‘Sure,’ Mo says, nodding. ‘Especially at the start.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘At the start.’

We sip our wine in silence for a while. I feel very odd. Like I ought to be crying, and I sort of want to be crying, but there’s a strange tightness in my eyes that’s making tears impossible.

‘Well. Thanks. You know, for trying. And sorry for . . . making you stop talking about him,’ I say, looking down at my feet.

‘It’s all right. At least that meant you would still see us,’ Mo says. ‘You had to come to this on your own, Tiff. As tempting as it was to bulldoze in and whisk you away from him, you would have just gone back.’

I muster the courage to glance up at Gerty. She holds my gaze; her expression is fierce. I can’t imagine how hard she found it sticking to her word and not mentioning Justin.

I wonder how on earth Mo persuaded her to leave me to do this on my own. He was right, though – I would have just pushed them away if they’d told me to leave Justin. The thought is faintly nauseating.

‘You’re doing great, Tiff,’ Mo says, topping up my wine. ‘Just hold on to what you’re figuring out. It might be hard to remember it all the time, but it’s important. So do your best.’

*

Somehow, when Mo says something, it seems to make it true.

It is so hard to remember. One week with no sudden memories or random Justin appearances, and I waver. I wobble. I almost topple altogether and decide I made the whole thing up.

Thankfully Mo is there to talk to. We go through incidents as I remember them – shouted arguments, subtle jabs, the even subtler ways my independence was eroded. I can’t believe how not-OK my relationship with Justin was, but even more than that, I can’t believe I hadn’t noticed. I think that will take a while to sink in in itself.

Thank God for friends and flatmates. Leon has no idea this is all going on, of course, but seems to have clocked that I need some distraction – he’s cooking more, and if we don’t speak for a while he’ll start a new thread of notes. It used to always be me that did that – I get the feeling that initiating conversation is not something Leon is particularly keen on doing, as a rule.

This one is on the fridge when I get home from work with Rachel, who’s come around so I can cook her dinner (she says I owe her indefinite free meals because I’ve ruined her life by commissioning Crochet Your Way):

Hunt for Johnny White is going poorly. Got drunk under the table by Johnny White the Fourth at very grimy pub near Ipswich. Nearly had a repeat of our memorable bathroom collision: slept in and was extremely late x

Rachel raises her eyebrows at me, reading it over my shoulder. ‘Memorable, eh?’

‘Oh, shut up. You know what he means.’

‘I believe I do,’ she says. ‘He means: I keep thinking about you in your underwear. Do you think about me naked?’

I chuck an onion at her. ‘Dice that and make yourself useful,’ I say, but I can’t help smiling.

September

34

   Leon

Already September. Summer starting to cool. Never thought it possible that time could pass quickly when Richie was in prison, but he says the same – his days move like they should, instead of dragging and trailing and forcing him to feel every minute.

It’s all because of Gerty. I’ve only met her a few times, but we speak on the phone every few days; often the solicitor joins the call too. Barely ever spoke to last solicitor. This one seems to be endlessly doing things. Amazing.

Gerty is brusque beyond the point of rudeness, but I like her – she does not seem to have the capacity for bullshitting (opposite of Sal?). She’s often in the flat, and has taken to joining Tiffy in writing me notes. Thankfully, though, it’s very easy to tell them apart. These two are side by side on breakfast bar:

Hey! I’m sorry to hear about that two-day hangover – I feel your pain, and recommend Wotsits. However . . . no WAY does your hair get curlier on hangover days! That just can’t be a thing, because there is no upside to a hangover. And, from my limited knowledge of what you look like, I’m betting the curlier your hair is the cooler you look. xx

*

Leon – tell Richie to call me. He has not supplied me with the answers to the ten-page list of enquiries I sent him last week. Please remind him that I am an extremely impatient person who is usually paid a lot for reviewing things. G

*

On way back from the last Richie visit, I popped in to see a Johnny White. He lives in a care home north of London, and, within moments, I felt sure he was not our guy. Wife and seven children was strong sign (though, obviously, not conclusive), but then, after a very difficult conversation, I discovered he only served in the army for three weeks before being shipped home with a gangrenous leg.

This resulted in a long conversation about gangrene. Felt a lot like being at work, except much more awkward.

The following week Mr Prior is unwell. Find myself surprisingly distressed. Mr Prior is a very old man – it’s entirely to be expected. My job is to make him comfortable. Has been from the first day I met him. But I always thought I’d find him the love of his life before he had to go, and none of my five Johnny Whites has been any use at all. Three to go, but still.

I was naïve. Pretty sure Kay said so at the time.

*

On the boiler:

So, if you’ve reached this point, you’ve probably figured out that the boiler is broken. But don’t worry, Leon, I have excellent news for you! I’ve already called a plumber and she is going to come tomorrow evening to sort it. Until then you’ll have to shower in ICE-COLD WATER but actually if you’ve come to look at the boiler you may well have already done that, in which case, the worst is over. I recommend curling up in the beanbag with a hot cup of spiced apple tea (yes, I bought a new fruit tea; no, we don’t already have too many in the cupboard) and our lovely Brixton blanket. That’s what I did, and it worked a treat xx

Not sure how I feel about it being our Brixton blanket, assuming she means the ratty multi-coloured thing I’m always having to throw off the bed. Is definitely one of the worst objects in the flat.

Settle down on beanbag with latest variety of fruit tea and think about Tiffy, here, in this spot, just a few hours before me. Wet hair, bare shoulders. Wrapped in just a towel and this blanket.

Blanket isn’t so bad. It’s . . . characterful. Quirky. Maybe I’m coming round to it.

35

   Tiffy

This is my first session with Someone Other Than Mo.

Mo himself suggested it. He said it would benefit me to do proper counselling and talk to a person who didn’t already know me. And then Rachel told me that, unbelievably, our employee benefits actually include up to fifteen sessions of counselling, paid for by Butterfingers. I have no idea why they’re willing to provide that but not pay above minimum wage – maybe they’re sick of employees leaving on stress.