‘Leon? Model?’

‘Why not?’

‘Well . . . Because . . .’ He’d hate it, surely. Or . . . maybe not actually – he cares so little about what other people think, someone taking photos of him and putting them on the Internet probably wouldn’t bother him.

But if he did agree to it that would mean inviting him for a proper weekend away together – if a slightly unconventional one. And that definitely seems . . . serious. Relationship-ish. That thought makes my throat feel tight and starts a little flutter of panic in my stomach. I swallow the feeling away, irritated with myself.

‘Go on. Ask,’ Rachel insists. ‘I’m betting he’ll say yes if it means more time with you. And I’ll sort it with Martin. Once I give him this castle, he’ll be kissing my arse for days.’

*

It’s very tricky to know exactly how to broach this conversation. I initially thought it would come up naturally on the call, but oddly enough castles and/or modelling don’t come up at all, and now it’s seven forty and I’ve only got five minutes before I know Leon has to head in to work.

I’m not copping out of asking, though. Since the night when Justin turned up things with Leon have shifted; this is more than sexual tension and flirty Post-it notes now, and for some reason I’m finding that slightly terrifying. When I think about him I get this rush of unstoppable smiley joy chased with a sort of claustrophobic panic. But I suspect that’s probably a Justin hang-up, and frankly I’m done letting those hold me back.

‘So,’ I begin, pulling my cardigan closer around me. I’m on the balcony; it’s become my favourite spot for evening phone calls. ‘You’re free this weekend, right?’

‘Mmhmm,’ he says. He’s eating his brinner at the hospice while talking to me, so is even less chatty than usual, but I feel that will actually work to my advantage here. I think this proposal needs to be heard in full before it can be discussed.

‘So, I have to go to a Welsh castle for the weekend to take photos of knitwear with Katherin, because I am her personal carer and despite the fact that I am paid a pittance, it is assumed that I will work weekends when told to, and that’s just how it is.’

A moment’s silence. ‘Mmkay?’ Leon says. He doesn’t sound annoyed. Which, now I think about it, he wouldn’t be – it’s not like I’m blowing him off, I have to work. And if anyone understands that, Leon does.

I relax a bit. ‘But I really want to see you,’ I say, before I can ­second-guess myself. ‘And Rachel has come up with a potentially terrible idea which could actually be really fun.’

‘Mm?’ Leon says, sounding a little nervous. He’s heard enough about Rachel to know that her ideas often involve large amounts of alcohol and indiscretion.

‘How would you feel about a free weekend in a Welsh castle with me . . . in exchange for modelling some knitwear while you’re there, to go on the Butterfingers’ social media?’

There is a loud choking noise at the other end of the phone.

‘You hate the idea,’ I say, feeling my cheeks go pink. There’s a long silence. I should never have suggested this – Leon is all about quiet nights in with wine and good conversation, not parading himself around in front of cameras.

‘I don’t hate the idea,’ Leon says. ‘Just . . . absorbing it.’

I wait, giving him some time. The pause is excruciating, and then, just when I think I know exactly how this whole embarrassing conversation is going to end:

‘All right then,’ Leon says.

I blink. Beneath the balcony, Fabio Fox roams by, and then a police car goes screaming past, sirens shrieking.

‘All right then?’ I say, when it’s quiet enough for him to hear me. ‘You’ll do it?’

‘Sounds like a relatively small price to pay for a weekend away with you. Plus, the only person who’d likely mock me for it would be Richie, and he doesn’t have Internet access.’

‘You’re serious?’

‘Are you modelling too?’

‘Oh, Martin probably thinks I’m too big,’ I say, waving an arm. ‘I’ll just be there to Kathperone.’

‘Will I meet this Martin we like so much? And you’ll be there to what?’

‘Kathperone. Sorry, that’s Rachel’s word for all the Katherin-chaperoning I have to do. And yeah, Martin will be coordinating the whole thing. He’ll be especially insufferable, because he’ll be in charge.’

‘Excellent,’ Leon says. ‘I can spend my posing time plotting his downfall.’

October

52

   Leon

So. I’m standing in between two suits of armour, wearing a woolly jumper, staring into the middle distance.

My life has got stranger with Tiffy in it. Have never been afraid of a strange life, but lately have grown rather . . . comfortable. Set in my ways, as Kay used to say.

Can’t stay that way for long with Tiffy around.

She’s helping Katherin style us models. The other two are waif-like teens; Martin is staring at them as if they’re edible. They’re nice, but conversation dried up after we caught up on this year’s Bake Off, and I’m now just counting down the minutes until Tiffy next gets to come over and adjust my woolly jumper in indiscernible ways that (I’m pretty sure) are just excuses to touch me.

Lordy Lord Illustrator flits around set. He is a pleasant posh ­gentle­man; his castle is a little ramshackle, but it has rooms and suitably epic views, so everyone seems happy.

Except Martin. I joked with Tiffy about plotting his downfall, but when he’s not salivating over the other models, he looks as if he’s trying to work out the easiest way to push me off the battlements. Can’t figure it out. Nobody here knows about Tiffy and me – we thought that was simplest. But am wondering if he’s worked it out. If he does know, though, why would he care enough to glare at me so much?

Ah, well. I do as I’m told and stare in slightly different direction. Am just grateful to get away from the flat this weekend; had a bad feeling Justin would appear. He will eventually. Clearly wasn’t finished when he left last Saturday. And yet he’s been quiet since. No flowers, no texts, no turning up wherever Tiffy is despite having no way of knowing where she might happen to be. Suspicious. I’m worried he is biding his time for something. Men like that don’t go away after a little scare.

Try not to yawn (have been awake for many, many hours, with only small naps). I let my gaze drift in Tiffy’s direction. She’s in wellies and blue tie-dyed jeans, lounging sideways on an enormous Game of Thrones-style chair that stands in the corner of the armoury and probably isn’t intended for sitting on. Catch a glimpse of smooth skin as she shifts, her cardigan falling open. Swallow. Return gaze to particular bit of middle distance insisted upon by photographer.