he could always say I’d misremembered things. How brazenly he convinced me I’d thrown a bunch of clothes out when really he’d just been chucking stuff he didn’t like me wearing to the back of the wardrobe.

How subtly he turned sex into something I owed him, even when he’d made me so sad I couldn’t think straight.

It’s all business as usual for Lucie, though. She just nods. Or tilts her head. Or sometimes — in extreme cases, when I’ve said something out loud that almost physically hurts to utter — she says a supportive ‘yes’.

This time she asks me at the end of the session how I think I’m getting on. I start with the usual stuff — ‘oh, this has been so great, honestly, thanks so much’, like when the hairdresser asks if you like the cut they’ve just given you. But Lucie just stares at me for a while, so then I think, how actually am I getting on? A couple of months ago I couldn’t face saying no to Justin taking me out for a drink. I was expending most of my mental energy keeping memories at bay. I wasn’t even willing to acknowledge that he’d abused me. And now, here I am, talking to Someone Who isn’t Mo about how what happened with Justin wasn’t my fault, and actually believing it.

I listen to a lot of Kelly Clarkson on my way home on the tube. Facing my reflection in the glass, I throw my shoulders back and meet my own gaze, just like that first train journey from Justin’s place to the flat. Yes, I’m a little teary-eyed from counselling, but this time I’m not wearing sunglasses.

You know what? I am extremely proud of myself.

The question of how Leon feels about the photos in Femail is answered on my return to the flat. He has left this note for me on the fridge:

Well, it seems he’s not let it get to his head, so that’s something. I stick the Thai food in the microwave, humming ‘Stronger (What Doesn’t Kill You)’, and reach for a pen while it whirs. Leon’s working until Wednesday, then off to his mum’s; I won’t see him in person before Richie’s trial on Friday. He’s keeping busy — he’s off on his last Johnny White visit tomorrow morning, planning on taking the earliest train he can to Cardiff and getting back in time for a nap before he’s back to work. I’d point out that that’s not enough sleep for him to function on, but I can tell he’s not sleeping well even when he’s here, so maybe it’s better for him to be out and about. He’s finally finished The Bell Jar, a sure sign he’s awake in the daytime, and seems to be surviving on caffeine mostly — at this point in the month we are not usually running this low on instant coffee.

I keep it brief.

When the reply comes the next evening I can tell Leon’s exhausted. It’s something about the handwriting — it’s looser than usual, like he couldn’t muster the energy to hold the pen tight.

Hmm. Richie may be holding up, but I’m not convinced that Leon is.

56 Leon

Late for work. Talked to Richie for twenty minutes he couldn’t really afford about PTSD. It’s the first time in a long time that I’ve talked to Richie about something other than the case, which is strange as appeal is in three days’ time. Think Gerty has spoken to him so often he actually wanted a change of topic.

Asked him about restraining orders too. He was clear on the subject: it’s for Tiffy to decide. Would be bad idea for me to seem to be imposing decisions on her — I must let her come to that conclusion on her own. Still hate that the ex knows where she lives, but must remember it is not my place to say.

Late late now. Button up shirt on way out of building. I’m an expert at efficient flat departure. It’s all in the shaved-off seconds and the foregoing of brinner, which will come to haunt me at 11 p.m. when day nurses have eaten all the biscuits.

Strange man from Flat 5: Leon!

Look up as building door slams shut behind me. It’s strange man from Flat 5, the one who (according to Tiffy) does energetic aerobics at 7 a.m. sharp, and accumulates banana crates in his parking space. Surprised to discover he knows my name.

Me: Hi?

Strange man from Flat 5: I never believed you were a nurse!

Me: Right. I’m running late for work, so—

Strange man from Flat 5 waves his mobile phone at me, like I should be able to discern what is on screen.

Strange man, triumphantly: You’re a famous person!

Me: Pardon?

Strange man: You’re in the Daily Mail! Wearing a poncey famous-person jumper!

Me: Poncey is no longer a politically correct term, strange man from Flat 5. Got to go. Enjoy the rest of Femail!

Scarper as quickly as possible. Decide, on reflection, not to pursue life of celebrity.

Mr Prior is awake for long enough to see the photos. He’ll drop off again soon, but I know this will amuse him, so make sure to take the opportunity and get pictures up on phone screen.

Hmm. Fourteen-thousand likes on a photo of me staring into distance in a black T-shirt and enormous crocheted scarf. Odd.

Mr Prior: Very dashing, Leon!

Me: Why, thank you.

Mr Prior: Now, am I right that a certain fine young lady persuaded you to humiliate yourself in this fashion?

Me: Eh. Umm. It was Tiffy’s idea.

Mr Prior: Ah, the flatmate. And . . . the girlfriend?

Me: No, no, not ‘girlfriend’. Not yet.

Mr Prior: No? Last we spoke I got the impression you were rather smitten with each other.

Check Mr Prior’s chart, keeping face carefully blank. Deranged liver function tests. Not good. To be expected, but still, not good.

Me: I’m . . . yes. I’m that. Just don’t want to rush things. I don’t think she does either.

Mr Prior frowns. His little beady eyes almost disappear under the folds of his eyebrows.

Mr Prior: May I offer you some advice, Leon?

I nod.

Mr Prior: Don’t let your natural . . . reticence hold you back. Make it clear how you feel about her. After all, you’re something of a closed book, Leon.

Me: Closed book?

Notice that Mr Prior’s hands tremble as he smooths down the bedspread, and try not to think about prognostics.

Mr Prior: Quiet. Brooding. I’m sure she finds it very attractive, but don’t let it be a barrier between you. I left it too long to tell my— I left things too late, and now I wish I’d just said what I wanted when I still could. Think what my life could have been. Not that I’m not happy with my lot, but . . . you do waste an awful lot of time when you’re young.

Can’t do anything around here without someone imparting wisdom in your direction. But Mr Prior has made me a little nervous. Felt after Wales I shouldn’t rush things with Tiffy. But maybe I’m holding back too much. I tend to, apparently. Wish I’d mentioned about changing to day shifts now. Still, I did go to a Welsh castle for her, and pose against windswept tree in large cardigan. Surely that makes my feelings clear?

Richie: You’re not a naturally open person.

Me: I am! I am . . . I’m forthcoming. Expressive. An open book.

Richie: You’re not bad at the old talking-about-feelings with me, but that doesn’t count, and it’s usually because I do it first. You should take a leaf from my book, bro. I’ve never had any time for the whole hard-to-get thing. Easy-to-get and put-it-on-the-line has always worked for me.

Feel a bit wrong-footed. Was feeling good about everything with Tiffy, and am anxious now. Shouldn’t have told Richie what Mr Prior said — should’ve known what his opinion would be. Richie was writing love songs to serenade girls in school corridors when he was ten years old.

Me: What am I meant to do, then?

Richie: Fucking hell, man, just tell her you like her and you want to make things official. You clearly do, so it can’t be that hard. I have to go. Gerty’s got me talking her through the ten minutes after leaving the club again, seriously, I’m not sure that woman is human.

Me: That woman is—

Richie: Don’t worry, don’t worry. I won’t hear a word against her. I was going to say superhuman.

Me: Good.

Richie: Hot, too.

Me: Don’t you even—

Richie belly-laughs. I find myself grinning; I can never resist smiling with him when he laughs like that.

Richie: I’ll be good, I’ll be good. But if she gets me out of here, I’m buying her dinner. Or asking for her hand in marriage, maybe.

Smile fades a little. I feel a twinge of worry. The appeal is really happening. Two days to go. Haven’t even let myself imagine scenario where Richie is found not guilty, but my brain keeps going there against my will, playing out the scene. Bringing him home to sit on Tiffy’s paisley beanbag, drink beers, be my little brother again.

Can’t find the words for what I want to tell him. Don’t get your hopes up? But of course he will — I have too. That’s the whole point. So . . . don’t let it get to you if it doesn’t work? Also ridiculous. No good words for the magnitude of the problem.

Me: See you Friday.

Richie: That’s the open book I know and love. See you Friday, bro.

57 Tiffy

It’s first thing on Friday. The Day.

Leon is at his mum’s place — they’re going to court together. Rachel and Mo are at mine. Mo’s tagging along to the book launch — given everything I’ve done for this book, even Martin could not deny me a plus one.

Gerty pops in with Mo when he arrives, for a quick, cursory hug and a very hurried chat about Richie’s case. She is already dressed in her ridiculous lawyer wig, as if she’s doing an impression of an eighteenth-century painting.

Mo is in his tux, looking adorable. I love it when Mo dresses up smartly. It’s like when you see photos of puppies dressed up as humans. He is visibly uncomfortable, and I can tell he’s itching to at least take off his shoes, but if he so much as reaches for his shoelaces then Gerty snarls at him and he withdraws, whimpering. When Gerty leaves, he looks visibly relieved.

‘Just so you know, Mo and Gerty are totally shagging,’ Rachel tells me, passing me my hairbrush.

I stare at her in the mirror. (There are nowhere near enough mirrors in this flat. We should have got ready at Rachel’s, which has an entire wall of mirrored cupboards in the bedroom for what I suspect to be sexual reasons, but she refuses to let Gerty in her flat since she made a comment about how messy it was at Rachel’s birthday party.)

‘Mo and Gerty are not shagging,’ I say, coming to my senses and snatching the hairbrush. I’m attempting to tame my mane into a sleek up-do from one of our DIY hairstyling books. The author promised me that it was easy, but I’ve been on step two for fifteen minutes. There are twenty-two steps in total and half an hour left on the clock.

‘They are,’ Rachel says matter-of-factly. ‘You know I can always tell.’

I just about refrain from informing Rachel that Gerty also thinks she can ‘always tell’ when a friend is sleeping with someone. I don’t want this to become a competition, especially as I’ve still not had sex with Leon.

‘They live together,’ I say, through a mouthful of hairpins. ‘They’re more comfortable with each other than they used to be.’

‘You only get that comfortable if you get naked together,’ Rachel insists.

‘That’s weird and gross. Anyway, I’m pretty sure Mo is asexual.’

Belatedly, I check that the bathroom door is closed. Mo is in the living room. He has spent the last hour looking either patient or bored, depending on whether he thinks we’re looking.

‘You want to think that, because of the whole he’s-like-a-brother-to-you thing. But he’s definitely not asexual. He came on to my friend Kelly at a party last summer.’

‘I cannot handle these sorts of revelations right now!’ I say, spitting out the hairpins. I put them between my teeth way too early. They’re for step four, and step three still has me flummoxed.

‘Come here,’ Rachel says, and I breathe out. Thank God.

‘You really left me hanging there,’ I tell her, as she takes the hairbrush, smooths out the damage I have done so far, and flicks through the up-do instructions with one hand.

‘How else will you ever learn?’ she says.

It’s 10 a.m. It’s weird being in formal dress this early in the morning. For some reason I am incredibly paranoid about dripping tea down the front of my fancy new dress, though I’m pretty sure if I were drinking a martini I wouldn’t have the same anxieties. It’s just weird drinking from a mug while wearing silk.

Rachel has outdone herself — my hair is all smooth and shiny, knotted at the nape of my neck in a series of mysterious swirls just like in the picture. The side-effect, though, is that a copious amount of my chest is on show. When I tried this dress on I had my hair down — I didn’t really notice quite how much skin the off-the-shoulder sleeves and structured sweetheart neckline leave exposed. Oh well. This is my night, too — I’m the acquiring editor. I’m perfectly entitled to dress inappropriately.

My alarm beeps to remind me to check in on Katherin. I call her, trying not to notice that she’s higher up my most-called list than my own mother.

‘Are you ready?’ I ask as soon as she picks up.

‘Almost!’ she trills. ‘Just made a quick adjustment to the outfit, and—’

‘What quick adjustment?’ I ask, suspicious.

‘Oh, well when I tried it on again I realised how dour and boring this dress that your PR people picked makes me look under the bright lights of the day,’ she says, ‘so I’ve tweaked the hemline and the neckline.’

I open my mouth to tell her off, and then close it again. Firstly, the damage is clearly already done — if she’s re-hemmed, the dress is unsaveable. And secondly, my risqué dress choice will look much better next to someone else who has also decided to show an unprofessional amount of skin.

‘Fine. We’ll pick you up at half past.’

‘Toodles!’ she says, hopefully ironically, though I’m not sure.

I check the time as I hang up. Ten minutes spare. (I had to factor in time for Rachel to get ready, which always takes at least fifty per cent longer than you think it will. She’ll blame it on me for making her do my hair, obviously, but it’s really because she is the self-proclaimed queen of contouring, and spends at least forty minutes subtly altering the shape of her face before she even gets started on eyes and lips.)

I’m just about to text Leon and see how he is when the flat phone rings.

‘What the fuck is that?’ shouts Rachel from the bathroom.

‘It’s our landline!’ I yell, already making a dash for the sound (it seems to be coming from the vicinity of the fridge). Dashing is not easy in this outfit — there’s a lot of billowing in the skirt region, and at least two risky moments where my bare foot catches in the tulle as I go. I wince as it yanks at my bad ankle. I can walk on it now, but it’s not enjoying this running thing. Not that my good ankle likes running either.

‘It’s your what?’ Mo asks, sounding amused.

‘Our landline,’ I repeat, fumbling around with the unbelievably large quantity of things on our kitchen surfaces.

‘I’m sorry, you didn’t tell me this was the 1990s,’ calls Rachel, just as I find the phone.

‘Hello?’

‘Tiffy?’

I frown. ‘Richie? Are you all right?’

‘I’ll be honest with you, Tiffy,’ he says, ‘I’m shitting myself. Not literally. Though it might be a matter of time.’

‘Whoever it is, I hope they’re enjoying the latest Blur CD,’ Rachel calls.

‘Hang on.’ I head for the bedroom and close the door firmly behind me. With difficulty, I rearrange my skirt so that I can perch on the edge of the bed without anything ripping. ‘Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, in a van or something? How are you calling me? They have remembered your court date, right?’

I’ve heard enough horror stories from Gerty and Leon now to know that prisoners don’t always make it to court when they should, thanks to the various prison-related bureaucracies that are required to overlap in this situation. They moved Richie down to a (even grimmer) London prison a few days ago so he’d be in the area for the trial, but there’s still the journey from the prison to the courthouse. I feel physically sick at the thought of all this preparation going to waste because someone forgot to call someone else about transportation.

‘No, no, I’ve done the van bit,’ Richie says. ‘Barrel of laughs, let me tell you. Somehow spent five hours in there, though I could have sworn we weren’t moving for half of it. No, I’m at the courthouse now, in a holding cell. I’m not really allowed a phone call, but the guard is an Irish lady, and she says I remind her of her son. And that I look terrible. She told me to call my girlfriend, but I don’t have one, so I thought I’d call you, since you’re Leon’s girlfriend and that’s close enough. It was that or Rita from school, who I don’t think I ever technically broke up with.’

‘You’re rambling, Richie,’ I tell him. ‘What’s the matter? Is it nerves?’

‘“Nerves” makes me sound like I’m an old lady. It’s terror.’

‘That does sound better. More horror movie. Less fainting because your corset is too tight.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Is Gerty there?’

