A few messages from Tiffy. I go to tap out a brief reply, palms sweaty, almost afraid writing it down and sending will jinx it. Wish I could call her. Instead I check Tasha Chai-Latte’s Facebook page – Tiffy says she’s filming the book launch. There’s already a video on her page with thousands of views; looks like it’s from the launch, judging by the vaulted ceiling in the holding image.

I watch, settling down on bench outside the court building, ignoring the gaggle of paparazzi waiting there for the chance of shooting someone they might get paid for.

It’s Katherin’s thank-you speech. I smile as she talks about Tiffy. From what Tiffy says, editors never get much credit, and designers even less – I can see Rachel beaming as she takes the stage with Tiffy.

Camera jolts. Someone pushing through to the front. As he jumps up on to the stage I realise who it is.

Sudden awful, guilt-inducing urge to leave courtroom and go to Islington. Sit forward, staring at the tiny video playing out on my screen.

Video cuts after she’s said yes.

Surprising how truly terrible it feels. Perhaps you never know how you feel about someone until they agree to marry someone else.

61

   Tiffy

Justin pulls me off the stage to the wings. I go with him, because more than anything else I want the noise and the lights and the crowd to go away, but as soon as we’re through the curtain I yank my hand from his grasp. My wrist sings out in pain; he was holding on tightly. We’re in a narrow, black-walled space to the side of the stage, which is empty aside from a black-clad man with a walkie-talkie and lots of cables around his feet.

‘Tiffy?’ Justin says. The vulnerability in his voice is completely contrived, I can tell.

‘What the fuck do you . . .’ I begin. I’m shaking all over; it’s hard to stand, especially in these high heels. ‘What was that?’

‘What was what?’ He reaches for me again.

Rachel bursts through the curtain behind us, kicking off her shoes. ‘Tiff— Tiffy!’

I twist towards her as she runs into me, letting her hold me tightly. Justin looks down at us both, eyes narrowed a little – I can see he’s calculating something behind those eyes, so I turn my head into the thick mass of Rachel’s braids and try very, very hard not to cry.

‘Tiffy?’ calls someone else. It’s Mo. I can’t work out where he is.

‘Your friends are here to congratulate you,’ Justin says benevolently, but his shoulders are stiff and tensed.

‘Mo?’ I call. He appears from behind Justin, through the curtains that separate us from the main backstage area; his jacket is gone and his hair is mussed as though he’s been running.

In a moment, he’s at my side. Behind me I can hear Katherin valiantly trying to bring the subject back to Crochet Your Way onstage.

Justin watches the three of us. Rachel still has hold of me, and I lean into her as I look up at Justin.

‘You know I didn’t say yes,’ I say flatly.

His eyes widen. ‘What do you mean?’ he says.

I shake my head. I know what this is – I remember this feeling, the nagging sense of wrongness. ‘You can’t make me believe something that I know isn’t true.’

There’s a flicker behind his eyes – maybe he’s thinking, I already have, plenty of times.

‘Not any more,’ I say. ‘And do you know what it’s called, when you do that? It’s called gaslighting. It’s a form of abuse. Telling me things aren’t the way I can see them.’

This knocks him. I’m not sure Rachel or Mo will notice it, but I watch him take the hit. The Tiffy he is familiar with would never have used words like ‘gaslighting’ and ‘abuse’. Seeing him waver sends a rush of fearful excitement through me, like the feeling when you stand close to the edge as the train rushes by.

‘You did say yes,’ he says. The light from the stage creeps between the curtains behind us, leaving a long stripe of yellow across the shadowy lines of Justin’s face. ‘I heard you! And . . . you do want to marry me, don’t you, Tiffy? We belong together.’

He tries to reach for my hand. The whole thing is so obviously a performance. I pull back and, quick as a flash, Rachel reaches out and slaps his outstretched hand away from me.

He doesn’t physically react. When he speaks, his voice is light and wounded. ‘What was that for?’

‘You don’t touch her,’ Rachel spits at him.

‘I think you should leave, Justin,’ Mo says.

‘What is this all about, Tiffy?’ Justin asks me, voice still gentle. ‘Are your friends upset with me because we were broken up?’ He keeps trying to move closer, just in inches, but Rachel has hold of me tight, and, with Mo at my other shoulder, we’re a unit.

‘Can I ask you something?’ I say suddenly.

‘Of course,’ Justin says.

The sound guy in black glances at us in irritation. ‘You’re not meant to stay back here,’ he tells us, as the crowd outside bursts into noisy applause.

I ignore him, my eyes on Justin. ‘How did you know I’d be here today?’

‘What do you mean? This event was advertised all over the place, Tiffy. I could hardly use the Internet and miss it.’

‘But how did you know I would be here? How did you even know I was working on this book?’

I know I’m right. I can see it in the shiftiness in his eyes. He eases a finger under his collar.

‘And how did you know I would be at that book launch in Shore­ditch? And how did you know I’d be on that cruise ship?’

He’s unsettled; he scoffs, giving me the first unpleasant, disparaging look of the evening. That’s more like it – that’s the Justin I’ve begun to remember.

For a moment he’s caught in indecision, and then he opts for an easy smile. ‘Your mate Martin has been giving me tip-offs,’ he says sheepishly, like a naughty boy caught pinching things. Sweet, mischievous, harmless. ‘He knew how much I care about you, so he’s been helping to get us back together.’

‘You’re joking,’ Rachel blurts. I glance at her; her eyes are flashing and she looks more terrifying than I have ever seen her looking before, which is really saying something.

‘How do you even know Martin?’ I ask in disbelief.

‘Quiet!’ the sound guy hisses. We all ignore him.

‘We met at your work night out, remember?’ Justin says. ‘Is this important? Can’t we go somewhere quieter, just the two of us, Tiffy?’