Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Harper 2015

Copyright © Lindsey Kelk 2015

Cover illustration © Bree Leman

Other images © Shutterstock.com

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Lindsey Kelk asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007582372

Ebook Edition © November 2015 ISBN: 9780007582389

Version: 2018-10-25

Dedication

#TeamJeff

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Lindsey Kelk

About the Publisher

Prologue
New Year’s Eve

Doesn’t everyone wish they could go back in time and change the past?

First, I’d do the world a favour and kill whoever invented the front-facing camera on the iPhone; second, I’d try to convince the parents of some of humanity’s worst offenders to use more advanced family planning methods; and third, I would never, ever have kissed that man.

Or possibly any men. Just to be safe.

It had been the most ridiculous six months on record, not only of my life but quite possibly ever. I wasn’t sure if there was a way to check against everyone else’s cockups but my list was pretty impressive as far as I was concerned. Yes, there had been a lot of fun parts. Hawaii, Milan, New York, Nick … but dear God, the mistakes I had made. And, as Amy always said, there was no ‘clear history’ button for your heart. Actually, Amy always said there was no clear history button for your vagina but still, the sentiment was the same.

But there I was, against all the odds, standing in a dressing room, wearing a dress I never thought I’d wear, minutes away from changing my life for good.

No pressure, then.

‘Is it too late to elope?’

The door to the dressing room cracked open and Kekipi slipped inside, smiling.

‘It might be,’ I replied, looking at myself in the enormous, three-paned mirror that almost took over the room. ‘I’ve got the frock on, you’re in a suit, all the guests are here. Probably going to have to go through with it.’

He took both of my hands in his and kissed me on the cheek. ‘Well, it’s so easy to get a divorce these days, I’m not too worried. Let’s be honest, I’m not actually sure it will be entirely legal in the first place.’

I managed a half-smile and nodded. ‘You, sir, make a very good point.’

‘You look beautiful, by the way, white is your colour.’ Kekipi reached out to brush one of my semi-tamed curls back behind my ear. ‘You get a pass.’

The curl he had tried to tether sprang back in front of my face and Kekipi rolled his eyes. The rest of my hair had been bullied into something like a bun, although there were so many curls involved it looked more like a Danish pastry gone wrong. I had to stop believing I could do something just because I’d seen it on YouTube. The hairdresser had given up after an hour and I really, really should have taken her advice and left it well alone.

‘I think you look very handsome,’ I said with a mini curtsey, ignoring my mullet. It was true, he did. His bronze skin shone and his hair, usually slightly wavy and a little bit wild, had been brushed into a very dapper side parting. ‘You should wear a suit more often. Especially one with so many sparkles.’

‘Love the sparkles, hate the suit,’ he confided, tugging at his stiff collar. ‘I still think this whole thing would have been much easier if we’d gone with my suggestion of a beach wedding.’

‘Well, bear with me.’ I held a finger up in front of my false eyelashes. ‘We could ditch these outfits, jump out the bathroom window and run away to Hawaii together?’

‘Tempting,’ Kekipi replied. ‘Very tempting.’

‘No one is running away anywhere without me,’ a sharp voice called out from behind the toilet door. ‘Do you know how long it took me to get her in that dress?’

‘How long?’ Kekipi whispered.

‘Too long,’ I replied, breathing in. ‘I should never have let her loose with corseting.’

Amy, my dresser, and my best friend, emerged from the toilet with a very serious pout on her face and a very silly unicorn T-shirt on her back. ‘I mean it,’ she said, a pair of jeans in her hand. The girl was so afraid of missing out on something she had run out of the bathroom, half-naked. ‘You’re going nowhere.’

‘And may I ask why you aren’t dressed yet, dearest Amy?’ Kekipi leaned in with a kiss for each of her pink cheeks, eyes averted from her pants. ‘I do believe the ceremony starts in fifteen minutes.’

‘I’m putting it on now,’ she muttered, eyeing me with defiance.

‘Ever since the hot Ribena and holy communion incident of 2001, Amy isn’t allowed to wear nice dresses for very long before an event,’ I explained as Kekipi watched a look pass between us. ‘Amy spills things.’

Kekipi blinked. ‘Say that again?’

‘AMY SPILLS THINGS,’ she repeated loudly. ‘I’m putting it on now. I can’t fuck it up in the next fifteen minutes, can I?’