‘I can’t see her yet. She’s busy doing whatever lawyers do, anyway. I’m on my own now.’ His tone is light and self-deprecating, as always, but you don’t have to listen hard to hear the tremor in his voice.

‘You are not on your own,’ I tell him firmly. ‘You have all of us. And remember — when we first spoke you told me you’re coming to terms with being in prison. Well, that’s the worst-case scenario here. More of what you have already coped with.’

‘What if I vomit in the courtroom?’

‘Then someone will clear the room and call a cleaner, and you’ll pick up where you left off. It’s not exactly going to make the judges think you’re an armed robber, is it?’

He gives a strangled version of a chuckle. For a moment there is silence.

‘I don’t want to let Leon down,’ he says. ‘He’s got his hopes up so high. I don’t want— I can’t bear to let him down again. Last time was the worst thing. Honestly, it was the worst. Seeing his face.’

‘You have never let him down,’ I say. My heart is thumping. This is important. ‘He knows you didn’t do it. The . . . the system let you both down.’

‘I should have just taken it. Served my sentence and got out, and let him get on with his life in the meantime. All this — it’s only going to make everything worse for him.’

‘Leon was going to fight no matter what you did,’ I say. ‘He was never just going to let his little brother get picked on. If you’d given up, that would have hurt him.’

He takes a big, juddering breath, and lets it out again.

‘That’s good,’ I say. ‘Breathing. I hear that’s a good one for those with delicate nerves. Have you got any smelling salts?’

That gets another chuckle, a little less strangled this time.

‘Are you calling me a pussy?’ Richie asks.

‘I fully believe that you’re a very brave man,’ I tell him. ‘But yes. I’m calling you a pussy. In case that helps you remember how brave you are.’

‘Ah, you’re a good girl, Tiffy,’ Richie says.

‘I’m not a dog, Richie. And — now that you’re hopefully less green . . . Can we go back to how you just said “Leon’s girlfriend”?’

There’s a pause.

‘Not Leon’s girlfriend?’ he says.

‘Not yet,’ I tell him. ‘Well, I mean, we’ve not discussed that. We’ve only been on a few dates, technically.’

‘He’s mad about you,’ Richie says. ‘He might not say it out loud, but . . .’

I feel a twinge of anxiety. I’m crazy about Leon, too. I spend most of my waking hours thinking about him, and a few of the sleeping ones too. But . . . I don’t know. The idea of him wanting to be my boyfriend makes me feel so trapped.

I adjust my dress, wondering if I’m the one having the problem with corsets and nerves. I really like Leon. This is ridiculous. Objectively, I would like to call him my boyfriend, and introduce him to people as such. That’s what you always want when you’re crazy about someone. But . . .

What would Lucie say?

Well, she’d probably say nothing, to be honest. She’d just leave me to stew on the fact that this weird fear of getting trapped is almost certainly to do with the fact that I was in a relationship with a man who never really let me go.

‘Tiffy?’ Richie says. ‘I should probably get going.’

‘Oh, God, yes,’ I say, coming to my senses. I don’t know what I’m doing worrying about relationship labels when Richie is about to walk into court. ‘Good luck, Richie. I wish I could be there.’

‘Maybe see you on the other side,’ he says, voice trembling again. ‘And if not — look after Leon.’

This time, the request doesn’t sound strange. ‘I will,’ I tell him. ‘I promise.’

58 Leon

Hate this suit. Last wore it for court case number one, and then shoved it in wardrobe at Mam’s place, tempted to burn it like it was contaminated. Glad I didn’t. Can’t afford to keep burning suits every time the legal system fails to deliver justice. This might not be our last appeal.

Mam is weepy and shaking. I try so hard to be strong for her, but can’t bear to be in the room with her. Would be easier with any other person, but with Mam, it’s awful. I want her to mother me, not the other way around, and it almost makes me angry seeing her like this, even while it makes me sad.

I check my phone.

I’ve just spoken to Richie — he called here for a bit of a morale boost. He’s doing fine. You’re all going to be fine, whatever happens. Text me if there’s anything I can do. I can always duck out for a phone call. Tiffy xx

I feel warm for a moment, after a morning of sustained cold fear. Remind myself of new resolve to tell Tiffy explicitly how I feel and move things in direction of seriousness, e.g. meeting parents etc.

Mam: Sweetie?

One last look in mirror. Thinner, longer-haired, stretched-out Richie stares back at me. I can’t get him out of my head — I keep remembering how he looked when they read out his sentence, the endless barrage of nonsense about his cold-blooded, calculated crime, how his eyes went wide and blank with fear.

Mam: Leon? Sweetie?

Me: Coming.

Hello again, courtroom.

It’s so mundane. Nothing like the wooden seats and vaulted ceilings of American legal dramas — just lots of files on desks, carpet, and tiered benches from which a few bored-looking lawyers and journalists have come to spectate. One of the journalists is trying to find a plug to charge his phone. A law student is inspecting the back of her smoothie bottle.

It’s bizarre. Earlier this year, I would have wanted to scream at both of them. Pay some fucking attention. You’re watching someone’s life being destroyed. But it’s all part of the peculiar drama of this ritual, and now that we know how to play the game — now that we have a lawyer who knows the rules — the ritual doesn’t bother me so much.

A wizened man in a long cloak like a Harry Potter character enters with prison guard and Richie. Richie is not cuffed, which is something. But he looks just as bad as I suspected. He’s bulked up in the last few months, exercising again, but with his shoulders slumped the muscle seems to weigh him down. Can barely recognise him as the brother who first walked into court last year, the one with total confidence that if you’re innocent you walk out free. The brother who grew up at my shoulder, matching me step for step, always having my back.

Almost can’t look at him — it’s too painful seeing the fear in his eyes. Somehow, from somewhere, I manage an encouraging smile when he looks at me and Mam. They put him in a glass box and close the door behind him.

We wait. Journalist succeeds at plugging in phone, and continues to scroll through what looks like the Reuters homepage, despite enormous sign forbidding use of mobile phones directly above his head. Smoothie-bottle girl is now pulling loose threads out of fluffy scarf.

Have to keep smiling at Richie. Gerty is here, dressed in that ridicu­lous outfit, almost indistinguishable from the rest of the lawyers even though I’ve seen her eating Chinese takeaway in my kitchen. I feel myself bristling just at the sight of her. It’s something guttural, instinctive now. Have to remind myself over and over that she’s on our team.

Wizened robed man: All rise!

Everyone stands. Three judges file into the room. Is it generalising to point out that literally all of them are white middle-aged men whose shoes look like they are worth more than my mother’s car? I try to quell my rising hatred as they settle into their seats. Flick through the paperwork in front of them. Look up, finally, at Gerty and the prosecution barrister. Not one of them looks at my brother.

Judge 1: Shall we begin?

59 Tiffy

Katherin is a tiny, black-clad stick figure on the stage. Behind her, blown up to terrifying proportions, she’s repeated in close-up — one screen is just her hands, so viewers can watch how she uses the crochet hook, and the other two focus on her face.

It’s amazing. The whole crowd is rapt. We’re so overdressed for a daytime event about crochet, but Katherin insisted on the dress code — despite all her anti-bourgeois values, she bloody loves an excuse to wear something fancy. Women in cocktail dresses gaze up at Katherin’s enormous face, immortalised on the big screens beneath the vaulted ceiling. Men in tuxedos chuckle warmly at Katherin’s witticisms. I even catch one young woman in a satin gown copying the movements of Katherin’s hands, though all she’s holding is a miniature goat’s cheese canapé, no crochet hook in sight.

Despite all of this, all its distracting absurdity, I can’t stop thinking about Richie and the way his voice trembled on the phone.

Nobody would notice if I just sneaked out. I might look a little incongruous for the courtroom, but maybe I could head via my flat, and pick up a change of clothes for the taxi ride . . .

God, I can’t believe I’m considering paying for a taxi.

‘Look!’ Rachel hisses suddenly, poking me in the ribs.

‘Oww! What?’

‘Look! It’s Tasha Chai-Latte!’

I follow her pointing finger. A young woman dressed in a subtle lilac cocktail dress has just entered the crowd, a staggeringly attractive boyfriend in tow. An intimidating man in a tux follows the two of them — their bodyguard, presumably.

Rachel’s right, it’s definitely her. I recognise the chiselled cheekbones from YouTube. Despite myself, I feel my stomach flutter a little — I’m such a sucker for a famous person.

‘I can’t believe she came!’

‘Martin will be ecstatic. Do you think she’ll let me take a picture with her?’ Rachel asks. Above us, the gigantic Katherins on their screens smile out at the crowd, and her hands hold up a finished square.

‘It’s the big man in the tux I’d worry about, if I were you.’

‘She’s filming! Look!’

Tasha Chai-Latte’s impossibly handsome boyfriend has pulled a compact, expensive-looking video camera out of his satchel, and is fiddling with the buttons. Tasha checks her hair and make-up, dabbing a finger along her lips.

‘Oh my God. She’s going to put the event on her YouTube channel. Do you think Katherin will mention you in her thank-you speech? We’ll be famous!’

‘Calm down,’ I tell her, exchanging a look with Mo, who is currently working his way through the large pile of canapés he has been hoarding while everyone else is too distracted by crochet to capitalise on the food.

Tasha’s boyfriend lifts the camera, training it on Tasha’s face. Immediately she is wreathed in smiles, all thought of hair and make-up forgotten.

‘Get closer, get closer,’ Rachel mutters, shooing Mo in the direction of Tasha. We shuffle along, trying to look nonchalant, until we’re just about close enough to hear them.

‘. . . amazing lady!’ Tasha is saying. ‘And isn’t this place beautiful? Oh my God, you guys, I feel so lucky to be here, and to be able to share it with all of you — live! You know how I feel about supporting real artists, and that’s exactly what Katherin is.’

The crowd bursts into applause — Katherin has finished her demonstration. Tasha gives an impatient gesture, telling her boyfriend to do another take. I guess they’re warming up for the live stream.

‘And now a few thank-yous!’ Katherin says from the stage.

‘This is it,’ Rachel whispers excitedly. ‘She’ll definitely mention you.’

My stomach twists. I’m not sure I want her to mention me — there are a lot of people in this room, and an extra few million who will soon be watching via Tasha Chai-Latte’s YouTube channel. I adjust my dress, trying to inch it a little higher.

I needn’t have worried, though. Katherin starts by thanking her entire network of friends and family, which turns out to be extensive to the point of absurdity (I can’t help wondering if she’s taking the piss a bit — it would be just like her). The crowd’s attention shifts; people begin to move around in search of prosecco and tiny food.

‘And finally,’ Katherin says grandly, ‘there are two people who I just had to save until last.’

Well, that can’t be me. It’ll be her mum and dad or something. Rachel shoots me a disappointed look, and then returns her attention to Tasha and her boyfriend, who are filming everything with quiet concentration on their faces.

‘Two people without whom this book would never have happened,’ Katherin goes on. ‘These two have worked so hard to make Crochet Your Way possible. And, even better than that, they believed in me from the very start — long before I was lucky enough to gather crowds this large for my events.’

Rachel and I turn to stare at one another.

‘It won’t be me,’ Rachel whispers, suddenly looking very nervous. ‘She doesn’t even remember my name most of the time.’

‘Tiffy and Rachel have been editor and designer on my books for the last three years, and they are the reason for my success,’ Katherin says grandly. The crowd applauds. ‘I cannot thank them enough for making my book the best it can possibly be — and the most beautiful it can possibly be. Rachel! Tiffy! Will you get up here please? I have something for you both.’

We gawp at one another. I think Rachel might be hyperventilating. I have never regretted an outfit choice more than I do now. I have to get up onstage in front of one thousand people, wearing something that only just covers my nipples.

But as we stumble our way to the stage — which really does take quite some time, we weren’t very near the front — I can’t help noticing Katherin smiling down from her giant screens. In fact, she almost looks a little teary. God. I feel like a bit of a fraud. I mean, I have worked pretty much full-time on Katherin’s book for the last few months, but I also complained about it a lot, and didn’t actually pay her very much to begin with.

I’m onstage before I’ve really registered what’s happening. Katherin kisses me on the cheek and hands me an enormous bouquet of lilies.

‘Thought I’d forgotten you two, didn’t you?’ she whispers in my ear, with a cheeky smile. ‘The fame’s not gone quite that far to my head yet.’

The crowd is clapping, and the sound echoes down from the roof until I can’t tell where it’s coming from. I smile, hoping that sheer willpower will be sufficient adhesive for the top of my dress. The lights are so bright when you’re up here — they’re like starbursts on the insides of my eyes every time I blink, and everything is either very white and shiny or black and shadowy, like someone’s messed with the contrast.

I think that’s why I don’t really notice the commotion until it reaches the front of the crowd, trembling its way through the throng, sending heads turning and people crying out as they stumble as though they’ve been pushed. Eventually a figure shoves its way through and vaults on to the stage.

I can’t really see properly, eyes burned with all the lights, lily heads bobbing in front of me as I try to get a good hand-hold on the bouquet of flowers and wonder how I’m going to get down off the stage in these shoes without being able to use the handrail.

I recognise the voice, though. And once I’ve registered that, everything else drops away.

‘Can I have the mic?’ says Justin, because of course, implausibly, impossibly, the figure pushing his way through the crowd was his. ‘I have something I want to say.’

Katherin’s passed him the mic before she’s even thought about it. She glances at me at the last moment, frowning, but it’s already in Justin’s hand. That’s Justin: he asks, he gets.

He turns to face me.

‘Tiffy Moore,’ he says, ‘look at me.’

He’s right — I’m not looking at him. As though he is holding me on strings, my head snaps around and my eyes meet his. There he is. Square jaw, perfectly trimmed beard, strong shoulders beneath a tuxedo jacket. Eyes soft and trained on my face as if I’m the only girl in the room. You can’t see a trace of the man I have been talking about in counselling, the one who hurt me. This man is a dream come true.

‘Tiffy Moore,’ he begins again. Everything feels wrong, as if I’ve stepped into my Sliding Doors alternative world, and suddenly all trace of my other life, the one where I didn’t need or want Justin, is threatening to desert me. ‘I have been lost without you.’

There’s a pause. A lurching, sickening, echoing silence, like the long raw note in your ears when the music stops.

Then Justin drops down on one knee.

All at once I am aware of the crowd’s reaction — they coo and ahh – and I can see the faces onstage around me, Rachel’s twisted in shock, Katherin’s mouth open. I desperately want to run away, though I suspect that even if I could muster the strength, my legs would be too frozen to do everything required of them. It’s as if the whole lot of us onstage are performing some sort of tableau.

‘Please,’ I begin. Why have I started by pleading? I try the sentence again, but he doesn’t let me.

‘You’re the woman I am meant to be with,’ he says. His voice is gentle but carries well with the microphone. ‘I know that now. I can’t believe I ever lost faith in us. You’re everything I could possibly want and more.’ He tilts his head, a gesture I used to find irresistible. ‘I know I don’t deserve you, I know you’re far too good for me, but . . .’

Something twangs inside me as if it’s pulled close to snapping. I remember how Gerty said Justin knows exactly how to play me, and there it is: the Justin who got me in the first place.

‘Tiffany Moore,’ he says, ‘will you marry me?’

