Meekly I obey.

I read somewhere, Leona adds, that we’re all mostly water. So water is, quite literally, a big part of us.

Hydration, Brian says thoughtfully. Several people nod, including me.

The door opens and Saul sticks his head in. Ah, the creative geniuses of marketing hard at work, he says genially. How’re you getting on?

Brian grunts. Mission statement hell.

Saul glances at the flipboard. It’s pretty straightforward, isn’t it? To save people the bother of running a tap, and charge them a crazy premium for it.

Sod off, you, Brian says with a laugh. You’re not helping.

All right, Emma? Saul says cheerily as he obeys. He winks. I see Leona’s head swivel toward me. I bet she didn’t know I had friends in management.

I write down Mostly water and Hydration.

—

When the meeting is finally over—apparently Flow’s mission and higher purpose is To make more watercooler moments happen, every day and everywhere, an insight all present agree is suitably creative and brilliant—I go back to my desk and wait until the office empties for lunch before I dial a number.

The Monkford Partnership, a well-bred female voice says.

Edward Monkford please, I say.

Silence. The Monkford Partnership doesn’t go in for recorded music. Then: Edward here.

Mr. Monkford, it’s Emma. From One Folgate Street.

Call me Edward.

Edward, I need to ask you something about our contract.

I know I should really be going through Mark, the agent, about this sort of thing. But I have a feeling he’d only tell Simon.

I’m afraid the rules are non-negotiable, Emma, Edward Monkford says sternly.

I don’t have a problem with the rules, I assure him. Quite the opposite. And I don’t want to leave One Folgate Street.

A pause. Why would you need to?

That contract Simon and I signed…What would happen if one of us stopped living there? And the other one wanted to stay?

Are you and Simon no longer together? I’m sorry to hear that, Emma.

It’s a…theoretical question at the moment. I’m just wondering what the situation would be, that’s all.

My head is pounding. Just thinking about leaving Simon gives me a strange feeling, like vertigo. Is it the breakin that’s done this? Is it talking to Carol? Or is it One Folgate Street itself, those powerful empty spaces in which, suddenly, everything seems so much clearer?

Edward Monkford considers. Technically, he says, you’d be in breach of contract. But I imagine you could sign a deed of variation to say you take on all the responsibilities yourself. Any competent lawyer could draw one up in ten minutes. Would you still be able to afford the rent?

I don’t know, I say truthfully. One Folgate Street might cost a preposterously small amount for somewhere so amazing, but it’s still more than I can afford on my tiny salary.

Well, I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.

That’s really kind of you, I say. And now I feel even more disloyal, because Simon, if he were listening to this conversation, would say that I phoned Edward Monkford rather than the agent because this was precisely the outcome I was hoping for.

—

Simon gets back to One Folgate Street about an hour after me. What’s all this? he says.

I’m cooking, I say, flashing him a smile. Your favorite. Beef Wellington.

Wow, he says, amazed, looking around the kitchen. Admittedly it’s a bit of a mess, but at least he can see what an effort I’ve made. How long has this taken? he asks.

I did the shopping at lunchtime and I left work on time to get it all ready, I say proudly.

As soon as I’d put the phone down on Edward Monkford I’d felt terrible. What was I thinking? Simon has tried so hard, and really I’ve behaved like a monster these past few weeks. I’ve decided I’m going to make it up to him, starting tonight.

I have wine too, I tell him. Simon’s eyes widen when he sees I’m already a third of the way down the bottle, but he doesn’t say anything. Oh, and olives, and crisps, and many other nibbly things, I add.

I’ll have a shower, he says.

By the time he comes down again, showered and changed, the beef is in the oven and I’m a little drunk. He hands me a wrapped-up parcel. I know it isn’t till tomorrow, babe, he goes, but I want you to have this now. Happy birthday, Em.

I can tell from the shape it’s a teapot, but it’s only when I get the paper off that I see it’s not just any teapot but a beautiful art deco one with a peacock-feather design, like something from a 1930s ocean liner. I gasp. It’s gorgeous, I say.

I found it on Etsy, he says proudly. Do you recognize it? It’s the one Audrey Hepburn uses in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Your favorite movie. I had it shipped over from an antiques shop in America.

You’re incredible, I say. I put it down and go and sit in his lap. I love you, I murmur, nibbling his ear.

I haven’t said it for too long. Neither of us has. I slip a hand between his thighs.