‘Time like a couple of hours?’

‘Time like a couple of months,’ I say before I’ve thought about it, and then I bite my lip, because now I’ve given us a deadline.

‘I want to see you now,’ he says, and suddenly the hands that are on my shoulders have moved to touch my hair, my upper arm.

That flashback plays behind my eyes. I shrug him off. ‘Try delayed gratification, Justin. It’s the only kind you’re going to get, and I have a feeling it’ll be good for you.’

And with that, I turn before I can change my mind, and stumble back into the bar.

26

   Leon

Holly has almost a full head of hair now. She’s like a female Harry Potter – hair sticking up all over the place no matter how much her mum tries to smooth it flat.

Her face has changed too, got fuller, livelier. Eyes look less out of proportion with the rest of her these days.

She grins up at me.

Holly: Have you come to say goodbye?

Me: I’ve come to check your bloods.

Holly: For one last time?

Me: Depends what they say.

Holly: You’re being grumpy. You don’t want me to leave.

Me: Of course I do. I want you to be well.

Holly: No you don’t. You don’t like stuff changing. You want me to stay here.

Don’t say anything. It’s annoying, being so completely understood by one so very small.

Holly: I’ll miss you too. Will you visit me at home?

I glance at her mum, who’s wearing a tired but very happy smile.

Me: You’ll be too busy at school and all your after-school clubs. You won’t want visitors.

Holly: Yes I will.

Holly’s Mum: I’d love to have you round for dinner. Really – and Holly would too. Just to say thank you.

Sheer euphoria surrounding Holly’s mother like a cloud of perfume.

Me: Well, maybe. Thanks.

Holly’s mum is welling up. I never cope well with these situations. Start to feel slightly panicked; edge towards door.

She hugs me before I can escape. Feel suddenly very wobbly. I’m not sure if it’s Holly or Kay I want to cry about, but someone hugging me is doing something involving my tear glands.

Wipe eyes and hope Holly doesn’t notice. Ruffle her messy brown hair.

Me: Be good.

Holly grins. Get the impression she has other plans.

*

I get out of work in time to see the last traces of a truly glorious sunrise behind London’s skyscrapers and reflected in the steel grey of the Thames, turning it blue-pink. Seem to have so much time now Kay is gone. Makes me wonder if I really did give her as little time as she always claimed – if that’s true, where have all these hours come from?

Decide to stop somewhere for a tea, then walk home – only takes an hour and a half, and it’s the sort of morning you want to be out in. People are buzzing in all directions, on their way to work, coffees clutched close. I let them all stream by. Walk up through the back roads as much as I can; they’re a little sleepier than the main roads.

I find myself on Clapham Road without really noticing. Go cold when I see the off-licence. But make myself stop. Seems respectful, like taking your hat off when a hearse goes by.

Can’t help noticing that the Aldi security cameras really do point in every possible direction, including this one. Something wishful grips me. I remember the whole point of why Kay and I broke up. I’ve been too sad to remember that there is hope for Richie.

Maybe Gerty will have written back to Richie by now. I walk on, faster now, keen to get home. He might try to call, expecting me to be back at usual time. Feel sure he has; am furious with myself for missing him.

Deep breaths. I fumble with the key in the door, but oddly it’s not double-locked – Tiffy has never forgotten before. I give a cursory look around the room when I get in to make sure we’ve not been burgled, but TV and laptop are still there, so head straight for landline and check for missed calls or voicemails.

Nothing. Breathe out. Am sweaty from power-walking in the morning sunshine; chuck keys in customary space (they now live under the Spot the Dog moneybox) and yank off T-shirt as I head to bathroom. Shove the row of multi-coloured candles off the edge of the bath so I can actually shower. Then turn the hot water on and stand there, washing off yet another week.

27

   Tiffy

Oh, God.

I think this is the worst I’ve ever felt. It’s worse than the hangover I had after Rachel’s twenty-fifth. It’s worse than the time at uni when I drank two bottles of wine and vomited outside the faculty office. It’s worse than swine flu.

I’m still wearing the Alice in Wonderland dress. I have slept on top of the duvet, under just my Brixton blanket. I at least had the foresight to take my shoes off and leave them at the door.

Oh, God.

The line-of-sight from where I am to the shoes intersects with the alarm clock. It is saying a time that cannot possibly be correct. It is saying 08:59.

I should be at work in one minute.

How has this happened? I scramble up, my stomach lurching and my head spinning, and as I fumble about looking for my purse – oh good, at least I didn’t lose that, and ah yes, aspirin – I remember how this all started.

I’d gone back inside after walking away from Justin, and dragged Rachel off the bartender’s face in order to weep at her for a while. She was not the best person to speak to – she’s the only person left who’s Team Justin. (I didn’t mention that weird kiss flashback. And I do not want to think about it now, either.) At first Rachel told me to go back out there and hear what he had to say, but then she came around to my delayed gratification strategy, which Katherin also approved of – oh, God, I told Katherin . . .

I neck some aspirin and try not to gag. Was I sick last night? I have vague and unpleasant memories of being way too close to a toilet seat in that bar’s bathroom.

I type a quick apology text to the head of Editorial, panic rising. I’m never this late for work, and everyone will know it’s because I’m hungover. If they don’t, I’m sure Martin will be happy to enlighten them.

I can’t go to work like this, I realise, in my first moment of clarity of the morning. I need to wash and change. I unzip the dress and kick it off, already reaching for my towel on the back of the door.

I don’t hear the running water. There is a constant buzzing in my ears that sort of already sounds like a shower turned on, and I am in such a panic I don’t think I would notice if my stuffed elephant came alive on the armchair and started telling me I need to detox.