There’s something about his eyes — it was always his eyes that got me. As the silence stretches taut it seems to tighten around my throat. The feeling that I am in two places at once, that I’m two people at once, is so acute it’s almost like being half asleep and tugged between waking and dreaming. Here is Justin, begging for me. The Justin I always wanted. The Justin I had right at the start, who I went through countless rows and break-ups for, the one who I always believed was worth fighting for to get back.

I open my mouth and speak, but without the microphone my voice is lost behind the lilies. Even I can’t hear my answer.

‘She said yes!’ Justin yells, standing up, stretching his arms out wide. ‘She said yes!’

The crowd erupts. The noise is too much. The light sears stripes under my eyelids, and Justin is bundling me in, hugging me close, his mouth on my hair, and it doesn’t even feel strange, it feels like it always used to — his firm body against mine, the warmth of him, all horribly, perfectly familiar.

60 Leon

Ms Constantine: Mrs Wilson, as our first expert witness, please could you begin by telling the judges what your expertise entails?

Mrs Wilson: I’m a CCTV analyst and enhancer. Have been for fifteen years. I work for the UK’s leading CCTV forensics business — it was my team that pulled that enhanced footage together [gestures to screen].

Ms Constantine: Thank you very much, Mrs Wilson. And in your experience of examining CCTV footage, what can you tell us about these two short clips that we have seen today?

Mrs Wilson: Plenty. They’re not the same bloke, to start with.

Ms Constantine: Really? You sound absolutely sure of that.

Mrs Wilson: Oh, sure as anything. For starters, look at the colour of the hoodie in the enhanced footage. Only one hoodie is black. You can tell by the shade that it comes out as, see? The black is a denser colour.

Ms Constantine: Can we have images from both up on screen, please? Thank you.

Mrs Wilson: And then look at how they walk! It’s a fair imitation, all right, but the first bloke is clearly fu— is clearly drunk, My Lords. Look at how he’s zigzagging. Almost walks into the display. Then the next guy walks much straighter and doesn’t fumble or anything when he reaches for the knife. Our first bloke nearly dropped the beers!

Ms Constantine: And with the new CCTV footage from outside Aldi, we can see the distinctively . . . zigzagged walk more clearly.

Mrs Wilson: Oh, yeah.

Ms Constantine: And of the group that we see walking by a few moments after the first figure, who we have identified as Mr Twomey . . . would you be able to identify any of those figures as the man with the knife in the off-licence?

Mr Turner, to the judges: My Lords, this is nothing but speculation.

Judge Whaite: No, we’ll allow it. Ms Constantine is calling on her witness’s expertise.

Ms Constantine: Mrs Wilson, could any of those men have been the man in the off-licence, looking at this footage?

Mrs Wilson: Oh, yeah. Bloke on the far right. His hood is down, and he’s not putting on the walk there, but look at how his shoulder drops with each step of his left foot. Look how he rubs his shoulder — the same gesture as the bloke in the off-licence makes before he pulls out the knife.

Mr Turner: We are here to examine an appeal against Mr Twomey’s conviction. What is the relevance of implicating an unidentifiable bystander?

Judge Whaite: I see your point, Mr Turner. All right, Ms Constantine — do you have any further questions which are pertinent to the case at hand?

Ms Constantine: None, My Lord. I hope perhaps we can return to this discussion at a later date, should this case be reopened.

Prosecution lawyer, Mr Turner, scoffs into his hand. Gerty turns a freezing cold glare on him. I remember how Mr Turner intimidated Richie at the last trial. Called him a thug, a violent-minded criminal, a child who took whatever he wanted. I watch Mr Turner pale under Gerty’s gaze. To my delight, even robed and wigged, Mr Turner is not immune to the power of Gerty’s dirty looks.

I meet Richie’s eye, and, for the first time all day, crack a genuine smile.

Step outside in the break and switch on my phone. My heart’s not exactly beating faster than usual, just beating . . . louder. Bigger. Everything feels exaggerated: when I buy a coffee, it tastes stronger; when the sky clears, the sun is stark and bright. Can’t believe how well it’s going in there. Gerty just doesn’t stop — every single thing she says is so . . . conclusive. The judges keep nodding. The judge never nodded first-time around.

I’ve imagined this too many times, and now I’m living it. Feels as if I’m inside a daydream.

A few messages from Tiffy. I go to tap out a brief reply, palms sweaty, almost afraid writing it down and sending will jinx it. Wish I could call her. Instead I check Tasha Chai-Latte’s Facebook page — Tiffy says she’s filming the book launch. There’s already a video on her page with thousands of views; looks like it’s from the launch, judging by the vaulted ceiling in the holding image.

I watch, settling down on bench outside the court building, ignoring the gaggle of paparazzi waiting there for the chance of shooting someone they might get paid for.

It’s Katherin’s thank-you speech. I smile as she talks about Tiffy. From what Tiffy says, editors never get much credit, and designers even less — I can see Rachel beaming as she takes the stage with Tiffy.

Camera jolts. Someone pushing through to the front. As he jumps up on to the stage I realise who it is.

Sudden awful, guilt-inducing urge to leave courtroom and go to Islington. Sit forward, staring at the tiny video playing out on my screen.

Video cuts after she’s said yes.

Surprising how truly terrible it feels. Perhaps you never know how you feel about someone until they agree to marry someone else.

61 Tiffy

Justin pulls me off the stage to the wings. I go with him, because more than anything else I want the noise and the lights and the crowd to go away, but as soon as we’re through the curtain I yank my hand from his grasp. My wrist sings out in pain; he was holding on tightly. We’re in a narrow, black-walled space to the side of the stage, which is empty aside from a black-clad man with a walkie-talkie and lots of cables around his feet.

‘Tiffy?’ Justin says. The vulnerability in his voice is completely contrived, I can tell.

‘What the fuck do you . . .’ I begin. I’m shaking all over; it’s hard to stand, especially in these high heels. ‘What was that?’

‘What was what?’ He reaches for me again.

Rachel bursts through the curtain behind us, kicking off her shoes. ‘Tiff— Tiffy!’

I twist towards her as she runs into me, letting her hold me tightly. Justin looks down at us both, eyes narrowed a little — I can see he’s calculating something behind those eyes, so I turn my head into the thick mass of Rachel’s braids and try very, very hard not to cry.

‘Tiffy?’ calls someone else. It’s Mo. I can’t work out where he is.

‘Your friends are here to congratulate you,’ Justin says benevolently, but his shoulders are stiff and tensed.

‘Mo?’ I call. He appears from behind Justin, through the curtains that separate us from the main backstage area; his jacket is gone and his hair is mussed as though he’s been running.

In a moment, he’s at my side. Behind me I can hear Katherin valiantly trying to bring the subject back to Crochet Your Way onstage.

Justin watches the three of us. Rachel still has hold of me, and I lean into her as I look up at Justin.

‘You know I didn’t say yes,’ I say flatly.

His eyes widen. ‘What do you mean?’ he says.

I shake my head. I know what this is — I remember this feeling, the nagging sense of wrongness. ‘You can’t make me believe something that I know isn’t true.’

There’s a flicker behind his eyes — maybe he’s thinking, I already have, plenty of times.

‘Not any more,’ I say. ‘And do you know what it’s called, when you do that? It’s called gaslighting. It’s a form of abuse. Telling me things aren’t the way I can see them.’

This knocks him. I’m not sure Rachel or Mo will notice it, but I watch him take the hit. The Tiffy he is familiar with would never have used words like ‘gaslighting’ and ‘abuse’. Seeing him waver sends a rush of fearful excitement through me, like the feeling when you stand close to the edge as the train rushes by.

‘You did say yes,’ he says. The light from the stage creeps between the curtains behind us, leaving a long stripe of yellow across the shadowy lines of Justin’s face. ‘I heard you! And . . . you do want to marry me, don’t you, Tiffy? We belong together.’

He tries to reach for my hand. The whole thing is so obviously a performance. I pull back and, quick as a flash, Rachel reaches out and slaps his outstretched hand away from me.

He doesn’t physically react. When he speaks, his voice is light and wounded. ‘What was that for?’

‘You don’t touch her,’ Rachel spits at him.

‘I think you should leave, Justin,’ Mo says.

‘What is this all about, Tiffy?’ Justin asks me, voice still gentle. ‘Are your friends upset with me because we were broken up?’ He keeps trying to move closer, just in inches, but Rachel has hold of me tight, and, with Mo at my other shoulder, we’re a unit.

‘Can I ask you something?’ I say suddenly.

‘Of course,’ Justin says.

The sound guy in black glances at us in irritation. ‘You’re not meant to stay back here,’ he tells us, as the crowd outside bursts into noisy applause.

I ignore him, my eyes on Justin. ‘How did you know I’d be here today?’

‘What do you mean? This event was advertised all over the place, Tiffy. I could hardly use the Internet and miss it.’

‘But how did you know I would be here? How did you even know I was working on this book?’

I know I’m right. I can see it in the shiftiness in his eyes. He eases a finger under his collar.

‘And how did you know I would be at that book launch in Shore­ditch? And how did you know I’d be on that cruise ship?’

He’s unsettled; he scoffs, giving me the first unpleasant, disparaging look of the evening. That’s more like it — that’s the Justin I’ve begun to remember.

For a moment he’s caught in indecision, and then he opts for an easy smile. ‘Your mate Martin has been giving me tip-offs,’ he says sheepishly, like a naughty boy caught pinching things. Sweet, mischievous, harmless. ‘He knew how much I care about you, so he’s been helping to get us back together.’

‘You’re joking,’ Rachel blurts. I glance at her; her eyes are flashing and she looks more terrifying than I have ever seen her looking before, which is really saying something.

‘How do you even know Martin?’ I ask in disbelief.

‘Quiet!’ the sound guy hisses. We all ignore him.

‘We met at your work night out, remember?’ Justin says. ‘Is this important? Can’t we go somewhere quieter, just the two of us, Tiffy?’

I don’t remember the work night out. I missed most of them because Justin never liked going, and didn’t like me going to them without him.

‘I don’t want to go anywhere with you, Justin,’ I say, taking a deep, shaky breath. ‘And I don’t want to marry you. I want you to leave me alone.’

I have imagined saying this lots and lots of times. I always thought he’d look wounded, perhaps step back in shock, or raise a hand to his mouth. I imagined him crying and trying to pull me closer; I’d even been afraid he might try to get hold of me physically, and not let go.

But he just looks perplexed. Irritated. Maybe a little pissed off, as if he’s been terribly misled somehow, and it’s all been rather unfair.

‘You don’t mean that,’ he begins.

‘Oh, she does,’ says Mo. His voice is pleasant, but very firm.

‘She really, really does,’ Rachel adds.

‘No,’ Justin says, shaking his head. ‘You’re not giving us a chance.’

‘A chance?’ I almost laugh. ‘I went back to you over and over. You’ve had more chances than I can count. I don’t want to see you. Ever again.’

He frowns. ‘You said in that bar in Shoreditch that we could talk in a couple of months. I stuck to your rules,’ he says, stretching his arms out. ‘It’s October, isn’t it?’

‘A lot can change in a couple of months. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. A lot of . . . remembering.’

There it is again — a flicker of almost fear behind his eyes. He reaches for me one last time, and this time Rachel slaps him across the face.

‘Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ Mo mutters, and he pulls the two of us further back into the mess of cables and darkness as Justin stumbles backwards, eyes wide with shock.

‘You. Out,’ the irate sound guy says firmly to Justin, clearly identifying him as the root cause of all the noise. He steps forward, forcing Justin further back.

Steadying himself, Justin holds out a warning hand to the sound guy. He glances over his shoulder to find the exit, and then turns back to find my gaze.

For a moment I lose the sense of Mo and Rachel beside me and the sound guy in here with us. It’s just me and Justin’s broad, tuxedo-ed body in this cramped, dark space, and I feel desperate, as if I’m running out of air. It’s only a second or two, but it’s somehow worse than everything that’s just happened put together.

Then Justin backs out between the curtains into the backstage area, with a rush of noise, and I melt shakily into Rachel and Mo. He’s gone. It’s over. But he’s left that desperate breathlessness behind him, and as I grasp at Rachel and Mo’s arms with clammy fingers I feel a sudden, sickening fear that I won’t ever be able to shake him, no matter how many times I see him walk away.

62 Leon

Can’t think. Can’t anything. Somehow find my feet and get back to the courtroom, but the daydream feeling has morphed into an aura of unreality around everything. Mechanically, I smile at Richie. Notice how bright his eyes are, how hopeful he looks. Fail to feel anything.

It’s probably the shock. I’ll recover shortly and get my head back into the hearing. I can’t believe anything has managed to distract me from this. Feel suddenly furious with Tiffy, choosing today of all days to dump me and go back to Justin, and can’t help but think of Mam, how she’d always go back to those men no matter what Richie and I said.

Some part of my brain reminds me Mam didn’t want to be with those men. She just didn’t think she was allowed to be anywhere else. She didn’t think she meant anything if she was on her own.

But Tiffy wasn’t on her own. She had Mo, Gerty, Rachel. Me.

Richie. Think of Richie. Richie needs me here, and there’s no fucking way I’m losing him again. Too.

Gerty is summing up. Just about manage to listen — she’s so good you can’t help but follow her argument. Then, with peculiar lack of fanfare, it’s over. We all stand. Judges leave. Richie is taken back to wherever it was he was brought from, with a wistful backwards glance. We walk through the court building in silence, Gerty tapping away at her phone, Mam cracking her knuckles incessantly.

Mam looks sideways at me as we reach the entranceway.

Mam: Lee? What’s wrong?

Then Gerty gives a little gasp. Hand to mouth. Glance over, dull-eyed, and notice that she is watching the video play out on Facebook.

Gerty: Oh my God.

Mam, on alert: What’s happened?

Me: Tiffy.

Mam: Your girlfriend? What’s she done?

Gerty: She wouldn’t.

Me: She would. You know people do. Go back. It’s hard to leave what you’ve known. Not her fault. But you know people do.

Gerty’s silence says enough. Suddenly more than anything I need to get away from here.

Me: We won’t get a verdict over the weekend, will we?

Gerty: No, it’ll be next week. I’ll call when—

Me: Thanks.

And I’m gone.

Walk and walk. Can’t cry, am just dry-throated and aching-eyed. I’m sure that some of this is fear about Richie, but all I can think about is Justin, arms out, yelling ‘She said yes’ to the whooping crowd.

Play out every scene. The endless notes, Brighton, the night eating tiffin together on the sofa, the trip to Holly’s party, kissing against the Aga. My gut twists at the memory of how her body would go cold when she thought of him, but then I harden myself. Don’t want to feel sorry for her. For now, just want to feel betrayed.

Can’t help it, though. Can’t stop thinking of the way her knees would shake.

Ah, there we go. There’s the tears. Knew they’d turn up eventually.

63 Tiffy

The smell of lilies is suffocating. Mo’s holding the bouquet beside me as we huddle there in the darkness, the blooms pressing close to my dress, staining the fabric with pollen. As I look down at the marks on the silk I notice I’m shaking so much the full skirt of my dress is quivering.

