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  ‘Oh, best store in town . . .’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  She grins. ‘My stall. Portobello market. Saturday mornings. You should swing by some time. I’ll treat you to a coffee.’ She cocks her head to one side and peers up at me through sparkling eyes. ‘Come to think of it, I might treat you to a coffee anyway. Or something a bit stronger, if you fancy.’

  ‘That’s very kind, but—’

  She shoots me this big beamer of a smile. ‘Fab. How about tonight, then? We could chill out, you know? Have a laugh. What time d’you knock off here?’

  ‘I can’t tonight. There’s a job on at the Natural History Museum. I’ve got to be there in an hour and I doubt I’ll get away much before 3 a.m. . . .’

  She looks at me like I’m being shoddy. That isn’t how it is. It’s simply the truth. I rack my brain, trying to think of an alternative date to meet up, but fail. Bar the stag weekend, I’m working every night now right up until Jack and Amy’s wedding. I shrug apologetically.

  ‘Some other time, then . . .’ she suggests.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, giving her a goodbye hug and a kiss on the cheek, ‘some other time.’

  H

  Wednesday, 15.30

  ‘Want a lift?’ asks Matt, jangling his keys. I’m standing in the car park, rummaging in my bag for my mobile, already soaked. Matt nods towards the green Spitfire next to me.

  I might have known he’d have a car like this.

  ‘It’s OK, I’m calling a cab,’ I say.

  It’s not that I don’t want a lift. I do. I want anything that will get me out of here and where I want to be. Which is at home.

  Alone.

  Preferably with dry clothes on.

  ‘Come on, get in,’ he says. ‘It’ll take ages for a cab to find this place.’

  Reluctantly, I open the door and try clambering into the bucket seat without getting my suit skirt wrapped round my ears. There’s a bag of golf clubs in the back seat and Matt rearranges them so that I can push my seat back. I think Matt wants me to be impressed. He looks expectantly at me and smiles as he starts up, but I don’t smile back. I hate golf and I hate poxy show-off cars like these. I’m also not sure I can stand any more small talk.

  I’m sick of trying to be nice. Of everything being nice.

  ‘Nice food,’ says Matt.

  Aghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

  Nice food is not how I’d describe it. To be honest, all wedding food is pretty disgusting. I challenge anyone to enjoy it, even if it’s the type of nosh that Stringer would have us believe is worthy of three Michelin stars. As far as I’m concerned, he’s wasting his time. On the day, everyone will be bored shitless from hours of photographs and all they’ll really want is a stiff drink, not a tepid, sit-down meal with a bunch of strangers, whilst Jack and Amy preside over everyone from the top table.

  I can’t bitch to Matt, though. Apart from the fact that he likes Stringer, he and Jack are thick as thieves and it would only get back to Amy. And if it got back to Amy, she’d probably change the whole menu and give me a nervous breakdown in the process.

  Matt puts his arm around the back of my seat, looks through the tiny plastic rear screen and reverses. The car makes a whining sound. It’s nowhere near as good as mine is.

  Was, damn it.

  ‘You look different from the last time I saw you,’ observes Matt, putting the car in to gear. I can feel him looking at me, but I wish he’d concentrate on driving. One accident is enough for me today. Besides, I don’t want to be looked at. I haven’t got any make-up on.

  ‘I was pissed last time you saw me,’ I point out.

  ‘And now you’re just pissed off?’

  ‘Let’s just say I haven’t had a very good day,’ I say, lighting up a cigarette.

  Matt spins the wheel round with one hand. ‘What happened?’

  ‘My car got written off, if you must know.’

  ‘Bummer,’ he says.

  I open the window an inch and blow smoke towards it. It blows back in my face, along with a splash of rain as Matt speeds off towards Vauxhall Bridge. I sulk in the passenger seat. How dare he be so flippant? My life is not a bummer, it’s much worse than that, not that I’d expect Matt to understand.

  Maybe Matt senses my irritation, because when he pulls up smoothly to the traffic lights, he leans one arm on the steering-wheel and turns to face me.

  ‘How did it happen?’ he asks, gently.

