Can’t do anything around here without someone imparting wisdom in your direction. But Mr Prior has made me a little nervous. Felt after Wales I shouldn’t rush things with Tiffy. But maybe I’m holding back too much. I tend to, apparently. Wish I’d mentioned about changing to day shifts now. Still, I did go to a Welsh castle for her, and pose against windswept tree in large cardigan. Surely that makes my feelings clear?

*

Richie: You’re not a naturally open person.

Me: I am! I am . . . I’m forthcoming. Expressive. An open book.

Richie: You’re not bad at the old talking-about-feelings with me, but that doesn’t count, and it’s usually because I do it first. You should take a leaf from my book, bro. I’ve never had any time for the whole hard-to-get thing. Easy-to-get and put-it-on-the-line has always worked for me.

Feel a bit wrong-footed. Was feeling good about everything with Tiffy, and am anxious now. Shouldn’t have told Richie what Mr Prior said – should’ve known what his opinion would be. Richie was writing love songs to serenade girls in school corridors when he was ten years old.

Me: What am I meant to do, then?

Richie: Fucking hell, man, just tell her you like her and you want to make things official. You clearly do, so it can’t be that hard. I have to go. Gerty’s got me talking her through the ten minutes after leaving the club again, seriously, I’m not sure that woman is human.

Me: That woman is—

Richie: Don’t worry, don’t worry. I won’t hear a word against her. I was going to say superhuman.

Me: Good.

Richie: Hot, too.

Me: Don’t you even—

Richie belly-laughs. I find myself grinning; I can never resist smiling with him when he laughs like that.

Richie: I’ll be good, I’ll be good. But if she gets me out of here, I’m buying her dinner. Or asking for her hand in marriage, maybe.

Smile fades a little. I feel a twinge of worry. The appeal is really happening. Two days to go. Haven’t even let myself imagine scenario where Richie is found not guilty, but my brain keeps going there against my will, playing out the scene. Bringing him home to sit on Tiffy’s paisley beanbag, drink beers, be my little brother again.

Can’t find the words for what I want to tell him. Don’t get your hopes up? But of course he will – I have too. That’s the whole point. So . . . don’t let it get to you if it doesn’t work? Also ridiculous. No good words for the magnitude of the problem.

Me: See you Friday.

Richie: That’s the open book I know and love. See you Friday, bro.

57

   Tiffy

It’s first thing on Friday. The Day.

Leon is at his mum’s place – they’re going to court together. Rachel and Mo are at mine. Mo’s tagging along to the book launch – given everything I’ve done for this book, even Martin could not deny me a plus one.

Gerty pops in with Mo when he arrives, for a quick, cursory hug and a very hurried chat about Richie’s case. She is already dressed in her ridiculous lawyer wig, as if she’s doing an impression of an eighteenth-century painting.

Mo is in his tux, looking adorable. I love it when Mo dresses up smartly. It’s like when you see photos of puppies dressed up as humans. He is visibly uncomfortable, and I can tell he’s itching to at least take off his shoes, but if he so much as reaches for his shoelaces then Gerty snarls at him and he withdraws, whimpering. When Gerty leaves, he looks visibly relieved.

‘Just so you know, Mo and Gerty are totally shagging,’ Rachel tells me, passing me my hairbrush.

I stare at her in the mirror. (There are nowhere near enough mirrors in this flat. We should have got ready at Rachel’s, which has an entire wall of mirrored cupboards in the bedroom for what I suspect to be sexual reasons, but she refuses to let Gerty in her flat since she made a comment about how messy it was at Rachel’s birthday party.)

‘Mo and Gerty are not shagging,’ I say, coming to my senses and snatching the hairbrush. I’m attempting to tame my mane into a sleek up-do from one of our DIY hairstyling books. The author promised me that it was easy, but I’ve been on step two for fifteen minutes. There are twenty-two steps in total and half an hour left on the clock.

‘They are,’ Rachel says matter-of-factly. ‘You know I can always tell.’

I just about refrain from informing Rachel that Gerty also thinks she can ‘always tell’ when a friend is sleeping with someone. I don’t want this to become a competition, especially as I’ve still not had sex with Leon.

‘They live together,’ I say, through a mouthful of hairpins. ‘They’re more comfortable with each other than they used to be.’

‘You only get that comfortable if you get naked together,’ Rachel insists.

‘That’s weird and gross. Anyway, I’m pretty sure Mo is asexual.’

Belatedly, I check that the bathroom door is closed. Mo is in the living room. He has spent the last hour looking either patient or bored, depending on whether he thinks we’re looking.

‘You want to think that, because of the whole he’s-like-a-brother-to-you thing. But he’s definitely not asexual. He came on to my friend Kelly at a party last summer.’

‘I cannot handle these sorts of revelations right now!’ I say, spitting out the hairpins. I put them between my teeth way too early. They’re for step four, and step three still has me flummoxed.

‘Come here,’ Rachel says, and I breathe out. Thank God.

‘You really left me hanging there,’ I tell her, as she takes the hairbrush, smooths out the damage I have done so far, and flicks through the up-do instructions with one hand.

‘How else will you ever learn?’ she says.

*

It’s 10 a.m. It’s weird being in formal dress this early in the morning. For some reason I am incredibly paranoid about dripping tea down the front of my fancy new dress, though I’m pretty sure if I were drinking a martini I wouldn’t have the same anxieties. It’s just weird drinking from a mug while wearing silk.

Rachel has outdone herself – my hair is all smooth and shiny, knotted at the nape of my neck in a series of mysterious swirls just like in the picture. The side-effect, though, is that a copious amount of my chest is on show. When I tried this dress on I had my hair down – I didn’t really notice quite how much skin the off-the-shoulder sleeves and structured sweetheart neckline leave exposed. Oh well. This is my night, too – I’m the acquiring editor. I’m perfectly entitled to dress inappropriately.

My alarm beeps to remind me to check in on Katherin. I call her, trying not to notice that she’s higher up my most-called list than my own mother.