I don’t remember exactly what Justin said as he left. In fact, I already feel like I don’t remember a lot of the conversation that just happened. Perhaps it was all a surreal daydream, and I’m actually still standing out there in the crowd, wondering if Katherin will mention me in her thank-you speech, and whether those little roll things on that canapé tray are duck or chicken.

‘What . . . what if he’s still right there?’ I whisper to Rachel, pointing towards the black curtains Justin left through.

‘Mo, hold this,’ Rachel says. I think ‘this’ is referring to me. She disappears through to the backstage area, while onstage Katherin says goodbye to the audience to resounding applause.

Mo dutifully holds my elbow. ‘You’re OK,’ he whispers. He doesn’t say anything else, he just does one of those hug-like sort of silences that I love so much. In the world on the other side of these dark curtains the crowd is still clapping; muffled, here, the sound is like heavy rain on tarmac.

‘You really can’t be back here,’ the sound guy insists in exasperation as Rachel re-enters. He takes a step backwards when she turns to look at him. I don’t blame him. Rachel has her battle face on, and she looks bloody terrifying.

Rachel sweeps past him without answering, lifting her skirts to step over the cables. ‘No crazy ex in sight,’ she tells me, returning to my side.

Katherin bundles in suddenly from the stage; she almost walks into Mo.

‘Gosh,’ she says, ‘that was all rather dramatic, wasn’t it?’ She pats me in a motherly sort of way. ‘Are you all right? I’m assuming that fellow was . . .’

‘Tiffy’s stalker ex-boyfriend,’ Rachel supplies. ‘And speaking of stalking — I think we need to have a few words with Martin . . .’

‘Not now,’ I beg, grabbing hold of Rachel’s arm. ‘Just stay with me for a minute, all right?’

Her face softens. ‘Fine. Permission to hang him by the testicles at some later time?’

‘Granted. Also, eww.’

‘I can’t believe he’s been telling that . . . that scumbag where you are all the time. You should press charges, Tiffy.’

‘You should certainly file for a restraining order,’ Mo says quietly.

‘Against Martin? Might make work awkward,’ I say weakly.

Mo just looks at me. ‘You know who I meant.’

‘Can we leave this . . . dark . . . curtain-room now?’ I ask.

‘Good idea,’ says Katherin. Discreetly, out of Rachel’s sight, the sound guy nods and rolls his eyes. ‘I’d better go and mingle, but why don’t you lot take my limo?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Rachel says, staring at her.

Katherin looks sheepish. ‘It wasn’t my idea. The Butterfingers PR team got it for me. It’s just sitting outside. You can take it, I can’t be seen dead getting driven around in one of those, they’d never let me back into the Old Socialists’ Club.’

‘Thanks,’ Mo says, and I briefly surface from the fog of panic to marvel at the thought that the head of PR voluntarily shelled out for a limousine. She is infamously tight on budget.

‘So now we just need to get out. Through the crowd,’ Rachel says, her mouth set in a grim line.

‘First, though, you need to call the police and report Justin for harassment,’ Mo tells me. ‘And you need to tell them everything. All the other times, the flowers, Martin . . .’

I let out a half groan, half whimper. Mo rubs my back.

‘Tiffy, do it,’ Rachel says, handing me her phone.

I move through the throng as though I’m somebody else. People keep patting me on the back and smiling and calling to me. At first I try to tell everyone in turn — ‘I didn’t say yes, I’m not getting married, he’s not my boyfriend’ — but either they can’t or they don’t want to hear me, so as we get closer to the door I stop trying.

Katherin’s limo is parked around the corner. It’s not just a limo — it’s a stretch limo. This is ridiculous. The head of PR must be about to ask Katherin to do something very important for very little money.

‘Hi, excuse me?’ Rachel says to the limo driver through the window, in her best sweet-talking-the-barman voice. ‘Katherin said we can have this limo.’

A lengthy conversation ensues. As probably should be the case, the limo driver is not about to just take our word for it that Katherin has let us take the car. After a brief phone call to Katherin herself, and the return of Rachel’s battle face, we’re in — thank God. I’m shivering like crazy, even with Mo’s jacket over my shoulders.

Inside is even more ridiculous than outside. There are long sofas, a small bar, two television screens, and a sound system.

‘Fucking hell,’ Rachel says. ‘This is absurd. You’d think they could pay me more than minimum wage, wouldn’t you?’

We sit in silence for a while as the driver pulls away.

‘Well,’ Rachel goes on, ‘I think we can all agree today has taken an unexpected turn.’

For some reason that tips me over the edge. I cry into my hands, leaning my head back on to the plush grey upholstery and letting the sobs rack my body like I’m a little kid. Mo gives my arm a compassionate squeeze.

There’s a buzzing noise.

‘Everyone all right back there?’ calls the driver. ‘Sounds like someone’s having an asthma attack!’

‘Everything’s fine!’ Rachel calls, as I wail and wheeze, struggling to breathe through the tears. ‘My friend has just been cornered by her crazy ex-boyfriend in front of a crowd of a thousand people and manipulated into looking like she would marry him, and now she is having a perfectly natural reaction.’

There’s a pause. ‘Crikey,’ says the driver. ‘Tissues are under the bar.’

When I get home I call Leon, but he doesn’t pick up. Beneath all the roaring blinding craziness of the day, I’m desperate to know more than he gave me in the last text: Things going well at court. How well? Is it over? When will Richie get a verdict?

I so badly want to speak to him. Specifically, I want to cuddle up against his shoulder and breathe in his gorgeous Leon smell and let him stroke the small of my back the way he does and then speak to him.

I can’t believe this. I can’t believe Justin. The fact that he put me in that position, in front of all those people . . . What did he think, that I’d just go along with it because it was what he wanted me to do?

Maybe I would have once, actually. God, that’s sickening.

The fact that he reached out to Martin to keep track of me takes the whole thing to a new level of disturbing — all those strange meetings that he made me feel crazy for thinking were anything other than coincidental. All carefully planned and calculated. But what was the point? If he wanted me, he had me. I was his — I would have done anything for him. Why did he push me so far, then keep trying to get me to come back? It’s just . . . so bizarre. So unnecessarily painful.

Rachel couldn’t come back to my flat with us — she’s babysitting her niece tonight, going from looking after one crying snotty mess to another — but Mo has promised me he’ll stay with me, which is so lovely of him. I feel a bit guilty, because the truth is, right now it’s Leon I want.

It almost surprises me how clear that thought is. I want Leon. I need him here with me, nervously fidgeting and lopsidedly smiling and effortlessly making everything feel brighter. After the madness of today, it strikes me with new force that if nice-scary is sometimes scary-scary as I learn to do this whole relationship thing again, so bloody what? If I give in to that fear, if I let it hold me back with Leon, then Justin really does win.

And Leon is so worth a bit of fear. He’s so worth it. I reach for my phone and call him again.

64 Leon

Three missed calls from Tiffy.

Can’t talk to her. Don’t want to hear her explain herself. I’m still walking, God knows where — maybe around in circles. I do seem to be seeing a lot of very similar Starbucks. It’s all poky and Dickensian, this part of London. Cobbles and pollution-stained brick, tiny narrow strips of sky overhead between grimy windows. You don’t have to walk far to end up in the shiny, pale blue world of the City, though. Turn a corner and find I’m face to face with myself, mirrored in the glass headquarters of some accountancy firm.

I look terrible. Exhausted and crumpled in this suit — suits have never looked good on me. I should have tried harder to smarten up; might have reflected badly on Richie. Already got Mam to contend with, whose idea of smart is slightly higher heeled knee-high boots.

I pause, surprised by the viciousness of that thought. Cruel and judgemental. I don’t like that my head could come up with it. I’ve come a long way to forgiving Mam — or I thought I had. But right now the very thought of her makes me angry.

I’m just an angry man today. Angry that I would settle for being happy just to have judges listening to my brother’s case, when he should never have been led in there by a prison officer in the first place. Angry that I was caught up worrying about showing Tiffy how I feel, and didn’t do it in time, and got outdone by a man who gives her nightmares, but certainly knows his way around a big romantic gesture. Nobody doubts how Justin feels now. No danger of that.

I’d really thought she wouldn’t go back to him. But then, you always think that, and they always do.

Look down at my phone: Tiffy’s name on my screen. She’s texted me. I can’t bear to open it, but can’t handle the temptation, so I turn my phone off.

I think about going home, but home is full of Tiffy’s belongings. The smell of her, the clothes I’ve seen her in, the negative space around her. And eventually she’ll come back from the launch — the flat’s hers for tonight and the weekend. So that’s out. Can sleep at Mam’s, obviously, but oddly seem to be just as furious with her as with Tiffy. Besides, can’t stand the thought of sleeping in mine and Richie’s old room tonight. Can’t be where Tiffy is, can’t be where Richie isn’t.

I have nowhere to go. Nowhere’s home. Just keep walking.

This flatshare. I wish I’d never done it. Wish I’d never opened my life up like that and let someone else walk in and fill it up. I was doing fine — safe, managing. Now my flat’s not mine, it’s ours, and when she’s gone all I will see is the absence of tiffin and books about bricklayers and that bloody stupid paisley beanbag. It’ll be another room full of what’s missing. Just what I didn’t want.

Maybe I can still save her from a life with him. Yes to a proposal doesn’t mean they’ll definitely get married, and she could hardly say no, could she, with all those people staring. I feel a dangerous surge of hope, and do my best to quash it. Remind myself that there is no saving of people — people can only save themselves. The best you can do is help when they’re ready.

Should eat. Can’t remember when I last did. The night before? Already seems like for ever ago. Now that I’ve realised I’m hungry, my stomach growls.

Swing into Starbucks. Walk past two girls watching Tasha Chai-Latte video of Justin proposing to Tiffy. Drink tea with lots of milk in, eat some sort of overpriced toastie with lots of butter in it, and stare at the wall.

I realise, when barista clearing the table gives me curious, pitying look, that I am crying again. Can’t seem to stop, so I don’t make myself. Eventually, though, people are noticing, and I want to be moving again, alone.

More walking. These smart shoes are rubbing raw at the skin of my heel. Think longingly of the worn-in shoes I wear at work, the easy way they fit, and within fifteen minutes or so it’s clear I’m not just walking now, I’m walking somewhere. There’s always room for another nurse in the hospice.

65 Tiffy

Gerty’s calling. I pick up, hardly thinking about it — it’s reflex.

‘Hello?’ My voice sounds strangely flat, even to me.

‘What the fuck is wrong with you, Tiffany? What the fuck is wrong with you?’

The shock makes me cry again.

‘Give me that,’ Mo says. I look up at him as he takes the phone off me, and breathe in sharply when I see his expression. He looks really angry. Mo never looks angry. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he says into the phone. ‘Oh yeah? You watched a video, did you? And it didn’t occur to you to ask Tiffy what happened? To give your best friend the benefit of the doubt before you scream down the phone at her?’

My eyes widen. A video? Shit. What video?

And then it dawns on me. Tasha Chai-Latte, filming the whole thing. Martin organised that, presumably, which means Justin would have known about it. No wonder he was so keen to make sure everyone caught my ‘reply’ to his big question — he needed it for the camera.

Martin also saw me and Leon together in the castle in Wales, right after Justin had had his suspicions raised when he’d dropped around to my flat and found Leon in his towel.

‘Mo,’ I say urgently. ‘Ask Gerty where Leon is.’

‘Call him again.’

‘Tiff, his phone is still off,’ Mo says gently.

‘Again!’ I say, pacing back and forth from the sofa to the kitchen. My heart is beating so hard it feels as if there’s something trying to work its way out between my ribs. I can’t bear the thought of Leon seeing that video and thinking that I’m engaged to Justin. I can’t bear it.

‘His phone is still off,’ Mo says, my mobile to his ear.

‘Try calling from yours. Maybe he’s screening my calls. He probably hates me.’

‘He won’t hate you,’ Mo says.

‘Gerty did.’

Mo narrows his eyes. ‘Gerty has a tendency to be judgemental. She’s working on it.’

‘Well, Leon doesn’t know me well enough to know I’d never do this to him,’ I say, twisting my hands together. ‘He knows I was really hung up on Justin, he probably just thinks— oh, God.’ I’m choking up.

‘Whatever he thinks, it’s fixable,’ Mo assures me. ‘We just need to wait until he’s ready to talk. He’s had a tough day too, going to court with Richie.’

‘I know!’ I snap at Mo. ‘I know! You think I don’t know how important today was for him?’

Mo doesn’t say anything. I wipe my face.

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t snap at you. You’ve been so great. I’m just angry with myself.’

‘Why?’ Mo asks.

‘Because . . . I bloody well dated him, didn’t I?’

‘Justin?’

‘I’m not saying what happened today was my fault, I know it doesn’t work that way, but I can’t help but think — if he’d not got to me, if I’d been stronger . . . we’d never have ended up here. I mean, bloody hell. None of your ex-girlfriends try to make you marry them and then use that to break up your current relationship, do they? Not that you have a current relationship, but you know what I mean.’

‘Umm,’ Mo says.

I look up at him, wiping my eyes again. I’m doing the kind of crying that means your eyes never really get dry, they’re just leaking non-stop.

‘Don’t tell me. You and Gerty.’

‘You guessed?’ Mo says, looking uncomfortable.

‘Rachel did. Her radar is much better than Gerty’s, though don’t tell — actually, do tell her, who cares about hurting Gerty’s feelings?’ I say savagely.

‘She’s calling now,’ Mo says, holding out my phone to me.

‘I don’t want to speak to her.’

‘Shall I answer?’

‘Do what you like. She’s your girlfriend.’

Mo gives me a long look as I sit down on the sofa again with shaking legs. I’m being childish, obviously, but Mo getting together with Gerty at this particular moment feels like he’s siding with her. I want Mo on my side. I want to scream at Gerty. She had the chance to tell Leon I would never do something like that to him, that he should check in with me before believing anything, and she didn’t.

‘She can’t find Leon,’ Mo tells me after a moment. ‘She really wants to speak to you, Tiffy. She wants to apologise.’

I shake my head. I’m not ready to be done feeling angry just because she wants to apologise.

‘She’s argued for a legal call with Richie when he gets to the prison,’ Mo says, after a pause to listen. I can hear Gerty’s voice on the other end of the phone, tinny and panicked. ‘She says she’ll tell him what really happened, so he can use his phone call to try Leon on his mobile — you can call any number on your first-night call. He probably won’t be in and processed until late, maybe even tomorrow morning, but it’s still our best hope of getting the message out to Leon if he doesn’t come home.’

‘Tomorrow morning?’ It’s only late afternoon.

Mo looks pained. ‘I think it’s our best option for now.’

It’s ridiculous, really, that a man in prison with only one phone call is a best option for getting hold of someone.

‘Leon’s phone is off,’ I say dully. ‘He won’t answer.’

‘He’ll see sense and turn it back on, Tiffy,’ Mo says, phone still at his ear. ‘He won’t want to miss a call from Richie.’

I sit out on the balcony, curled under two blankets. One of them is the Brixton throw that usually lives across our bed — the one Leon tucked me up under that night Justin came round to the flat and threatened him.

I know Leon thinks I’ve gone back to Justin. I’ve gone through desperate panic, and now I’m thinking that he should have more fucking faith in me.