  To my surprise, he looks genuinely concerned, his eyebrows knitted together. I hadn’t noticed before, but he’s got very green eyes – dark green with hazel flecks in them.

  ‘How did what happen?’ I snap. He may be a lawyer but I’m not going to be cross-examined by him, thank you very much. I’m not falling for his phony sympathy.

  ‘The car. I mean, you could have been badly injured.’

  I fold my arms and look out of the window. The glass is covered in drops of rain and I watch them slide in to one another, before noticing my pursed-lipped reflection.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘What about the other people?’

  ‘What other people?’

  ‘In the car that hit you,’ he says, easing away from the lights.

  ‘They’re OK,’ I stall, as we career round the feeder lane on to the bridge.

  ‘You’ve got all their details, I take it?’

  Who does he think he is? Chief Inspector Matt Davies? I take a drag of my cigarette and tap my foot.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ I mutter, hoping that he’ll take the hint.

  But he doesn’t.

  ‘All the more reason to sort out the insurance quickly.’

  ‘I’ll deal with it,’ I say pointedly, turning to face him, my back teeth gritted together.

  ‘It’s best to,’ he nods. ‘These things can drag on, especially when they’re not your fault.’

  ‘I know.’

  We drive on in silence for a while and I watch the windscreen wipers flick water away. I drop my cigarette butt out of the gap in the window, fold my arms and shiver.

  ‘Only, I can help with the claim if you want,’ offers Matt. ‘I’ve got some experience with this sort of thing.’

  Will he just shut up?

  I shift in my seat and turn on him. ‘Look, I’ve got it all under control. There are lots of people and vehicles involved and it’s quite complex . . .’

  ‘A big collision then?’ he interrupts, glancing at me.

  ‘Yeah, pretty big.’

  ‘What? Two or three cars?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Poor you. Coming from all angles?’

  ‘The back, mainly, if you must know,’ I spit.

  He pauses as he drives on. ‘So you didn’t reverse in to a bus or anything, then?’ I jolt round and face him.

  ‘How did you know?’

  Matt’s eyes are dancing with amusement. ‘Stringer overheard you talking to Amy.’

  Stringer. I might have known.

  ‘Great!’ I snarl.

  ‘Calm down,’ chuckles Matt. ‘I didn’t tell anyone else.’ He glances over at me. ‘It’s funny.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem very funny to me,’ I sulk, but I know I’m over-reacting. He’s caught me lying my arse off, because I’m too proud to admit what I’ve done. Matt’s still laughing, and despite myself I feel myself breaking into a smile. I hit him on the arm.

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘“Lots of people and vehicles involved . . . Volvos, juggernauts, the works, officer, all shunting up my back end,”’ he mimics, sucking in his cheeks to look ultra-serious.

  I laugh, despite myself.

  ‘I felt a bit of a twat, to be honest,’ I confess, surprised how relieved I feel to talk about it. ‘Especially since I got out and kicked the car. The bus I’d hit was full of people and they saw me shouting like a lunatic.’

  Matt shakes his head and laughs. ‘Forget it. Everyone does things like that once in a while.’

  ‘Really? I thought
it was just me.’

  ‘No way. Think about the last time we met! I made an total twat of myself. You can’t out-twat me.’

  I snort, remembering Matt grabbing me and smooching me around on the dance floor. We’d met him and Jack at a new club in town that I’d taken Amy to, to get her mind off Jack. I’d never set eyes on either of them before, so I was completely fooled by their identity. And once Amy had got over the shock of seeing Jack and had swooned off with him in a haze of rekindled romance, I was abandoned with Matt who was being unbearably smug about his set up.

  ‘True,’ I nod, remembering. ‘You were a huge twat that night.’

  ‘What happened to you, anyway?’ he asks.

  ‘After you’d tried to shove your tongue down my throat?’ I ask, pleased to see that he’s blushing slightly. ‘I went home,’ I continue. ‘To barf.’

  ‘Thanks very much!’ His cheeks are even more pink.

  ‘Well, honestly! You’d tricked me and I felt like a complete idiot. Anyway, what did you expect? That you’d get Jack and Amy back together and to make it all neat and tidy, you’d pull me? To make a cosy foursome? Personally, I can’t think of anything more nauseous.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ he says, holding up his hand. ‘I’ve admitted I was a twat.’