I fought the urge to raise an eyebrow. As she had proved to everyone a million times in the last three months, Amy was not a child. Not that she was doing a much better job of passing as a grown-up than I was. I watched as she hunted around the bodice of the bridesmaid dress hanging on the back of the door with her tongue sticking out the side of her mouth, looking for the tiny covered zip. Eventually she found it, pulled it down – and leapt back as the entire dress fell to the floor in a silky puddle.

‘Tess?’

The door to the dressing room opened again and a tall, beautiful blonde, wearing the same dress Amy was attempting to gather up off the floor, peeked inside.

‘Are you in here?’

I held my breath.

‘We’re all in here,’ Kekipi replied before I could grab anything appropriately stabby. Could you bludgeon someone to death with a can of hairspray? Probably, if you were motivated enough. ‘Paige, you ravishing beast,’ he went on, ‘let me get a look at you.’

‘I was looking for you too!’ A shining smile lit up her anxious face for a moment as she became the latest recipient of Kekipi’s kisses. ‘I couldn’t find you out front – oh, you look fabulous.’

‘Oh, hello,’ Amy said across the room. Her stern tone might have carried more weight if she hadn’t been stood with her hands on her hips, wearing nothing but mismatched underwear and a frown. ‘What a lovely dress you’ve got on there – are you going somewhere nice?’

‘Amy,’ I said quietly, ‘don’t.’

Paige pressed her lips into a thin line and shuffled her shoulders. I kept my eyes on the floor.

‘Oh, the tension!’ Kekipi said, settling into an overstuffed armchair by the window to watch the show. ‘If you two were gay men, I’d send you into the bathroom to bone and get it over with.’

‘I don’t know what else to say, other than I’m sorry.’ She fussed with the full skirt of her dress. ‘I didn’t want to miss today.’

‘You’re such a twatfink,’ Amy said with a low growl. ‘Bros before hos, Sullivan.’

‘Are they Mr Men knickers?’ Paige asked, squinting over at Amy.

‘Yes, they are – what of it?’ Amy braced herself for a fight. ‘I swear, Sullivan, just give me a reason.’

‘Look, can we not?’ I jumped in between my friends, hoping the ridiculous whiteness of my dress might blind them both momentarily. ‘Paige, I don’t really know what to say. I was a bit worried you might not show up and I would have felt horrible.’

‘And I would have been furious at you messing up my Charlie’s Angels bridesmaid theme,’ Kekipi interjected.

‘I’ve been feeling horrible.’ Paige grabbed my hand and wrenched me across the floor into a hug I wasn’t ready for. ‘I should have talked to you, this really wasn’t how I wanted you to find out.’ I felt her arms tighten around me.

‘You’re both ridiculous.’ Amy threw herself into the group hug, burning rage beaten out by overwhelming FOMO. ‘Daft cows.’

Even though being the meat in a silk-and shiny-hair sandwich was wonderful, I still felt weird. So much had happened, so much had been said, and there was still so much to sort out.

Suddenly, the dressing room door slammed open, hitting the wall behind it and making everyone and everything in the room jump.

‘You shouldn’t be in here!’ Amy said, charging directly at the door and attempting to close it on Charlie’s bewildered face. But his six-foot-something versus her five-foot-nothing held its own quite nicely.

‘Charlie!’

My arms instinctively wrapped themselves around my body, I felt so vulnerable in my dress.

‘Charlie?’ Paige said, her perfect hair whipping back and forth between the door and me.

‘Charlie!’ Kekipi cheered, tucking into another chocolate chip cookie as we all turned to look at him. ‘Sorry, nothing to add, just didn’t want to be left out.’

‘I came to talk to you,’ Charlie started, eyes darting around the room while Amy recommitted to her Mighty Mouse efforts to knock him out of the room by charging directly at his midriff. He didn’t even flinch.

‘Me?’ I asked.

‘Tess?’ Paige asked.

Charlie nodded. He looked rumpled and rushed, his tie not quite straight, his hair all a mess.

‘Can I have five minutes?’ he said, stuffing his shirt down his trousers. Typical Charlie, never tucked in properly. ‘Just, want to explain everything. I’ve been a real tit.’

‘At last, I agree with somebody in this room,’ Amy said. She stood up and took a deep breath before renewing her efforts to shift Charlie out of her sight.

‘Thanks, Aims.’ He picked her up, one giant hand under each arm, and placed her gently outside the door and closed it firmly. ‘I want to explain before it all kicks off.’

‘You’ve got to do it now?’ I asked, my hands tucked underneath my armpits. The dress was so much more revealing than you’d have thought. ‘Really?’