Not that I’ve earned it, I suppose. I did go back to Justin, lots of times — I’ve told Leon that. But . . . I would never have started seeing Leon if I didn’t feel this time was different — if I wasn’t really ready to leave that part of my life behind me. I was trying so hard. All that time dredging up the worst memories, the endless conversations with Mo, the counselling. I was trying. But I guess Leon thought I was just too broken to fix myself.

Gerty rings me every ten minutes or so; I still haven’t picked up. Gerty has known me for eight years. If I’m angry with Leon for not having faith in me, and he’s known me for less than a year, I am at least eight times angrier with Gerty.

I pick at the sad, yellowing leaves on our one balcony pot plant and very pointedly do not think about the fact that Justin knows where I live. Somehow. Probably Martin — my address is pretty easy to get if you have access to my desk and the payslips that HR drop around.

Fucking hell. I knew I didn’t like that man for a reason.

I look down at my phone as it vibrates around and around on our little, rickety outdoor table. The table’s surface is covered in bird poo and that thick, sticky dust-grime that covers everything left outdoors for any length of time in London. Gerty’s name lights up my phone screen, and with a flash of anger I pick up this time.

‘What?’ I say.

‘I am awful,’ Gerty says, talking very fast. ‘I can’t believe myself. I should never have assumed that you would go back to Justin. I am so, so sorry.’

I pause, taken aback. Gerty and I have fought plenty of times, but she’s never said sorry right away like that, unprompted.

‘I should have believed you could do it. I do believe you can.’

‘Do what?’ I ask, before I can think of a better, angrier response.

‘Get away from Justin.’

‘Oh. That.’

‘Tiffy, are you all right?’ Gerty says.

‘Well. Not really,’ I say, feeling my bottom lip quivering. I bite down on it hard. ‘I don’t suppose . . .’

‘Richie’s not called yet. You know what these things are like, Tiffy, it could be midnight before they even move him from the holding cell to Wandsworth. And the prison’s pretty shambolic so I don’t want to get your hopes up that they’ll even give him his phone call, let alone the legal call I made them promise me. But if I speak to him I’ll tell him everything. I’ll ask him to speak to Leon.’

I check the time on the screen: it’s 8 p.m. now, and I cannot believe how nightmarishly slowly time is passing.

‘I am really, really angry with you,’ I tell Gerty, because I know I don’t sound it. I just sound sad, and tired, and like I want my best friend.

‘Absolutely. Me too. Furious. I’m the worst. And Mo isn’t talking to me either, if that helps.’

‘That doesn’t help,’ I say reluctantly. ‘I don’t want you to be a pariah.’

‘A what? Is that some kind of dessert?’

‘Pariah. Persona non-grata. Outcast.’

‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m resigned to a life of disgrace. It’s all I deserve.’

We sit in companionable silence for a while. I reach around inside to find that enormous pool of Gerty-fuelled rage again, but it seems to have evaporated.

‘I really hate Justin,’ I say miserably. ‘You know I think he did this mostly to break up me and Leon? I don’t think he would actually even marry me. He would just leave me again, once he was sure he’d got me back.’

‘The man needs castrating,’ Gerty says firmly. ‘He’s done you nothing but harm. I have actively wished him dead on several occasions.’

‘Gerty!’

‘You didn’t have to sit back and watch it happening,’ she says. ‘Watch him cleaning all the Tiffany-ness out of you. It was sick.’

I fiddle with the Brixton blanket.

‘All this mess has made me realise . . . I really like Leon, Gerty. Really like him.’ I sniff, wiping my eyes. ‘I wish he had at least asked me whether I actually said yes. And . . . and . . . even if I had . . . I wish that he hadn’t just given up.’

‘It’s been half a day. He’s in shock, and drained after the session in court. He’s built this day up in his head for months. Justin, as ever, has impeccably dreadful timing. Give it a little time and I hope you’ll find Leon un-gives up again.’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

‘Have faith, Tiffy. After all, isn’t that what you’re asking from him?’

66 Leon

Move between wards like I’m haunting the place. Should I be able to focus enough to take blood from a vein when even breathing feels like an effort? It’s easy, though — blissfully routine. Here’s something I can do. Leon, Charge Nurse, quiet but reliable.

Notice after a few hours that I’m circling Coral Ward. Dodging it.

Mr Prior’s there, dying.

Eventually the junior doctor on shift says a morphine dose on Coral Ward needs countersigning. So. No more hiding. Off I go. White-grey corridors, bare and scratched, and I know every inch of them, maybe better than the walls of my own flat.

Pause. There’s a man in a brown suit outside the ward, forearms on knees, staring at the floor. Odd to see someone here at this time of the morning — no visitors on the night shift. He’s very old, white-haired. Familiar.

I know that posture: that’s the posture of a man Mustering Courage. I’ve struck that pose enough times outside prison visiting halls to know how it looks.

Takes a little while for it to click — I’m barely thinking, just moving on autopilot. But that white-haired man staring at the floor is Johnny White the Sixth, from Brighton. The thought seems ridiculous. JW the Sixth is a man from my other life. The one full of Tiffy. But here he is, so. Looks like I found Mr Prior’s Johnny after all, even if it took him a little while to admit it.

Should feel pleased, but can’t.

Look at him. Aged ninety-two, he’s tracked Mr Prior down, put his best suit on, travelled all the way up from the coast. All for a man he loved a lifetime ago. He sits there, head bowed like a man in prayer, waiting for the strength to face what he left behind.

Mr Prior has days to live. Hours, possibly. I look at Johnny White and feel it like a punch in the gut. He left it so. Fucking. Late.

Johnny White looks up, sees me. We don’t speak. The silence stretches down the corridor between us.

Johnny White: Is he dead?

His voice comes out husky, breaking halfway.

Me: No. You’re not too late.

Except he is, really. How much did it hurt to come all this way knowing it was just to say goodbye?

Johnny White: It took me a while to find him. After you visited.

Me: You should have said something.

Johnny White: Yes.

He looks back at the floor. I step forward, bridge the silence, take the seat beside him. We examine the scratched lino side by side. This isn’t about me. This isn’t my story. But . . . Johnny White on that plastic seat, head bowed, that’s what the other side of not-trying looks like.

Johnny White: I don’t want to go in there. I was thinking about leaving, when I saw you.

Me: You’ve made it to here. There’s just the doors, now.

He lifts his head as though it’s something heavy.

Johnny White: Are you sure he’ll want to see me?

Me: He may not be conscious, Mr White. But even so, I have no doubt he’ll be happier with you there.

Johnny White stands, brushes down his suit trousers, squares his Hollywood chiselled jaw.

Johnny White: Well. Better late than never.

He doesn’t look at me, he just pushes his way through the double doors. I watch them swing behind him.

Left to my own devices, I’m the sort of man who’d never walk through those doors. And where’s that ever got anybody?

I get up. Time to move.

Me, to junior doctor: On-call nurse will countersign on the morphine. I’m not on shift.

Junior doctor: I did wonder why you weren’t in scrubs. What the hell are you doing here when you’re not on the rota? Go home!

Me: Yes. Good idea.

It’s two in the morning; London is still and muffled in darkness. Turn on my phone as I jog for the bus, heartbeat thumping high in my throat.

Endless missed calls and messages. I stare at them, startled. Don’t know where to start. Don’t have to, though, because the phone buzzes into life with an unknown London number almost as soon as I’ve turned it on.

Me: Hello?

My voice is wobbly.

Richie: Oh, thank fuck for that. The guard is getting really tetchy. I’ve been ringing you for the past ten minutes. I had to give a long explanation of how this was still my one phone call, because you weren’t picking up. We’ve got about five minutes’ credit, by the way.

Me: Are you all right?

Richie: Am I all right? I’m fine, you big bellend, other than being mightily pissed off with you — and Gerty.

Me: What?

Richie: Tiffy. She didn’t say yes. That mad Justin bloke just answered for her, didn’t you notice?

Stop stock still ten yards from bus stop. I . . . can’t absorb it. Blink. Swallow. Feel a bit sick.

Richie: Yeah. Gerty rang her and started laying in to her for going back to Justin, then Mo went mental at her. Told her she was a terrible friend for not having enough faith in Tiffy to at least ask the question before assuming she’d gone back to him.

I find my voice.

Me: Is Tiffy all right?

Richie: She’d be a lot better if she could speak to you, man.

Me: I was already on my way, but—

Richie: You were?

Me: Yes. Had a visit from the Ghost of Christmas Future.

Richie, confused: Bit early in the year for that sort of thing, isn’t it?

Me: Well. You know what they say. Gets earlier every year.

Lean against the bus shelter. Giddy and sick all at once. What was I doing? Coming here, wasting all that time?

Me, belatedly, and with a rush of fear: Is Tiffy safe?

Richie: Justin’s still on the loose, if that’s what you mean. But her mate Mo is with her, and according to Gerty he reckons Justin won’t come back for a while — he’ll go nurse his wounds and come up with another plan. He tends to have a plan for everything — that’s part of his whole deal, Mo says. You know the prick was using Martin from Tiffy’s work to find out information about where Tiffy would be the whole time?

Me: Martin. And . . . oh. Fuck.

Richie: This was all about breaking the two of you up, man. Getting that YouTuber to film it all so you’d see it for sure.

Me: I can’t . . . can’t believe I just assumed.

Richie: Hey, bro, just go fix it, OK? And tell her about Mam.

Me: Tell her what about Mam?

Richie: I don’t need to be a therapist to figure out that you leaving Mam at court with Gerty and not going back to her place had something to do with all this. Look, I get it, man — we both have mummy issues.

Bus approaching.

Me: Not . . . entirely sure how this is relevant?

Richie: Just because Mam always went back to the men who treated her like shit, or found another version of the same guy, that doesn’t mean Tiffy’s the same.

Me, automatically: It wasn’t Mam’s fault. She was abused. Manipulated.

Richie: Yeah, yeah, I know, you’re always saying that. But it doesn’t make it any easier when you’re twelve, does it?

Me: You think . . .

Richie: Look, I have to go. But just go tell Tiffy you’re sorry, and you fucked up, and you were raised by an abused single mother and basically had to look after your younger brother single-handed. That ought to do it.

Me: That’s a bit . . . emotional blackmaily, no? Also, will she enjoy the comparison with my mother?

Richie: Point taken. Fine. You do you. Just sort it, and get her back, because that woman is the best thing that’s ever happened to you. All right?

67 Tiffy

We completely forgot about eating, and now it’s 2.30 a.m. and I’ve just remembered to be hungry. Mo has gone out to get takeaway. He’s left me on the balcony with a large glass of red wine and an even larger bowl of munchies from the cupboard, which I’m pretty sure were Leon’s, but who cares — if he thinks I’d go off and marry someone else, he might as well think I’m a snack thief too.

I’m not sure who I’m angry with any more. I’ve sat here for so long my legs have cramped up, and I’ve been through pretty much all the available emotions in that time, and now they’re all muddled together in a big ugly soup of misery. The only thing I can think of with any certainty is that I wish I had never met Justin.

My phone buzzes.

Leon calling.

I’ve waited all night to see those words. My stomach drops. Has he spoken to Richie?

‘Hello?’

‘Hey.’ His voice sounds ragged and strangely unfamiliar. It’s like the energy has gone out of him.

I wait for him to say something else, staring out at the traffic sliding by below, letting the headlights draw yellow-white streaks on the insides of my eyes.

‘I am holding an enormous bunch of flowers,’ he says.

I don’t say anything.

‘I felt like I needed a physical symbol of the enormity of my apology,’ Leon goes on. ‘But I’ve realised Justin also left you an enormous bunch of flowers — actually, much nicer, more expensive flowers — so now I’m thinking, flowers, not so good. Then I thought, I’d just come home and tell you in person. But then I realised once I got here that I left my key to the flat at Mam’s place because I’m supposed to be staying there tonight. So I’d have to knock on the door, which I thought would probably scare you, since you have an unhinged ex-boyfriend to contend with.’

I watch car after car drive by. That might be the longest I’ve ever heard Leon speak in one go.

‘So where are you now?’ I ask eventually.

‘Look up. Opposite pavement, by the bakery.’

I see him now. He’s silhouetted against the bright yellow light of the bakery’s sign, the phone to his ear, his other arm cradling a bouquet of flowers. He’s wearing a suit — of course, he won’t have changed since court.

‘I’m guessing you’re feeling very hurt,’ he says. His voice is gentle, and it makes me melt.

I’m crying again.

‘I am so sorry, Tiffy. I should never have assumed. You needed me today, and I wasn’t there for you.’

‘I did need you,’ I sob. ‘Mo and Gerty and Rachel are all great and I love them and they have helped so much, but I wanted you. You made me feel like it didn’t matter that Justin happened. That you cared about me anyway.’

‘I do. And it doesn’t.’ He’s crossing the road now, coming over to this side of the pavement. I can make out his face, the smooth, sharp lines of his cheekbones, the soft curve of his lips. He’s looking up at me. ‘Everyone kept telling me I was going to lose you if I didn’t tell you how I feel, and then in comes Justin, king of the romantic gesture . . .’

‘Romantic?’ I splutter. ‘Romantic? And I don’t bloody want romantic gestures anyway! Why would I want that? I’ve had that, and it was shit!’

‘I know,’ Leon says. ‘You’re right. I should have known.’

‘And I liked that you weren’t pushing things — the idea of committing to a serious relationship scares the hell out of me! I mean, look at how hard it was to get out of the last one!’

‘Oh,’ says Leon. ‘Yes. That’s . . . yes, I see.’ He mutters something that sounds like it might be bloody Richie.

‘I can hear you without the phone now, you know,’ I say, raising my voice enough for it to carry over the traffic noise. ‘Plus I’m quite enjoying the excuse to shout.’

He hangs up and backs away a little. ‘Let’s shout, then!’ he calls.

I narrow my eyes, and then I pull off all my blankets, put down my wine and munchies, and move to the railings.

‘Whoa,’ Leon says, voice dropping so I can only just catch the words. ‘You look incredible.’

I look down at myself, a little surprised to find I’m still wearing the off-the-shoulder dress from the party. God knows what my hair looks like, and my make-up is definitely at least two inches further down my face than it was this morning, but the dress is pretty spectacular.

‘Don’t be nice!’ I shout. ‘I want to be angry with you!’

‘Yes! Right! Shouting,’ Leon calls, tightening his tie and rebuttoning his collar as though he’s preparing himself.

‘I am never going back to Justin!’ I shout, and then, because of how good it feels, I try it again. ‘I am never fucking going back to Justin!’

A car alarm goes off somewhere nearby, which I know is coincidental, but still feels pretty good — now all I need is a cat to yowl and a bunch of dustbins to fall over. I take a deep breath and open my mouth to keep yelling, then pause. Leon has a hand up.

‘Can I say something?’ he calls. ‘I mean, shout something?’

A driver slows down as he passes, staring with interest at the pair of us bellowing at one another, two storeys apart. It occurs to me now that Leon has probably never shouted in the street before. I close my mouth, a little taken aback, then nod.

‘I fucked up!’ Leon yells. He clears his throat and tries a little louder. ‘I got scared. I know it’s no excuse, but all this is scary for me. The trial. You, us. I’m not good when things are changing. I get . . .’