  ‘Good,’ I nod. ‘Accepted.’

  He changes the subject and asks me about my job, but I feel exhausted and find myself switching off and giving him my stock ‘I work in TV . . . sounds glamorous . . . it isn’t’ speech. Eventually, we get to Hammersmith Broadway and I give Matt directions to my street. He stops outside my flat.

  ‘So,’ he pauses. ‘What are you doing tonight?’ He waggles the gear stick in neutral.

  ‘Working. Having lunch today wasn’t exactly convenient.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ he says. He looks up the street for a moment and turns back towards me. ‘I was going to ask if you wanted to have something to eat. Um, with me?’

  I’m about to make a flippant comment, when I catch him out of the corner of my eye. There’s no mistaking his expression.

  He’s making a pass.

  Oh God. I don’t think I can cope with this.

  I shake my head hurriedly, in a panic. I just want to get out of here.

  ‘Some other time then?’ he presses.

  I don’t believe this. I spend five minutes talking to Matt and he thinks he can ask me out on a date. Blokes! They really do my head in. I’ve made my views very, and I mean very, clear about cosy foursomes, and now this.

  ‘No,’ I say, fumbling with my seat belt. ‘No, I can’t, I . . .’

  ‘A drink, then?’

  I stop fiddling with my seat belt, take a deep breath and turn to face him. ‘Matt, I don’t want to go out with anyone. Not you. Not anyone. OK?’

  I try to open the car door, but the lock is tricky.

  ‘I’m not asking you out, I’m just asking you out,’ he says, leaning across me and pulling the catch. ‘There’s no need to bite my head off.’

  He pushes my door open and sits back in his seat and I can see how different he looks with all the kindness gone from his face. He looks really offended, as he puts the car into gear.

  ‘Thanks for the lift,’ I mumble, clumsily getting out.

  I stomp up my stairs and let myself in to the flat. I don’t listen to the answering machine as all I want is to shower today away. I rip off my clothes and head for the bathroom. It’s only when I’m naked, the icy water splashing all over me, that I remember that since I’m home earlier than usual, the hot water hasn’t come on.

  Just great.

  A lousy end to a lousy day.

  I wrap myself in towels and dive under my duvet, pulling it over my head.

  How was I supposed to know about Matt? I thought he was coming on to me. It sounded like he was and he hasn’t exactly got a good track record.

  But maybe he was just being friendly. And if he was, I’ve really blown it now.

  I groan and roll over. I can try to justify it all I want, but the truth is, I’m being an over-sensitive, over-defensive bitch. And I can’t afford to be bolshie with Matt. I am going to see him all the time. Not just at the wedding, but afterwards as well. Let’s face it, I won’t be able to avoid seeing Amy with Jack most of the time when she’s married. And if Jack’s around, the chances are that Matt will be too. And that’s fine, I suppose. Matt’s funny in a slick sort of way and whilst he doesn’t exactly make my stomach flip, he’s hardly Quasimodo.

  But the whole thing makes me sick.

  Really sick. Because it’s just too couply.

  I hate couples. Everything about them, even platonic ones. I don’t want to see couples and I certainly don’t want to be in a couple. I want out.

  How has everything changed? One minute, everyone was happy being single, but now it seems that everyone around me has become desperate to find a mate. And more worryingly, those that have (even Amy, who I think of as pretty independent) have started defining themselves by their ‘other halves’.

  I don’t want another half. I’m perfectly whole as I am. I don’t even want to be put in a pretend pair, just so that I become more socially acceptable not being on my own. I don’t want it. I don’t care. I’m sick of other people’s baggage and bullshit. I just want to be on my own. In the Outer Hebrides. Where there’s no one to team up with but the seals. And that’s fine by me, because teaming up doesn’t work.

  Certainly not with men.

