Me: I know. Me too.

*

For the last two weekends, have Airbnb’ed my way around UK on quest for Mr Prior’s boyfriend. It was an excellent distraction. Met two radically different Johnny Whites – one bitter, furious and alarmingly right wing, and the other living in a caravan and smoking weed out of the window as we discussed his life since the war. Has at least provided amusement for Tiffy – notes about Johnny Whites always get good response. Got this after describing trip to meet Johnny White the Third:

If you’re not careful I’ll commission you to write a book about this. Obviously in order for it to fit with my publishing list I’d have to introduce some element of DIY – could you learn a different craft from each Johnny, or something? You know, like, Johnny White the First spontaneously teaches you how to make a bookcase, and then there you are with Johnny White the Second and he’s making royal icing and you just happen to join in . . . Oh my God, is this the best idea I’ve ever had? Or maybe the worst? I absolutely cannot tell. xx

Often think it must be very tiring, being Tiffy. Even in note form she seems to expend so much energy. Quite cheering to come home to, though.

This weekend’s visit to Richie was cancelled – not enough prison staff. Will have been five weeks between visits. That’s too long for him, and, I’m realising, for me also. With Kay gone and Richie able to ring even less than usual – too few prison staff means more time banged up, less access to phones – I’m finding that even I can suffer from not talking enough. It’s not like there aren’t friends I can call. But they’re not . . . the people I can talk to.

Had booked Airbnb up near Birmingham for Richie visit, but have cancelled that now, and am forced to confront the fact that this coming weekend, I will need somewhere to stay. I was clearly too complacent about the state of my relationship when arranging this living situation. Am now homeless at weekends.

Wrack brains for options. Nothing for it. Am on way to work; check time on phone. It’s about the only window of the day when I can ring my mother. I get off the bus a stop early and call her as I walk.

Mam, on answering: You don’t call me enough, Lee.

Close eyes. Deep breath.

Me: Hi, Mam.

Mam: Richie calls me more than you. From prison.

Me: Sorry, Mam.

Mam: Do you know how hard this is for me? My boys never talking to me?

Me: I’m calling now, Mam. I’ve got a few minutes before work – I want to talk to you about something.

Mam, suddenly alert: Is it the appeal? Has Sal called you?

I haven’t told Mam about Tiffy’s lawyer friend. Don’t want to get her hopes up.

Me: No. It’s about me.

Mam, suspicious: About you?

Me: Kay and I broke up.

Mam melts. Suddenly all sympathy. This is what she needs: a son to call her and ask for help with something she can handle. My mother is good at dealing with romantic heartbreak. Has had lots of personal practice.

Mam: Oh, sweetheart. Why did she end it?

Mildly insulted.

Me: I ended it.

Mam: Oh! You did? What for?

Me: I . . .

Oh. It’s surprisingly difficult, even with Mam.

Me: She couldn’t handle my hours. Didn’t like me how I was – wanted me to be more sociable. And . . . she didn’t believe Richie’s innocent.

Mam: She what?

Wait. Silence. Gut twists; it feels terrible dobbing Kay in, even now.

Mam: That cow. She always did look down on us.

Me: Mam!

Mam: Well, I’m not sorry. Good riddance to her.

It’s like speaking ill of the dead, somehow. I’m desperate to veer off subject.

Me: Can I come stay this weekend?

Mam: Stay? Here? At mine?

Me: Yeah. I used to stay at Kay’s every weekend. It’s part of . . . the living arrangement. With Tiffy.

Mam: You want to come home?

Me: Yeah. Just for . . .

Bite tongue. It’s not just for this weekend. It’s until I find solution. But it’s automatic to put a firm endpoint on these things; that’s the only way to feel able to escape. When I get home, Mam will have me, and will not let me go.

Mam: You can stay as long as you need, and whenever you need, all right?

Me: Thanks.

Moment of quiet. I can hear how pleased she is; gut twists again. Should visit more.

Me: Can I check . . . Do you . . . Is there anyone else? Living there?

Mam, awkwardly: Nobody else, sweetie. I’ve been on my own for a few months now.

That’s good. Unusual, and good. Mam always has a man, and he always seems to be living with her, whoever he is. Almost always someone who Richie despises and I would rather not have to see. Mam has unequivocally bad taste. She’s always been a woman led astray by a bad man, a hundred times over.

Me: I’ll see you Saturday night.

Mam: Can’t wait. I’ll get us Chinese, all right?

Silence. That’s what we would do when Richie came home: Saturday night Chinese from Happy Duck down Mam’s road.

Mam: Or let’s get Indian. I feel like a change, don’t you?

25

   Tiffy

‘Are you all right?’ Ken asks.

I’m pretty much frozen. My heart is pounding.

‘Yes. Sorry, yes, I’m fine.’ I try a smile.

‘Do you want to get out of here?’ he says tentatively. ‘I mean, the party’s nearly over . . .’

Do I? I did, about one minute ago. Now, even with the buzz of that kiss still warm on my lips, I want to run away. I’m not really thinking thoughts – my brain is just producing this extremely unhelpful one-tone note of panic, like a loud long uuuhhhh rattling back and forth between my ears.

Someone calls my name. I recognise the voice, but I don’t connect the dots until I turn and see Justin.

He’s standing in the doorway between the garden and the pub, dressed in an open-necked shirt with his old leather satchel slung over his shoulder. He looks painfully familiar, but things are different too: his hair is longer than he ever wore it when we were together, and he’s got new city-corporate shoes. I feel as if I’ve conjured him up by thinking about him – how else could he possibly be here?

His eyes flick to Ken for a moment, and then they’re back to me. He crosses the grass between us. I am glued to the spot, shoulders tensed, crouched over on the bench with Ken beside me.