He flounders, as if he’s run out of words, and something warm gives way in my chest.

‘Squirrelly?’ I offer.

In the light from the streetlamp I watch his lips move into a lopsided smile.

‘Yeah. Good word.’ He clears his throat again, moving closer to the balcony. ‘Sometimes it feels easier to just be the way I was before you. Safer. But . . . look what you’ve been able to do. How brave you’ve been. And that’s how I want to be. OK?’

I rest my hands on the railing and look down at him. ‘You’re doing a lot of talking down there, Leon Twomey,’ I call.

‘It seems in times of emergency I can be quite verbose!’ he yells.

I laugh. ‘Don’t be doing too much changing, now. I like you as you are.’

He grins. He’s dishevelled and shabbily handsome in his suit, and suddenly all I want to do is kiss him.

‘Well, Tiffy Moore, I like you too.’

‘Say again?’ I call, cupping a hand around my ear.

‘I really, really like you!’ he bellows.

A window above me flies open with a clatter. ‘Do you mind?’ shouts the strange man from Flat 5. ‘I’m trying to sleep up here! How am I supposed to get up in time to do my antigravity yoga if I’m kept up all night?’

‘Antigravity yoga!’ I mouth down at Leon, delighted. I’ve been wondering what he did every morning since the first day I moved in here!

‘Don’t let the fame go to your head, Leon,’ warns the strange man from Flat 5, then he reaches to close the window again.

‘Wait!’ I call.

He looks down at me. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m your other neighbour. Hello!’

‘Oh, you’re Leon’s girlfriend?’

I hesitate, then grin. ‘Yes,’ I say firmly, and hear a little whoop from street level. ‘And I have a question.’

He just stares at me with the air of a man waiting to see what a small child will do next.

‘What do you do with all the bananas? You know — the bananas from the empty crates that live in your parking space?’

To my surprise, he breaks into a big, half-toothless smile. He looks quite friendly when he’s smiling. ‘I distil them! Lovely cider!’

And with that, he slams the window.

Leon and I look at each other and simultaneously burst out into giggles. Before long I am laughing so hard I’ve started to cry; I’m holding my stomach, ugly-laughing, gasping for breath and screwing my face up hard.

‘Antigravity yoga!’ I hear Leon whisper, his voice just carrying on a gap in the traffic noise. ‘Banana cider!’

‘I can’t hear you,’ I say, but I don’t shout for fear of waking the ire of the strange man from Flat 5 again. ‘Come closer.’

Leon looks around, and then backs up a few steps.

‘Catch!’ he calls in a stage whisper, and then he chucks the bouquet up to me. It soars lopsidedly through the air, shedding leaves and the odd chrysanthemum as it goes, but, with a dangerous lunge towards the railings and a squeaky sort of shriek, I manage to catch it.

By the time I’ve got a good hold on the flowers and laid them on the table, Leon has disappeared. I lean over the edge of the balcony in confusion.

‘Where have you gone?’ I call.

‘Marco!’ comes a voice from somewhere nearby.

‘Polo?’

‘Marco.’

‘Polo! This is not helping!’

He’s scaling the drainpipe. I burst out laughing again.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Getting closer!’

‘I did not have you down as a drainpipe-climbing man,’ I say, wincing as he reaches for another handhold and hauls himself up a little higher.

‘Me neither,’ he says, turning to look at me as he scrabbles about for a spot for his left foot. ‘You clearly bring out the best in me.’

He’s only a few feet away from me now; the drainpipe passes right up by our balcony, and he can almost reach our railings.

‘Hey! Are those my munchies?’ he says as he reaches an experimental hand up.

I just give him a look.

‘. . . Yeah, fair enough,’ he says. ‘Give a fella a hand?’

‘This is insane,’ I tell him, but I move to help anyway.

Carefully, he lets one foot dangle, and then the other, until he’s hanging by his hands from our balcony railings.

‘Oh my God,’ I say. It’s almost too terrifying to look at, but I can’t look away, specifically because then I won’t be paying attention if he lets go, and that idea is much worse than watching him hanging there, scrabbling to find a foothold on the bottom edge of the railings.

He pulls himself up; I give him a hand with the last yank, my hand grasping his as he swings himself over.

‘There!’ he says, brushing himself down. He pauses, breathless, and looks at me.

‘Hi,’ I say, suddenly feeling a little shy in my over-the-top dress.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Leon says, opening his arms for a hug.

I lean into him. His suit smells of autumn, that outdoor-air smell that clings to your hair at this time of year. The rest of him smells of Leon, just the way I want it to, and as he pulls me close I shut my eyes and breathe him in, feeling the solid strength of his body against mine.

Mo appears in the doorway, fish and chips in a plastic Something Fishy bag in his hands. I didn’t even hear him come in, and I jump a little, but with Leon’s arms around me the idea of Justin turning up in the flat doesn’t feel nearly so terrifying.

‘Ah,’ Mo says, seeing the pair of us. ‘I’ll take my fish and chips elsewhere, shall I?’

68 Leon

Me: It’s probably not the right time.

Tiffy: I sincerely hope you’re joking.

Me: Not joking, but definitely hoping you’ll tell me I’m wrong.

Tiffy: You are wrong. Now is the perfect time. We are alone, in our flat, together. It literally does not get better than this.

We stare at each other. She’s still wearing that incredible dress. Looks like it would tip off her shoulders to the floor with one tug. I’m desperate to try it. I resist, though — she says she’s ready, but it’s not been the sort of day for tear-my-clothes-off sex. Slow, lovely, clothes-staying-on-for-tantalisingly-long-time sex, maybe.

Tiffy: Bed?

That voice — exactly like Richie described it. Deep and sexy. Much sexier when it says things like ‘bed’, too.

We stand at the foot of the bed and turn to face one another again. I lean to take her face between my hands and kiss her. Feel her body melt against mine as we kiss, feel the tension leave her, and pull back to see her eyes have gone fiery behind the blue. The desire is instant, on the moment our lips touch, and it takes enormous effort just to rest my hands on her bare shoulders.

She reaches to loosen my tie and shrug off my jacket. Unbuttons my shirt slowly, kissing me as her fingers move. There’s still air between us now, like we’re keeping a respectful distance, despite the kissing.

Tiffy turns, holding her hair out of the way so I can unzip her dress. I take her hair into my hands instead, pulling a little as I twist the bunch around my wrist, and she moans. Can’t handle that sound. Close that space between us, kissing along her shoulders, up her neck to where her hair meets her skin, pressing as close as I can until she shifts to loosen her own zip.

Tiffy: Leon. Focus. Dress.

I take the zip from between her fingers and pull it down slowly, slower than she wants. She wriggles, impatient. Backs up into me until my legs hit the bed and we’re pressed close again, bare skin and silk.

Eventually the dress falls to the floor. It’s almost cinematic — a shimmer of silk, then she’s there, black underwear and nothing else. She turns in my arms, her eyes still fiery, and I hold her away to look at her.

Tiffy, smiling: You always do that.

Me: Do what?

Tiffy: Look at me like that. When I . . . take something off.

Me: Want to see everything. It’s too important for rushing.

Tiffy quirks an eyebrow, unbearably sexy.

Tiffy: No rushing?

She traces her fingers along the top of my boxers. Dips her hand below it, a hair’s breadth from where I want her.

Tiffy: You’re going to regret saying that, Leon.

I’m already regretting, as soon as she says my name. Her fingers trace across my lower belly, and then, painfully slowly, reach for the buckle of my belt. After she’s eased the zip down I step out of my suit trousers and kick off my socks, conscious of how her eyes follow me like a cat’s. When I move to pull her close to me again she puts a firm hand on my chest.

Tiffy, throatily: Bed.

That air between us is back for an instant; we move automatically to our old sides of the bed. She’s left, I’m right. We watch each other as we slide under the covers.

I lie sideways, looking at her. Her hair spreads across the pillow, and though she’s under the duvet I can sense how bare she is, how much of her there is to touch. I place my hand in the space between us. She takes it, bridging the line we’d drawn back in February, and kisses my fingers, then slides them between her lips, and suddenly that space is gone and she’s pressed up against me where she should be, skin on skin, not a fraction of an inch between us.

69 Tiffy

‘You’ve seen me naked now. You’ve had your wicked way with me. And you’re still looking at me like that.’

His smile drops into that gorgeous lopsided thing, the smile that got me all those weeks ago in Brighton.

‘Tiffany Moore,’ he says, ‘I have every intention of continuing to look at you in this fashion for many moons to come.’

‘Many moons!’

He nods solemnly.

‘How very charming and ingeniously non-specific of you.’

‘Well, something told me a suggestion of long-term commitment might have you running for the hills.’

I think about it, resettling my head against his chest. ‘I see your point, but actually, it seems to have just made me feel curiously warm and fuzzy.’

He doesn’t say anything, he just kisses the top of my head.

‘Also I would not be capable of running non-stop to the nearest hill.’

‘Herne Hill, maybe? You could take Herne Hill.’

‘Well,’ I say, turning on to my front and propping myself up on my elbows, ‘I have no interest in running to Herne Hill. I like the many-moons plan. I think it’s . . . hey, are you even listening to me?’

‘Yes?’ Leon tries, lifting his gaze. He smiles. ‘Sorry. You have managed to distract me even from yourself.’

‘And there was me thinking you were un-distractible.’

He kisses me, his hand moving to stroke rough circles on my breast. ‘Sure. Un-distractible,’ he says. ‘And you are . . .’

I already can’t think straight. ‘Putty in your hands?’

‘I was going to say, “excellently easy to distract”.’

‘I’m playing hard to get this time.’

He does something with his hand that nobody has ever done before. I have no idea what’s happening but it seems to involve his thumb, my nipple, and about five thousand prickly hot licks of sensation.

‘I’m reminding you of that in ten minutes’ time,’ Leon says, kissing his way down my neck.

‘You’re smug.’

‘I’m happy.’

I pull away to look at him. I realise that my cheeks are starting to hurt, and I think it’s genuinely from all the smiling. When I tell Rachel that, I know exactly what she’ll do: stick her finger in her mouth and gag. But it’s true — despite everything that’s happened today, I am sickeningly, dizzyingly happy.

He raises his eyebrows at me. ‘No witty comeback?’

I gasp as his fingers shift across my skin, tracing patterns I can’t follow.

‘I’m just working on one . . . Just give me . . . a minute . . .’

While Leon is in the shower, I write our to-do list for the next day and stick it to the fridge. It reads as follows.

I fidget, waiting for him to appear, and then give up and reach for my phone. I’ll just have to listen out for the shower.

‘Hello?’ comes Gerty’s muffled voice down the line.

‘Hi!’

‘Oh thank God,’ Gerty says, and I can almost hear her slumping back against the pillows again. ‘You and Leon worked things out?’

‘Yeah, we worked things out,’ I tell her.

‘Oh, and you slept with him?’

I grin. ‘Your radar’s back on.’

‘So I haven’t ruined everything?’

‘You haven’t ruined everything. Although, to be clear, it would have been Justin who ruined everything, not you.’

‘God, you are feeling benevolent. Were you safe?’

‘Yes, Mother, we were safe. Were you and Mo safe when you made up this morning?’ I ask sweetly.

‘Don’t,’ Gerty says. ‘It’s bad enough me thinking about Mo’s penis, you shouldn’t have to do it too.’

I laugh. ‘Can we have coffee tomorrow, just the three of us? I want to hear about how you got together. Vaguely, and with no penis-related details.’

‘And talk about how to get a restraining order?’ Gerty suggests.

‘Is that Tiffy?’ I hear Mo say in the background.

‘So sweet that he hears “restraining order” and thinks of me,’ I say, heart sinking a little at the change of subject. ‘But yeah. We should talk about that.’

‘Do you feel safe?’

‘Are we back on the contraception subject again?’

‘Tiffy.’ Gerty has never stood for my arts of deflection. ‘Do you feel safe in the flat?’

‘With Leon here, yeah.’

‘OK. Good. But even so, we need to talk about getting an emergency injunction to cover you before the hearing.’

‘An— wait, there’s a hearing?’

‘Let the poor woman think,’ Mo says in the background. ‘I’m glad you and Leon are good again, Tiffy!’ he calls.

‘Thanks, Mo.’

‘Have I killed your buzz?’ Gerty asks.

‘A little. But it’s all right. I’ve still got Rachel to call.’

‘Yes, go discuss all the sordid details with Rachel,’ Gerty says. ‘Coffee tomorrow, text us where and when.’

‘See you,’ I say, hanging up and pausing to listen.

The shower is still on. I call Rachel.

‘Sex?’ she says when she answers the phone.

I laugh. ‘No thanks, I’m taken.’

‘I knew it! You guys made up?’

‘And then some,’ I say, in an exaggeratedly sexy sort of way.

‘Details! Details!’

‘I’ll fill you in properly on Monday. But . . . I have discovered that my boobs have been underperforming for my entire adult life.’

‘Ah yes,’ Rachel says knowledgeably. ‘A common problem. You know there are . . .’

‘Shh!’ I hiss. The shower’s stopped. ‘Got to go!’

‘Don’t leave me hanging like this! I was going to tell you all about nipples!’

‘Leon is going to find it very weird that I have rung around my best friends after sex,’ I whisper. ‘It’s early days. I still have to pretend to be normal.’

‘Fine, but I’m scheduling in a two-hour meeting on Monday morning. Subject: Boobs 101.’

I hang up and a moment later Leon wanders in in his towel, hair smoothed back, shoulders gleaming with droplets, and pauses to examine my to-do list.

‘Seems manageable,’ he says, opening the door and reaching in for the orange juice. ‘How’re Gerty and Rachel?’

‘What?’

He smiles at me over his shoulder. ‘Do you want me to get back in? I figured I only needed to allow for two phone calls, since Gerty would be with Mo.’

I feel my cheeks flushing. ‘Oh, I, uh . . .’

He leans over, orange juice in hand, and kisses me on the lips. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘I plan on remaining blissfully unaware of how much you overshare with Rachel.’

‘When I’m finished filling her in she’ll think you’re a god amongst men,’ I say, relaxing and reaching for the orange juice.

Leon winces. ‘Will she be able to look me in the face again?’

‘Sure. She’ll probably opt for looking somewhere else instead, though.’

70 Leon

The weekend comes and goes in a blur of guilty pleasure. Tiffy barely leaves my arms, except to go for coffee with Gerty and Mo. Was right that we’d have a few triggers to work around; briefly lost her to a bad memory on Saturday morning, but am already learning how to help bring her back again. Is rather satisfying.

She’s definitely more nervous about Justin than she’s letting on — came up with elaborate heavy-milk-buying ruse to get me to come and meet her at the coffee place and walk her back here. The sooner we can get that restraining order sorted the better. I fixed a chain on the door while she was out, and mended the balcony door, just to be doing something.

Got Monday off, so walk Tiffy to the tube and then cook myself an elaborate fry-up involving black pudding and spinach.

Sitting still alone is not good. Odd — normally I’m all for lonesome sitting. But when Tiffy is out, I feel her absence like a missing tooth.

Eventually, after much pacing and not looking in the direction of my phone, I call my mother.

Mam: Leon? Sweetie? Are you OK?