  I bury my face in the pillow and close my eyes tightly, but the tears squeeze through. I hold my breath, but it doesn’t work and a strange sobbing noise escapes me. I don’t want to be crying, but I am. Because what happened today just isn’t fair. I wrap my arms over my stomach, but it doesn’t work. There’s pain in there. Real heartbreak pain that I can’t tell anyone about and that I can’t avoid any longer. And on top of it all, I’m so angry. With myself and with Brat.

  Actually, it’s all Brat’s fault.

  It was so busy this morning and the docudrama that’s going out tomorrow had to be re-edited before lunch. I’d told Brat that I was going down to the editing suite alone and not to disturb me, unless it was important.

  About an hour later, I was just finishing up when Eddie opened the door. ‘Any news from the lawyers?’ he asked. We’ve been waiting for a reply on a libel action for days. Typically, though, the lawyers are being slow.

  ‘Come in a sec,’ I said, gesturing him in. I was pleased he’d turned up, since I wanted his opinion on the final cut of the programme. Lianne was with him and she stood by the door, fiddling with the cuff of yet another new jacket, as I showed Eddie what I’d done.

  Absent-mindedly, I turned on the speaker phone as we scrolled through the rushes, Eddie leaning over me.

  ‘Has that fax come through?’ I asked Brat. I could hear him hastily rustling through papers.

  ‘Um. There’s only one here,’ he squelched through his chewing gum.

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘Um . . . Well, I think you should read it, it looks, kinda, well, sort of, important.’

  ‘Brat, I haven’t got time. Just read it, OK?’

  ‘But . . .’

  Eddie gestured to the screens and I stood up, letting him have my seat. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

  Eddie moved the phone away, so that he could put down his pad of paper to take some notes and I leaned over to turn up the speaker volume.

  ‘Dear H,’ began Brat. ‘Um. This is what it says, right . . . I’ve been trying to reach you . . . um . . . but you’re obviously busy . . .’

  ‘Come on,’ I called, pulling a face at the phone. Eddie smiled.

  ‘Um . . . um . . . I wanted you to hear it from me, but since you’re not returning my calls, this is the only way . . .’

  Eddie and I both looked at the phone ominously.

  ‘You were right,’ continued Brat, through the speaker. ‘Um . . . I was . . . I was having an affair with Lindsay . . . um . . . from work
and we’re . . . we’re getting married . . . I thought you should know . . .’

  Eddie cleared his throat noisily, but there was silence all around me as Brat trailed off.

  ‘It’s from Gav,’ he explained, unnecessarily. ‘That’s all that’s come through.’

  ‘Nothing from the lawyer, then?’ I said, as calmly as I could.

  ‘Wasn’t he your ex?’ asked Brat.

  I pounced on the phone and pressed the button to cut him off.

  ‘No news,’ I said to Eddie, challenging him not to comment as my cheeks burned up.

  ‘This seems fine,’ he said, pointing to the screen. ‘I’ll catch you later.’

  Lianne gave me a pitying grimace as she crept after Eddie through the door and closed it quietly after her.

  I slumped into the chair, feeling as if I’d been shot.

  Minutes later, the phone rang.

  ‘What?’ I barked.

  ‘Aren’t you going for lunch with your friends?’ asked Brat, in a pathetically sympathetic tone. ‘You’re going to be late.’

  I grunted and slammed down the phone.

  Outside, I raced around the corner to where the car was parked on a meter, crunching it in to reverse, jamming my foot down on the accelerator. Of course, I hadn’t looked. I doubt if it would have made any difference if I had. There was no way I could have missed it.

  The number 38.

  I get in late the next day. I haven’t really slept. At least, I don’t think I have. I cried long and hard for a while, but it’s hard sustaining serious weeping on your own. I started to feel childish and ridiculous, and so I stopped. Ever since, I’ve been in a weird twighlight zone of numbness.

  I sit for a while chain-smoking in my office, playing out pyschodramas in my head. They’re all to do with confronting Gav, but I can’t really connect with any of them. Anyway, they all trail off as soon as I see his face.

  At ten o’clock, Brat knocks on the door and brings me a cup of coffee.

  ‘I didn’t know, right,’ he starts, gormlessly, ‘that Eddie and that . . .’ he trails off, putting the coffee down on my desk, as if he’s poking something through the cage of a grouchy lion.