Me: Are you all right?

Richie: Am I all right? I’m fine, you big bellend, other than being mightily pissed off with you – and Gerty.

Me: What?

Richie: Tiffy. She didn’t say yes. That mad Justin bloke just answered for her, didn’t you notice?

Stop stock still ten yards from bus stop. I . . . can’t absorb it. Blink. Swallow. Feel a bit sick.

Richie: Yeah. Gerty rang her and started laying in to her for going back to Justin, then Mo went mental at her. Told her she was a terrible friend for not having enough faith in Tiffy to at least ask the question before assuming she’d gone back to him.

I find my voice.

Me: Is Tiffy all right?

Richie: She’d be a lot better if she could speak to you, man.

Me: I was already on my way, but—

Richie: You were?

Me: Yes. Had a visit from the Ghost of Christmas Future.

Richie, confused: Bit early in the year for that sort of thing, isn’t it?

Me: Well. You know what they say. Gets earlier every year.

Lean against the bus shelter. Giddy and sick all at once. What was I doing? Coming here, wasting all that time?

Me, belatedly, and with a rush of fear: Is Tiffy safe?

Richie: Justin’s still on the loose, if that’s what you mean. But her mate Mo is with her, and according to Gerty he reckons Justin won’t come back for a while – he’ll go nurse his wounds and come up with another plan. He tends to have a plan for everything – that’s part of his whole deal, Mo says. You know the prick was using Martin from Tiffy’s work to find out information about where Tiffy would be the whole time?

Me: Martin. And . . . oh. Fuck.

Richie: This was all about breaking the two of you up, man. Getting that YouTuber to film it all so you’d see it for sure.

Me: I can’t . . . can’t believe I just assumed.

Richie: Hey, bro, just go fix it, OK? And tell her about Mam.

Me: Tell her what about Mam?

Richie: I don’t need to be a therapist to figure out that you leaving Mam at court with Gerty and not going back to her place had something to do with all this. Look, I get it, man – we both have mummy issues.

Bus approaching.

Me: Not . . . entirely sure how this is relevant?

Richie: Just because Mam always went back to the men who treated her like shit, or found another version of the same guy, that doesn’t mean Tiffy’s the same.

Me, automatically: It wasn’t Mam’s fault. She was abused. Manipulated.

Richie: Yeah, yeah, I know, you’re always saying that. But it doesn’t make it any easier when you’re twelve, does it?

Me: You think . . .

Richie: Look, I have to go. But just go tell Tiffy you’re sorry, and you fucked up, and you were raised by an abused single mother and basically had to look after your younger brother single-handed. That ought to do it.

Me: That’s a bit . . . emotional blackmaily, no? Also, will she enjoy the comparison with my mother?

Richie: Point taken. Fine. You do you. Just sort it, and get her back, because that woman is the best thing that’s ever happened to you. All right?

67

   Tiffy

We completely forgot about eating, and now it’s 2.30 a.m. and I’ve just remembered to be hungry. Mo has gone out to get takeaway. He’s left me on the balcony with a large glass of red wine and an even larger bowl of munchies from the cupboard, which I’m pretty sure were Leon’s, but who cares – if he thinks I’d go off and marry someone else, he might as well think I’m a snack thief too.

I’m not sure who I’m angry with any more. I’ve sat here for so long my legs have cramped up, and I’ve been through pretty much all the available emotions in that time, and now they’re all muddled together in a big ugly soup of misery. The only thing I can think of with any certainty is that I wish I had never met Justin.

My phone buzzes.

Leon calling.

I’ve waited all night to see those words. My stomach drops. Has he spoken to Richie?

‘Hello?’

‘Hey.’ His voice sounds ragged and strangely unfamiliar. It’s like the energy has gone out of him.

I wait for him to say something else, staring out at the traffic sliding by below, letting the headlights draw yellow-white streaks on the insides of my eyes.

‘I am holding an enormous bunch of flowers,’ he says.

I don’t say anything.

‘I felt like I needed a physical symbol of the enormity of my apology,’ Leon goes on. ‘But I’ve realised Justin also left you an enormous bunch of flowers – actually, much nicer, more expensive flowers – so now I’m thinking, flowers, not so good. Then I thought, I’d just come home and tell you in person. But then I realised once I got here that I left my key to the flat at Mam’s place because I’m supposed to be staying there tonight. So I’d have to knock on the door, which I thought would probably scare you, since you have an unhinged ex-boyfriend to contend with.’

I watch car after car drive by. That might be the longest I’ve ever heard Leon speak in one go.

‘So where are you now?’ I ask eventually.

‘Look up. Opposite pavement, by the bakery.’

I see him now. He’s silhouetted against the bright yellow light of the bakery’s sign, the phone to his ear, his other arm cradling a bouquet of flowers. He’s wearing a suit – of course, he won’t have changed since court.

‘I’m guessing you’re feeling very hurt,’ he says. His voice is gentle, and it makes me melt.

I’m crying again.

‘I am so sorry, Tiffy. I should never have assumed. You needed me today, and I wasn’t there for you.’

‘I did need you,’ I sob. ‘Mo and Gerty and Rachel are all great and I love them and they have helped so much, but I wanted you. You made me feel like it didn’t matter that Justin happened. That you cared about me anyway.’

‘I do. And it doesn’t.’ He’s crossing the road now, coming over to this side of the pavement. I can make out his face, the smooth, sharp lines of his cheekbones, the soft curve of his lips. He’s looking up at me. ‘Everyone kept telling me I was going to lose you if I didn’t tell you how I feel, and then in comes Justin, king of the romantic gesture . . .’

‘Romantic?’ I splutter. ‘Romantic? And I don’t bloody want romantic gestures anyway! Why would I want that? I’ve had that, and it was shit!’