Me: Hi, Mam. I’m fine. Sorry for walking out like that on Friday.

Mam: It’s OK. We were all upset, and what with your new girlfriend marrying that other guy . . . Oh, Lee, you must be heartbroken!

Ah, of course — who would have filled Mam in?

Me: It was a misunderstanding. Tiffy has a, uh, bad-news sort of ex-boyfriend. That was him. She didn’t actually say yes to marrying him, he just tried to force her into it.

Dramatic, soap-opera style gasp down the phone. I try very hard not to find it annoying.

Mam: Poor little thing!

Me: Yes, well, she’s doing fine.

Mam: Have you gone after him?

Me: After him?

Mam: The ex! After what he’s done to your Tiffy!

Me: . . . what are you suggesting, Mam?

I decide not to give her time to answer.

Me: We’re looking into getting a restraining order.

Mam: Oh, sure, those are great.

Awkward pause. Why do I find these conversations so difficult?

Mam: Leon.

Wait. Fidget. Look at the floor.

Mam: Leon, I’m sure your Tiffy’s nothing like me.

Me: What?

Mam: You were always a sweetheart about it, not like Richie with all his screaming and running off and all, but I know you hated the men I dated. I mean, I hated them too, but you hated them right from the start. I know I set a . . . I know I set a terrible example.

I feel deeply, profoundly uncomfortable.

Me: Mam, it’s fine.

Mam: I really am getting sorted now, Lee.

Me: I know. And it wasn’t your fault.

Mam: You know, I think I nearly believe that?

Pause. Think.

I nearly believe that too. Who’d have thought — you say something true enough times, you try hard enough, and maybe it sinks in.

Me: Love you, Mam.

Mam: Oh, sweetheart. I love you too. And we’ll get our Richie back, and we’ll look after him, won’t we, like we always have?

Me: Exactly. Like always.

It’s still Monday. Monday is interminable. I hate days off — what do people do on days off? I just keep thinking trial, hospice, Justin, trial, hospice, Justin. Even warm fuzzy Tiffy thoughts are struggling to keep me afloat now.

Me: Hi, Gerty, it’s Leon.

Gerty: Leon, there is no news. The judges have not called us back for a verdict. If the judges call us back for a verdict, I will call you, and then you will know about it. You do not need to call me to check in.

Me: Right. Sure. Sorry.

Gerty, relenting: I suspect it will be tomorrow.

Me: Tomorrow.

Gerty: It’s like today, but plus one.

Me: Today plus one. Yes.

Gerty: Don’t you have a hobby or something?

Me: Not really. Sort of just work all the time, generally.

Gerty: Well, you live with Tiffy. There will be no shortage of hobby-related reading material. Go read a book about crochet or building things out of cardboard or whatever.

Me: Thanks, Gerty.

Gerty: You’re welcome. And stop calling me, I am very busy.

She hangs up. It’s still a little unnerving when she does that, no matter how many times you’ve endured it.

71 Tiffy

I can’t believe Martin had the guts to come in to work. I always had him down as a coward, but actually, of the two of us, I seem the most nervous about facing him. It’s like . . . talking to Justin by proxy. Which is frankly terrifying, no matter how much I tell Leon I’m feeling fine. Martin, on the other hand, is swanning about as usual, gloating about the success story of the party. I guess he probably doesn’t know I know yet.

He’s yet to mention the proposal, I notice. Nobody in the office has. Rachel put out the memo that I wasn’t actually engaged, which has at least saved me a morning of warding off congratulations.

We wait until the morning team meeting is over. I grit my teeth through all the congratulations Martin gets for the party. A few curious glances are shot in my direction, but it’s glossed over. I flush with shame anyway. I hate that everyone in this room knows that I have ex-boyfriend drama. I bet they’re all concocting their own outlandish reasons why I am no longer engaged, and not one of them has come up with the truth.

Rachel grabs my hand and squeezes it tightly, then gives me a little shove in Martin’s direction as he gathers up his notebook and papers.

‘Martin, can we have a word?’ I say.

‘Not a great time, Tiffy,’ he says, with the air of a very important person who rarely has time for spontaneous meetings.

‘Martin, mate, either you step into this meeting room with us or we adopt my plan, which was kicking you in the balls right now in front of everyone,’ Rachel says.

A flash of fear crosses his face, and my anxiety evaporates. Look at him. He suspects we know now, so he’s back-peddling. Suddenly I can’t wait to hear what crap he comes up with.

Rachel herds him into the only free meeting room with a door and clicks it shut behind us. She leans back against it, arms folded.

‘What’s this about?’ Martin asks.

‘Why don’t you hazard a guess, Martin?’ I say. My voice comes out surprisingly light and pleasant.

‘I really have no idea,’ he blusters. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘If there is, how long will it be before Justin is informed of it?’ I ask.

Martin meets my gaze. He looks like a cornered cat.

‘I don’t know what you . . .’ he tries.

‘Justin told me. He’s fickle like that.’

Martin sags. ‘Look, I was trying to help you out,’ he says. ‘He got in touch about our flat back in February, saying he was helping you look for a place, and made a deal with us so we could offer you our spare room for five hundred a month.’

Back in February? Bloody hell.

‘How did he even know who you were?’

‘We’ve been friends on Facebook for ages. I think he added me when you guys first got serious — at the time I figured he was checking out the guys you work with, you know, the protective type. But I posted the ad about the flat on there and that’s how he got in touch.’

‘How much did he offer you?’

‘He said he’d pay the difference,’ Martin says. ‘Hana and I thought it was sweet of him.’

‘Oh, that’s Justin,’ I say through gritted teeth.

‘And then when you didn’t take the room, he seemed so down. We’d got chatting when he popped around to discuss the arrangement, and then he asked if I could drop him a line every now and again, just letting him know how you are and what you’re up to so he doesn’t worry.’

‘And that didn’t strike you as, I don’t know, creepy?’ Rachel asks.

‘No!’ Martin shakes his head. ‘It didn’t seem creepy. And he wasn’t paying me or anything — the only time I took money from him was to get Tasha Chai-Latte to come and film, OK?’

‘You took money from him for stalking Tiffy?’ Rachel says, visibly swelling with rage.

Martin cringes.

‘Hang on.’ I hold my hands up. ‘Go back to the start. He asked you to let him know where I was every now and then. So that’s how he knew I’d be at that book launch in Shoreditch, and how he knew I’d be on the cruise ship?’

‘I suppose so,’ Martin says. He shifts back and forth on his feet like a child who needs the toilet, and I find myself starting to feel a little sorry for him, which I immediately quash because the only thing getting me through this conversation is rage.

‘And the trip to Wales for the shoot?’ I say.

Martin visibly starts to sweat. ‘I, ah, he rang me about that one after I texted him to say where you’d be . . .’

I twitch. It’s so creepy I want to go and shower immediately.

‘. . . and he asked about the guy you’d be bringing to help out with the modelling. I gave him the physical description you’d given me. He went all quiet, and sounded really upset. He told me how much he still loved you, and how he knew this guy and he was going to ruin everything . . .’

‘So you spent the whole weekend running interference.’

‘I thought I was helping!’

‘Well, you sucked at it anyway, because we sneaked off and made out in the kitchen at three in the morning so HA!’ I say.

‘In danger of losing the higher ground, there, Tiffy,’ Rachel says.

‘Right, right. So, you debriefed Justin when we got back?’

‘Yeah. He wasn’t that happy with how I’d handled things. Suddenly I felt really bad, you know? I hadn’t done enough.’

‘Oh, this man is good,’ Rachel says under her breath.

‘Anyway, then he wanted to plan this big proposal. It was all very romantic.’

‘Especially the part where he paid you to get Tasha Chai-Latte to film it,’ I say.

‘He said he wanted the whole world to see it!’ Martin protests.

‘He wanted Leon to see it. How much did that even cost? I should have known it couldn’t have come out of the book’s budget.’

‘Fifteen thousand,’ Martin says sheepishly. ‘And two for me for organising.’

‘Seventeen thousand pounds?!’ Rachel shrieks. ‘My God!’

‘And a bit leftover, so I got Katherin that limo, in case it would persuade her to do that interview with Piers Morgan. I just . . . figured Justin must really love you,’ Martin says.

‘No, you didn’t,’ I tell him flatly. ‘You didn’t really care. You just wanted Justin to like you. He has that effect on a lot of people. Has he contacted you since he proposed to me?’

Martin shakes his head, looking nervous. ‘I figured from the way you left the party that it hadn’t exactly gone as he’d hoped. Do you think he’ll be mad at me?’

‘Do I think . . .’ I take a deep breath. ‘Martin. I do not care if Justin is mad at you. Soon, I will be taking Justin to court for harassment or stalking, once my lawyer has got around to figuring out which of those she likes better.’

Martin goes even paler than he usually is, which is saying something. I’m surprised I can’t see the whiteboard through him.

‘So you’d be prepared to testify?’ I say briskly.

‘What? No!’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, it’s . . . this would be very embarrassing for me, and this is a really important time at work—’

‘You are a very weak man, Martin,’ I tell him.

He blinks. His lip shakes a little. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he says eventually.

‘Good. See you in court, Martin.’

I sweep out of the room with Rachel in tow, and as I head to my desk I feel exhilarated. Particularly as Rachel is quietly but unmistakably humming ‘Eye of the Tiger’ as we walk through the office.

The world seems like a slightly brighter place after the Martin showdown. I sit up taller and decide I’m not ashamed about what happened at the party. So my ex-boyfriend proposed to me and I said no — so what? Nothing wrong with that. In fact, Ruby gives me a silent high-five on my way to the bathroom mid-afternoon, and with Rachel sending me girl-power songs every fifteen minutes I start to feel quite . . . empowered about it all.

It takes enormous effort to concentrate on work, but in the end I manage it: I am researching a new trend in cupcake icing when I get the call. Almost instantly, I realise that I will always remember this website about icing-bag nozzles. It’s that kind of call.

‘Tiffy?’ says Leon.

‘Yeah?’

‘Tiffy . . .’

‘Leon, are you OK?’ My heart is pounding.

‘He’s out.’

‘He’s . . .’

‘Richie.’

‘Oh my God. Say it again.’

‘Richie is out. Not guilty.’

I let out a shriek that sends every single person in the office staring my way. I make a face and cover the phone for a moment.

‘Friend won the lottery!’ I mouth to Francine, the nearest nosy person, and let her trundle off to spread that particular piece of news. If I don’t nip this in the bud they’ll all think I’m engaged again.

‘Leon, I don’t even . . . I really thought it would be tomorrow!’

‘So did I. So did Gerty.’

‘So . . . is he just . . . out? In the world? God, I can’t imagine Richie out in the world! What does he even look like, by the way?’

Leon laughs, and the sound makes my stomach flip. ‘He’ll be at our place tonight. You can finally meet him.’

‘This is unbelievable.’

‘I know. I can’t actually . . . I keep thinking it’s a dream.’

‘I don’t even know what to say. Where are you now?’ I ask, bouncing in my chair.

‘I’m at work.’

‘Didn’t you have the day off?’

‘Didn’t know what to do with myself. You want to come down here after you finish? No worries if it’s too out of your way, I’ll be home by seven, I just thought—’

‘I’ll be there at half five.’

‘Actually, I should come meet you . . .’

‘I can do it on my own. Really — I’ve had a good day, I can do it. See you at half five!’

72 Leon

Drift around wards, checking charts, giving fluids. Speak to patients and amaze myself by managing to sound normal and to talk about something other than the fact that my brother is finally coming home.

Home.

Richie is coming home.

Keep rearing away from the thought, the way I always had to — my mind pastes Richie back into my life, and then it jumps away as if it’s touched something hot, because I’d never let myself finish that thought. It was too painful. Too hopeful.

Except now it’s real. Will be real, in just a few hours’ time.

He’ll meet Tiffy. They’ll talk just like they do on the phone only face to face, on my sofa. It’s literally too good to be true. Until you remember that he should never have been in jail in the first place, of course, but even that thought can’t kill the euphoria.

I’m in the hospice kitchen making tea when I hear my name, on repeat, very loudly and getting louder all the time.

Tiffy: Leon! Leon! Leon!

I turn around just in time. She piles into me, rain-wet hair, pink cheeks, big smile.

Me: Whoa!

Tiffy, very close to my ear: Leon Leon Leon!

Me: Ouch?

Tiffy: Sorry. Sorry. I just . . .

Me: Are you crying?

Tiffy: What? No.

Me: You are. You are incredible.

She blinks at me, surprised, eyes bright with happy tears.

Me: You’ve never even met Richie.

She links arms with me and spins me back to the kettle just as it boils.

Tiffy: Well, I’ve met you, and Richie’s your little brother.

Me: Just to warn you, he’s not that little.

Tiffy reaches for the mug cupboard and pulls out two, then rifles through the teabags and pours the kettle as if she’s been in and out of this kitchen for years.

Tiffy: And anyway, I feel like I know Richie. We’ve talked tons of times. You don’t have to meet face to face to know someone.

Me: Speaking of . . .

Tiffy: Where are we going?

Me: Just come on. I want to show you something.

Tiffy: Teas! Teas!

I pause and wait as she adds milk painstakingly slowly. She shoots a cheeky little glance over her shoulder; I immediately want to undress her.

Me: Are we ready?

Tiffy: OK. We’re ready.

She hands me a mug and I take it, and the hand that offered it too. Almost everyone we pass along the corridor says, ‘Oh, hi, Tiffy!’ or ‘You must be Tiffy!’ or ‘Oh my God Leon really does have a girlfriend!’ but I am in too good a mood to find it annoying.

Tug Tiffy back as she goes to open the door to Coral Ward.

Me: Wait, just look through the window.

We both lean in.

Johnny White hasn’t left his side since the weekend. Mr Prior is asleep, but still his papery, sun-blotched hand rests in Johnny White’s palm. They’ve had three whole days together — more than JW could have hoped for.

Always worth walking through those doors.

Tiffy: Johnny White the Sixth was the real Johnny White? Is this literally the best day ever? Has there been some sort of announcement issued? An elixir in everyone’s breakfast? A golden ticket in the cereal box?

I kiss her firmly on the mouth. Behind us, one of the junior doctors says to another junior doctor, ‘Amazing — I always assumed Leon didn’t like anyone who didn’t have a terminal illness!’

Me: I think it’s just a good day, Tiffy.

Tiffy: Well, I guess we are all overdue one.

73 Tiffy

‘OK, how do I look?’

‘Relax,’ Leon says, lying back on the bed, one arm behind his head. ‘Richie already loves you.’

‘I’m meeting a member of your family!’ I protest. ‘I want to look good. I want to look . . . smart and beautiful and witty, and maybe to channel a bit of Sookie in the earlier series of Gilmore Girls?’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

I huff. ‘Fine. Mo!’

‘Yeah?’ Mo calls from the living room.

‘Can you tell me if this outfit makes me look cool and sophisticated or tired and mumsy, please?’

‘If you’re asking the question, lose the outfit,’ Gerty calls.

I roll my eyes. ‘I didn’t ask you! You don’t like any of my clothes anyway!’

‘That’s not true, I like some of them. Just not in the combinations you choose to adopt.’

