‘Absolutely,’ he says. ‘HR will send over details of the salary increase et cetera.’

I like the sound of that et cetera.

*

Congratulations on the promotion! Better late than never? Made you mushroom stroganoff to celebrate. x

I smile. The note is stuck on the fridge, which is already one layer deep in Post-its. My current favourite is a doodle Leon did, depicting the man in Flat 5 sitting on an enormous heap of bananas. (We still don’t know why he keeps so many banana crates in his parking space.)

I rest my forehead against the fridge door for a moment, then run my fingers across the layers of paper scraps and Post-its. There’s so much here. Jokes, secrets, stories, the slow unfolding of two people whose lives have been changing in parallel – or, I don’t know, in synch. Different times, same place.

I reach for a pen.

Thank you  I’ve been doing a lot of celebratory dancing around the flat, just so you know. Like, seriously uncool, trying-to-moonwalk dancing. I can’t imagine that’s something you ever partake in, somehow . . .

Can I ask what you’re up to this weekend? I’m guessing you’ll be staying at your mum’s again? I just wondered if you wanted to maybe go out for a drink or something to celebrate with me. xx

Waiting for the reply makes me wish, for the very first time, that Leon and I communicated via WhatsApp like normal people. I’d kill for a little double blue tick right now. Then, when I get home, pasted carefully below my note on the fridge:

Am partial to the occasional moonwalk from kitchen to living room.

Can’t come for a drink unfortunately as I’m off hunting Johnny Whites. This one is in Brighton.

Then, just below, but in a different coloured pen:

Might be ridiculous idea but if you fancy a trip to the seaside you could come too?

I’m standing in the kitchen, facing the fridge, absolutely beaming.

I’d love to come! I totally love the seaside. It legitimises wearing a sunhat, for starters, or carrying a parasol, which are both wonderful things that I do NOT get to do enough. Where do you want to meet? xx

The response takes two days to come. I wonder if Leon is losing his nerve, but then, eventually, scribbled fast in blue ink:

Victoria station at half ten on Saturday. It’s a date! X

36

   Leon

It’s a date? It’s a date?!

What has happened to me? Should have written see you there. Instead, I said it’s a date. Which it’s not. Probably. Also, am not a person who says things like it’s a date, even when it is.

Rub eyes and fidget on the spot. I’m under the departure boards at London Victoria station, along with a hundred or so other people, but while they’re all staring up at the boards, I’m keeping my eyes on the exit from the underground. Wonder if Tiffy will recognise me when I’ve got clothes on. On that point: it’s a freakishly warm day for September. Should not have worn jeans.

Check directions from Brighton station are loaded up on my phone. Check time. Check train platform. Fidget some more.

When she finally appears, there’s no danger of missing her. She’s in a canary yellow jacket and tight trousers; her orange-red hair is thrown over her shoulders and bounces as she walks. She’s also taller than most of the people streaming all around her, and is wearing yellow sandals with a heel, giving her an extra few inches on the general population.

She seems entirely oblivious of how many eyes she catches as she walks by, which only makes the whole effect more attractive.

Smile and wave as she spots me. Proceed to stand awkwardly smiling as she approaches, then, at this extremely late moment, am struck by question of whether we should hug hello. Could have spent last ten minutes of waiting time debating this. Instead, have left it until she is right in front of me, eye to eye, her cheeks flushed from the stuffy heat hanging in the station air.

She hangs back; too late for a hug.

Tiffy: Hey.

Me: Hi.

And then, simultaneously:

Tiffy: Sorry I’m late—

Me: Not seen those yellow shoes before—

Tiffy: Sorry, you go.

Me: Don’t worry, you’re hardly late.

Thank God she spoke over me. Why would I draw attention to the fact I am familiar with most of her shoes? Sounds extremely creepy.

We walk to the platform side by side. I keep glancing at her; can’t get over how tall she is, for some reason. Didn’t imagine her tall.

Tiffy looks sideways at me, catches my eye, and smiles.

Tiffy: Not what you expected?

Me: Sorry?

Tiffy: Me. Am I what you expected?

Me: Oh, I—

Tiffy quirks an eyebrow.

Tiffy: As in, before you saw me last month.

Me: Well, didn’t expect you to be so . . .

Tiffy: Big?

Me: I was going to say naked. But also tall, yes.

Tiffy laughs.

Tiffy: I wasn’t as naked as you were.

Me, wincing: Don’t remind me. I’m so sorry for—

Ahhh. How to finish that sentence? It might be my imagination, but her cheeks seem to be flushed a little pinker.

Tiffy: Seriously, it was my fault. You were just innocently showering.

Me: Not your fault. Everyone oversleeps.

Tiffy: Especially when they’ve drunk pretty much a whole bottle of gin.

We’re on the train now, so conversation stops as we move down the aisle. She chooses us a table seat; in a split second, I decide it’s less awkward to sit facing one another rather than side by side, but as I slide into the seat, realise my mistake. This way is very eye-contacty.

She slips off her jacket; underneath she’s wearing a blouse covered in enormous green flowers. Her arms are bare, and the blouse drops to a low V across her chest. My inner teenager attempts to take control of my gaze and I just about catch myself in time.

Me: So – whole bottle of gin?

Tiffy: Oh yeah. Well, I was at this book launch, then Justin turned up, and – anyway, lots of gin was involved in the aftermath.

Frown.

Me: The ex? That’s . . . weird?

Tiffy shakes her hair out and looks a little uneasy.

Tiffy: I thought that too at first, and wondered if he’d tracked me down or something, but if he wanted to see me he could have just come to my work – or, apparently, my flat, judging by that bunch of flowers. I’m clearly just paranoid.