I snort. A beat later, an image of printer appears. It’s enormous. Could probably fit four Tiffys inside it.

Did you not . . . spot it?

I think I just lost the ability to stop walking at the necessary moment. I had just come off a call with my gorgeous bricklayer-turned-designer though, so . . .

Ah. You must’ve still been weak at the knees.

Probably! It’s been that sort of day xx

Stare at this one until phone screen times out. That sort of day. What sort of day? Weak-kneed sort of day? But why – because she . . .

No, no, won’t be because of me. That’s ridiculous. Except . . . what did she mean, then?

Hope this isn’t going to be how I am whenever communicating with Tiffy now. Is absolutely exhausting.

31

   Tiffy

My dad likes to say, ‘Life is never simple’. This is one of his favourite aphorisms.

I actually think it’s incorrect. Life is often simple, but you don’t notice how simple it was until it gets incredibly complicated, like how you never feel grateful for being well until you’re ill, or how you never appreciate your tights drawer until you rip a pair and have no spares.

Katherin has just done a guest vlog on Tasha Chai-Latte’s page about crocheting your own bikini. The Internet has gone mental. I can’t keep track of all the influential people who have retweeted her – and because Katherin hates Martin, every time she freaks out or needs help with something, she calls me. I, who know nothing about PR, then have to go to Martin and feed back to Katherin. If this was a divorce and I was their child, social services would be called.

Gerty rings me as I’m leaving work.

‘You’ve only just left? Have you asked for a rise yet?’ she asks. I check my watch – it’s half seven. How have I been at work for almost twelve hours, and yet achieved so little?

‘No time,’ I tell her. ‘And they don’t do rises. They’d probably fire me for asking.’

‘Ridiculous.’

‘What’s up, anyway?’

‘Oh, I just thought you might want to know I’ve got Richie’s appeal moved forward by three months,’ Gerty says airily.

I stop dead in my tracks. Someone behind me walks into me and swears (stopping abruptly in central London is a heinous crime, and immediately gives the people around you permission to kick you).

‘You took his case?’

‘His previous barrister was appalling,’ Gerty says. ‘Really. I’ve half a mind to report him to the bar standards board. We’ll have to find Richie a new solicitor, too, especially since I’ve gone over this one’s head and royally pissed him off, but—’

‘You took his case?’

‘Keep up, Tiffy.’

‘Thank you. So much. God, I . . .’ I can’t stop smiling. ‘Has Richie told Leon?’

‘Richie probably doesn’t know yet,’ Gerty says. ‘I only wrote to him yesterday.’

‘Can I tell Leon?’

‘That’d save me a job,’ Gerty says, ‘so go for it.’

My phone buzzes almost as soon as I hang up. It’s a text from Leon; my heart does a funny little twisty spasm thing. He’s not messaged me or left me a note since we texted at the weekend.

Heads up: enormous bunch of flowers for you in foyer from your ex. Not sure whether to ruin surprise (good or bad surprise?) but if it was me, would want to be pre-warned x

I stop dead in my tracks again; this time a businessman on a scooter runs over my foot.

I’ve not heard from Justin since Thursday. No call, no text, nothing. I had just about convinced myself that he’d taken what I’d said seriously and wasn’t going to contact me, but I should have known better – that would have been entirely out of character. This, though – this is much more like it.

I don’t want a big bunch of flowers from Justin. I just want him gone – it’s so hard to get on with getting better when he keeps popping up all over the place. As I march up to our building, I press my lips together and prepare myself.

It really is an enormous bunch of flowers. I’d forgotten how rich he is, and how inclined to spend money on ridiculous things. For my birthday dinner last year he bought me an insanely pricey designer gown, all silver silk and sequins; wearing it felt like going out in costume as somebody else.

Stuck in amongst the flowers is a note that reads, To Tiffy – we’ll speak in October. Love, Justin. I lift the bouquet and check underneath it for a proper note, but no. A note would be far too straightforward – a giant, expensive gesture is much more Justin’s style.

This has really annoyed me, for some reason. Perhaps because I’ve never told Justin where I live. Or maybe because it’s so flagrantly disregarding what I asked of him on Thursday, and because he’s made my ‘I need a couple of months’ into a ‘I will speak to you in two months’ time’.

I stuff the flowers into the ornamental plant pot I usually keep my spare wool in. I was waiting for Justin to do this – to turn up with his explanations and his expensive gestures and sweep me off my feet again. But that Facebook message, the engagement . . . He tipped me over the edge, and now I am in a very different place from the last time he tried to get me back.

I slump down on the sofa and stare at the flowers. I think about what Mo said, and how despite myself I’ve been remembering things. The way Justin used to tell me off for forgetting stuff, how confused it made me feel. The half-excitement, half-anxiety every day when he came home. The reality of how my stomach lurched when he put his hand on my shoulder and snapped at me to go for a drink with him at the pub on Thursday.

That flashback.

God. I don’t want to go back to all that. I’m happier now – I like living here, safely hidden away in this flat which I’ve made my own. In two weeks’ time I’ll be at the end of my lease here – Leon’s not mentioned it, so I’ve not brought it up either, because I don’t want to move out. I’ve got money, for once, even if most of it is paying off my overdraft. I’ve got a flatmate who I can talk to – who cares if it’s not face-to-face? And I’ve got a home that actually feels like it’s exactly fifty per cent mine.

I reach for my phone and reply to Leon.

Bad surprise. Thanks for the heads-up. We now have a lot of flowers in the flat xx

He replies almost instantly, which is unusual.

Glad to hear it x

And then, a minute or so later:

About the flowers in the flat, not the surprise, obviously x