‘You look perfect,’ Leon says, smiling up at me. His whole face looks different today, like someone flicked a switch back there that I didn’t even know about, and now everything is brighter.

‘No, Gerty’s right,’ I say, shrugging out of the wrap dress and reaching for my favourite green skinny jeans and a loose-knit jumper. ‘I’m trying too hard.’

‘You’re trying just the right amount,’ Leon tells me as I hop on one leg, pulling up the jeans.

‘Is there any statement I could say this evening that you wouldn’t automatically agree with?’

He narrows his eyes. ‘A conundrum,’ he says. ‘The answer is no, but saying that would mean I’d contradict myself.’

‘He agrees with everything I say, and he’s so clever, too!’ I crawl across the bed to straddle him and kiss him, letting my body melt against his. When I pull back to put my top on, he protests, holding me close, and I smile, swatting his hands. ‘This outfit even you must admit is not appropriate,’ I point out.

The buzzer for the building door goes off three times, and Leon jumps up so quickly that I’m almost thrown off the bed.

‘Sorry!’ he calls over his shoulder as he heads to the door. I hear Mo or Gerty lift the receiver to let Richie up into the building.

My stomach flips as I yank on the knitted jumper and run my fingers through my hair. I wait to hear Richie’s voice at our front door, hanging back to give him and Leon the moment they’ve been waiting for.

Instead, I hear Justin.

‘I want to talk to you,’ he says.

‘Oh. Hello, Justin,’ Leon says.

At this point, I notice that I’m already hugging my arms close to myself and tucking my body in against the wardrobe so nobody who leans in to check the flat will see me in the bedroom doorway, and I suddenly feel like screaming. He does not get to come here and do this to me. I want him gone, really gone, not just out of my life, but out of my head as well. I am done with cowering behind doors and feeling frightened.

Well, I’m not, obviously, because you don’t get over shit like this that quickly, but temporarily I am done with it and I’m going to make the most of this current wave of crazy angry confidence. I round the corner.

Justin is squared up in the doorway, broad, muscled and visibly angry.

‘Justin,’ I say, moving to stand beside Leon until I’m only a few feet from Justin. I rest a hand on the door, ready to slam it closed.

‘I’m here to talk to Leon,’ Justin says shortly. He doesn’t even look at me.

I recoil despite myself, my confidence instantly drained.

‘If you’re thinking of proposing to me too, the answer’s no,’ Leon says pleasantly. Justin’s hands bunch into fists at the joke; he starts forward, body coiled, eyes flashing. I flinch.

‘Watch that foot, Justin,’ says Gerty sharply from behind me. ‘If it gets any closer to being inside this flat, your lawyer will have a lot more to talk to me about.’

I watch the thought hit Justin, see him re-evaluate. ‘I don’t remember your friends being this interfering when we were together, Tiffy.’ He snarls the words, and my heart thunders in my chest. I think he’s drunk. That is not good.

‘Oh, we wanted to be,’ Mo says.

I take a deep, shaky breath. ‘Leaving me was the best thing you ever did for me, Justin,’ I say, doing my best to stand as squarely as he is on the other side of the threshold. ‘We’re done. That’s it. Leave me alone.’

‘We’re not done,’ he says impatiently.

‘I’m getting a restraining order,’ I choke out before he can say anything else.

‘No you’re not,’ Justin scoffs. ‘Come on, Tiffy. Stop being such a child.’

I slam the door in his face so hard everyone jumps, including me.

‘Fuck!’ Justin yells from the other side of the door, and then there’s the sound of a fist being rammed into the door and the handle rattles hard.

I let out a little whimper despite myself, backing away. I can’t believe I just slammed the door in Justin’s face.

‘Police,’ Leon mouths at us.

Gerty flicks on her phone and dials the number, reaching with her other hand to clasp my fingers tightly. Mo is at my side in moments, standing at my shoulder as I watch Leon slip the new chain across and lean his weight against the door.

‘This is so fucking crazy,’ I say weakly. ‘I can’t believe this is happening.’

‘Let me in!’ Justin roars from the other side of the door.

‘Police,’ Gerty says into the phone.

Justin hammers with both fists on the door, and I think of how he pressed his finger against the buzzer all those weeks ago, how he wouldn’t let up until Leon opened the door. I swallow. Each bang seems louder than the last, until I feel like they’re right in my ears. My eyes are wet with tears; Gerty and Mo are all but holding me up. So much for being done with feeling frightened. As Justin roars and rages on the other side of the door, I watch Leon, face drawn and serious, as he looks around for other ways to barricade us in. To my left, Gerty answers questions on the phone.

And then, suddenly, all the madness and noise stops. Leon gives us a questioning look, then checks the handle — the door is still locked.

‘Why’s he stopped?’ I ask, gripping Gerty’s hand so tightly I can see my fingers going white.

‘He’s stopped banging on the door,’ Gerty says into the phone. I hear a tinny voice respond. ‘She says he may be trying to find a way to break down the door. We should move into another room. Step away from the door, Leon.’

‘Wait,’ Leon whispers, leaning to listen to what’s going on outside in the corridor.

His face breaks into a grim smile. He gestures for all of us to come closer; tentative, with shaking knees, I let Mo lead me to the door. Gerty stays back, speaking quietly into her phone.

‘You’d love prison, Justin,’ says a warm voice on the other side of the door, with an unmistakable accent. ‘Really. Loads of guys like you there.’

‘Richie!’ I whisper. ‘But — he mustn’t . . .’ We’ve just got Richie out of prison. A fight with Justin will not end well for Richie, even if in the short term it means getting him out of the building.

‘Good point,’ Leon says, eyes widening. He reaches to unlock the door, and I notice his hands are shaking slightly too. From the sounds of their voices Richie seems close to the door, and Justin further away, towards the stairs, but still. I scrub my eyes fiercely. I don’t want Justin to know what he does to me. I don’t want to give him that power.

Justin makes a rush for us as Leon swings the door open, but Richie pushes him nonchalantly, and Justin stumbles into the wall, swearing, as Richie steps inside and Leon pulls the door closed quickly behind him. It’s over in a couple of seconds; I barely have time to process the look on Justin’s face as he lunged towards me, desperate to force his way in through the door. What’s happened to him? He was never like this. Never violent. His anger was always tightly controlled; his punishments were clever and cruel. This is messy and desperate.

‘Nice bloke, your ex,’ Richie says to me with a wink. ‘Serious case of the red mist going on out there. He’s going to regret punching the door so much in the morning, I can tell you that.’ He chucks a spare set of keys down on the sideboard — that must’ve been how he got inside the building without buzzing.

I blink a few times and take a proper look at him. No wonder Justin went quiet when Richie turned up in the corridor. He is enormous. Six foot four at least, and the kind of muscular that only happens when you’ve got nothing to do with your time except exercise. His black hair is buzzed short, and there are strings of tattoos down his forearms and one curling up his neck, peeking up under the collar of his court shirt — along with a cord necklace, which I’d bet matches Leon’s one. He has the same thoughtful, deep-brown eyes as Leon, too, though they’re a little more mischievous-looking.

‘The police will be here in ten minutes,’ Gerty says calmly. ‘Hello, Richie. How are you?’

‘Devastated to discover you have a boyfriend,’ Richie says, clapping Mo on the shoulder with a grin. I could swear Mo sinks an inch or so deeper into the carpet. ‘I owe you a dinner out!’

‘Oh, don’t let me stop you,’ Mo says hastily.

Richie hugs Leon so hard I can hear their bodies colliding. ‘Don’t worry about that prick outside,’ he says to both of us as he pulls back. Through the door, Justin throws something; whatever it is smashes against the wall and I wince bodily. I’m shaking all over — I have been since I first heard his voice — but Richie just gives me a friendly unquestioning smile, and it’s like an echo of Leon’s lopsided grin — a warm smile, the sort that makes you instantly feel more comfortable. ‘Pleasure to meet you in the flesh, Tiffy,’ he says. ‘And thank you for looking after my brother.’

‘I’m not sure this counts,’ I manage, pointing to the door as it shakes in the frame.

Richie waves a hand. ‘Honestly. If he gets in here, he’ll have to deal with me and Leon — and . . . sorry, man, we’ve not been introduced.’

‘Mo,’ Mo says, looking very much like the sort of man who sits in a chair and talks for a living, and has suddenly stumbled upon a scenario where this might put him at a disadvantage.

‘And me and Tiffy,’ Gerty says sharply. ‘What is this, medieval times? I bet I’m better at punching people than Leon.’

‘Let me the fuck in!’ Justin roars through the door.

‘He’s drunk, too,’ Richie says cheerfully, and then he lifts our armchair and shuffles us out of the way so he can dump it in front of the door. ‘There. No use us hanging about in here now, is there? Lee, balcony still where it used to be?’

‘Umm, yeah,’ Leon begins, looking slightly shell-shocked. He’s moved around to take Mo’s place beside me, and I lean into his hand as he strokes my back, letting that sensation pull me together again. Every time Justin yells or thumps the door I flinch, but now that Richie is here weightlifting furniture, and Leon has his arm around me, the flinching is no longer accompanied by totally blinding fear and panic. Which is nice.

Richie ushers us all out on to the balcony and shuts the glass door behind us. We barely fit; Gerty curls into Mo in one corner, and I fit myself in front of Leon in the other, leaving Richie most of the space, which is exactly what he needs. He breathes in and out deeply, beaming at the view from the balcony.

‘London!’ he says, spreading his arms out wide. ‘I’ve missed this. Look at it!’

Behind, back in the flat, the door thuds over and over again. Leon pulls me tightly against him, burying his face in my hair and breathing warm, calming breaths against my neck.

‘And we even get a great vantage point for when the police turn up,’ Richie tells us, turning to wink at me. ‘Didn’t think I’d be seeing them again so soon, I have to say.’

‘Sorry,’ I say, miserable.

‘Don’t be,’ Richie says firmly, in the same moment that Leon shakes his head into my hair, and Mo says, ‘Don’t apologise, Tiffy.’ Even Gerty rolls her eyes in an affectionate sort of way.

I look around at them all, huddled out on the balcony with me. It helps — only a little, but I don’t think anything could help more than a little right now. I close my eyes and lean into Leon, concentrating on my breathing the way Lucie told me to, and try to imagine that the banging noise is just that — a noise and nothing more. It’ll stop eventually. Breathing deeply, Leon’s arms around me, I feel a new sort of certainty settle. Even Justin cannot last for ever.

74 Leon

The police take Justin away. He’s basically foaming at the mouth. One look at him and you can see what’s happened: a man who has always had control has lost it. But, as Gerty points out, this will at least make the restraining order more straightforward.

We inspect the door. He’s dented the wood with kicking, and chipped off chunks of paint with his fists. There’s blood too. Tiffy turns her head aside as she sees it. I wonder what it can possibly feel like, seeing that, after everything she’s been through. Knowing that she loved this man, and that he loved her, in his way.

Thank God for Richie. The man radiates joy tonight. As Richie launches into yet another story about the lengths ‘Bozo’ would go to for first dibs on the weights machine, I watch the colour come back into Tiffy’s cheeks, her shoulders lift, her lips slide into a smile. Better. I’m relaxing too, with each sign of improvement. I couldn’t bear to see her that way, jumping, crying, afraid. Even watching Justin carted away by a police officer wasn’t enough to ease the rage.

But now, three hours post-police drama, we’re scattered around the living room just like I imagined it. If you squinted, you’d hardly even notice that the evening I’ve been looking forward to for the last year was briefly interrupted by an irate man attempting to break and enter. Tiffy and I have taken the beanbag. Gerty has pride of place on the sofa, leaning up against Mo. Richie is ruling the room from the armchair, which hasn’t quite returned to its usual place since it was used to blockade the door, so now just sits somewhere between the hall and the living room.

Richie: I called it. Just saying.

Gerty: When, though? Because I called it too, but I don’t believe you could have called it right from the—

Richie: From the moment Leon told me he was getting some woman in to sleep in his bed when he wasn’t there.

Gerty: Not possible.

Richie, expansively: Come on! You can’t share a bed and not share anything else, if you know what I’m saying.

Gerty: What about Kay?

Richie waves a hand dismissively.

Richie: Eh. Kay.

Tiffy: Come on now—

Richie: Oh, she was sweet enough, but she was never right for Leon.

Me, to Gerty and Mo: What did you think at the start?

Tiffy: Oh, God, don’t ask them that.

Gerty, promptly: We thought it was a dreadful idea.

Mo: Bear in mind you could have been anyone.

Gerty: You could have been a disgusting pervert, for instance.

Richie roars with laughter and reaches for another beer. He has not had a drink in eleven months. I consider telling him that his tolerance will not be what it once was, and then contemplate how Richie will react to this suggestion (almost certainly drinking more to prove me wrong) and decide not to bother.

Mo: We even tried to give Tiffy money so she wouldn’t do it—

Gerty: Which she said no to, obviously—

Mo: And then it became clear that this was part of getting away from Justin, and we just had to let her do it her own way.

Richie: And you didn’t see it coming? Tiffy and Leon?

Mo: No. To be honest, I didn’t think Tiffy would have been ready for a guy like Leon yet.

Me: What sort of guy is that?

Richie: Fiendishly handsome?

Me: Gangly? Big-eared?

Tiffy, wryly: He means a non-psychotic guy.

Mo: Well, yes. It takes a long time to escape from relationships like that—

Gerty, briskly: No Justin-talk.

Mo: Sorry. I was just trying to say how well Tiffy did. How hard it must have been for her to break out of that before it became a pattern.

Richie and I exchange glances. I think of Mam.

Gerty rolls her eyes.

Gerty: Honestly. Dating a counsellor is dreadful, by the way. This man has no concept of light-heartedness.

Tiffy: And you do?

Gerty pokes Tiffy with one foot in response.

Tiffy, grabbing the foot and pulling: Anyway, this is really what we want to hear about. You never did fill me in properly about you and Mo! How? When? Excluding penis-related details, as discussed.

Richie: Eh?

Me: Just go with it. It’s best to let the in-jokes wash over you. Eventually they start to make some sort of sense.

Tiffy: Just wait until you meet Rachel. Queen of the inappropriate in-joke.

Richie: Sounds like my kind of girl.

Tiffy looks thoughtful at this, and I raise my eyebrows warningly at her. Bad idea to match-make Richie. As much as I love my brother, he does tend to break hearts.

Me: Go on, Mo, Gerty?

Mo, to Gerty: You tell it.

Tiffy: No, no, Gerty’s version will sound like something she’d read out in court — Mo, give us the romantic version of events, please.

Mo gives a sidelong look at Gerty to see how cross that’s made her; thankfully she’s three glasses of wine in, and has just settled for glaring at Tiffy.

Mo: Well, it started when we moved in together.

Gerty: Although Mo was in love with me for ages before that, apparently.

Mo shoots her a mildly irritated look.

Mo: And Gerty has liked me for over a year, she said.

Gerty: In confidence!

Tiffy makes an impatient noise in the back of her throat.

Tiffy: And you’re all loved-up? Sleeping in the same bed and all that?

There is a shifty sort of silence; Mo looks at his feet, uncomfortable. Tiffy smiles up at Gerty, reaching to squeeze her hand.

Richie: Well. Looks like I need to find myself a flatmate, don’t I?