He passes me the bag of pastries and sits down on the end of the bed, smoothing his hair back. He’s nervous again. Why do I find his nervous fidgeting so adorable?

‘You made it to the shower OK?’ he asks eventually, nodding towards my wet hair. ‘With your foot, I mean?’

‘I showered flamingo style.’ I curl one knee up. He smiles. Getting one of those lopsided grins from him feels like winning at a game I wasn’t aware I was playing. ‘The door doesn’t lock, though. I thought you might walk in on me, but it seems Karma was busy elsewhere this morning.’

He makes a strangled sort of mmhmm sound and busies himself eating his croissant. I suppress a smile. An unfortunate side effect of finding his nervous fidgeting adorable is that I seem unable to resist saying things I know will make him fidget.

‘But anyway, you’ve basically seen me naked,’ I go on. ‘Twice. Already. So you wouldn’t have been in for any huge surprises.’

He looks up at me this time. ‘Basically,’ he says emphatically, ‘is not the same as actually. Some key differences, in fact.’

My stomach flips. Whatever that awkwardness was last night, I definitely wasn’t imagining the sexual tension. The air is heavy with it.

‘It should be me worrying about the lack of surprises,’ he says. ‘You’ve actually seen me naked.’

‘I did wonder . . . when I walked in on you in the shower, did you . . .’

He disappears in the direction of the bathroom so fast I barely hear the excuse he makes as he goes. As he closes the door behind him and turns the shower on, I smile. I guess there’s my answer. Rachel will be delighted.

46

   Leon

Have never thought this hard about the notes before. Was much easier when I was just scribbling random thoughts to friend who I had not met. Now am carefully crafting messages to woman who has taken up residence in most of my waking thoughts.

It’s terrible. Sit down with pen and Post-it and suddenly forget all the words. Her messages are cheeky, flirty, noisily her. This was the first after the weekend in Brighton, fixed to the bedroom door with Blu-Tack:

So, hey, roomie. How’s the transition back to nocturnal life gone today? I see that Fatima and family went through the bins again while we were away – little minxes.

I wanted to write and say thanks again for whisking me out of the sea. Just make sure you fall in a large body of water at some point so I can return the favour, you know, in the name of equality. Also because I feel like you’d really own the whole Mr Darcy just-out-of-the-lake look. xx

Mine are stilted and overthought. Write them when I get in from work, then rewrite them before I walk out the door, then regret them all night in the hospice. Until I get home to a reply and feel instantly better again. Thus the cycle repeats.

Eventually, on Wednesday, I muster the courage to leave this one on the kitchen counter:

Weekend plans? x

Was paralysed by self-doubt as soon as I’d left the building and got far enough away for going back to be inconceivable. In retrospect, was a very short note. Perhaps too short for meaning to be clear? Perhaps insultingly short? Why is this so difficult?

Now, though, I’m feeling better.

Well I’ll be home alone this weekend. Do you fancy coming over and cooking me your mushroom stroganoff? I’ve only ever had it reheated, and I bet it’s even better fresh out the oven. xx

I reach for a Post-it and scribble my reply.

Tiffin for dessert? x

*

Richie: You’re nervous, aren’t you?

Me: No! No, no.

Richie snorts. He’s in good mood – he’s generally in a good mood now. He calls Gerty at least every other day to catch up on appeal case progress. So much to talk about, calls every other day are apparently essential. Evidence re-examined. Witnesses coming forward. And, at last, CCTV obtained.

Me: OK. A bit nervous.

Richie: You’ll be great, man. You know she’s into you. What’s the plan? Is tonight the night?

Me: Of course not. Far too soon.

Richie: Have you shaved your legs just in case?

Don’t deign to respond to this. Richie chuckles.

Richie: I like her, man. You’ve got a good one.

Me: Not sure I’ve ‘got’ her yet.

Richie: What? You think – the ex?

Me: She doesn’t love him any more. But it’s complicated. I’m a bit worried about her.

Richie: Was he a prick?

Me: Mm.

Richie: He hurt her?

Gut twists at the thought.

Me: To some degree, I think. She doesn’t really talk about it with me but . . . got a bad feeling about him.

Richie: Shit, man. Are we dealing with some kind of post-trauma situation here?

Me: You think so?

Richie: You’re speaking to the king of the night sweats. I dunno, I haven’t met her, but if she is still processing some shit she had to deal with, all you can do is be there and let her decide when she’s ready for whatever.

The trauma of the trial and first month in prison hit Richie about six weeks into his sentence. Shaking hands, sudden terrors, intrusive flashbacks, jumping at the slightest noises. The last part always annoyed him the most – he seemed to think that particular brand of PTSD should be reserved for people whose trauma had actually involved loud noises, like soldiers.

Richie: And don’t try and make the decision for her. Don’t assume she can’t be feeling better yet. That’s her call.

Me: You’re a good man, Richard Twomey.

Richie: Hold that thought and tell it to the judges in three weeks’ time, bro.

*

Arrive at the flat at five-ish; Tiffy’s with Mo and Gerty for the day. Weird, being here at a weekend. It’s her flat now.

Stop short of shaving legs, but do spend inordinately long time getting ready. Can’t stop thinking about where we’re each going to sleep tonight. Will I go back to Mam’s, or sleep here? We’ve already shared a bed in Brighton . . .

I consider messaging to say I’ll stay at Mam’s tonight, to show goodwill. But decide that’s putting nail in coffin earlier than necessary, and is an example of making decisions for her, as advised against by Richie, so I leave it be.

Key in door. I try to spring up from the beanbag, but that would be impossible even for a person with thighs of steel, so Tiffy walks in to find me in a half squat, attempting to extricate myself.

Tiffy, laughing: It’s like quicksand, isn’t it?