‘It’s not brilliant timing, Charles,’ Kekipi agreed. ‘I’m fairly certain you’re not supposed to be in here right now.’

‘Let me in!’ Amy’s voice yelled from the hallway while she pounded on the door. Suddenly she stopped the pounding. ‘What are you doing here?’

The door began to open again and Charlie slammed it shut, or tried to, hitting something hard as he did so. But it wasn’t Amy trying to get back in – it was someone bigger and considerably stronger. It flew open again, this time with such force that it knocked Charlie off his already shaky balance, sending him across the room to crash onto the floor at my feet, cracking his head on a chair leg as he fell, a spray of blood slashing across the white silk skirt of my frock.

‘That’ll do, pig,’ Kekipi said, picking him up under the arms and dragging him away from my ruined dress. ‘That’ll do.’

‘Who slammed the fucking door in my face?’ Nick asked furiously, pressing the arm of his shirt to a bloody nose. ‘And why is Amy out there in her knickers?’

I felt sick and hot. I felt my heart race and my pants hurl themselves on the floor, right before my pride raced down to pull them back up and weld them to my lady parts. I felt everything and I felt completely numb.

‘Nick?’ I whispered.

‘Tess …’ he replied, his eyes travelling up and down my dress.

‘Charlie!’ Paige yelped.

‘Help me,’ Charlie whimpered, lying on the floor, staring at the stars only he could see on the ceiling.

So there I was, standing in the middle of an elegantly appointed dressing room in an exquisite Milanese palazzo, wearing a beautiful white dress that was now accented with a charming slash of blood, while one former lover lay concussed at my feet and another stared at me, bleeding, in the middle of the room, and one best friend choked back a surprised sob while the other was silently jumping up and down in her inside-out underwear, fists pressed to her mouth and eyes so wide I thought they might pop out of her head.

‘Oh my.’

I turned to see Al, resplendent in a gorgeous grey suit, surveying the scene from the hallway.

‘This looks to be a fantastic start to a wedding,’ he announced, walking in as a string quartet began to play somewhere in the distance. ‘Now, remind me, who’s walking who down the aisle again?’

CHAPTER ONE
Two and a half weeks earlier

‘OK, that’s it, you look amazing,’ I yelled as my friend Paige perched uncomfortably on a bench. ‘Don’t move, you’re a statue, you’re frozen.’

‘Frozen is right,’ Paige shouted back. ‘I am not comfortable, Tess.’

‘Are you trying to take photos while wearing ice skates?’ I shouted back, wobbling on the spot in the middle of the rink. ‘No, you’re not, so shut up.’

She raised a perfectly pencilled-in eyebrow in silent protest.

‘That still counts as moving,’ I replied. ‘So stop it.’

‘You know I hate having my photograph taken,’ she muttered as the Zamboni ice-resurfacing machine whirred quietly around the rink behind me. ‘How much longer is this going to take?’

Paige Sullivan was not only the art director at Belle, a super swanky fashion magazine, she was also one of the best human beings I had ever met. Knowing I was desperate to get more experience with my camera, she had called in favours and pulled so many strings that we had the entire Somerset House ice rink all to ourselves for a whole hour after her work Christmas party. She couldn’t get me into the actual party itself, but then she was only human. And not being allowed into the party didn’t mean I couldn’t show up early and steal snacks from the kitchen anyway.

‘And you know you’re my favourite model,’ I replied, pulling a mini mince pie out of my pocket and shoving it into my mouth when she looked away. ‘It’ll be over much faster if you stop moving.’

‘Stop moving, look softer, point your toe, tilt your chin,’ Paige grumbled. Even when she was sulking, she was still beautiful. ‘Are you all packed for the wedding of the century?’

‘Bags packed, ticket booked,’ I nodded. ‘Kekipi is so excited and I can’t believe he’s getting married.’

‘There’s someone for everyone,’ she said sagely. ‘Except for me and you, obviously.’

‘Obviously,’ I agreed. ‘I think it’s going to be incredible. Maybe we can pretend we’re getting married instead of playing bridesmaids. Though Kekipi and Domenico’s wedding is bound to be more impressive than anything I could pull together.’

‘I do feel a bit weird about it, though,’ Paige said, tilting her head upwards and catching the light perfectly. Whether she liked having her photo taken or not, she was a natural. ‘I barely even know Kekipi but he said he needed a blonde bridesmaid or he couldn’t fulfil his Charlie’s Angels fantasy.’

‘The bride wants what the bride wants.’ I snapped and my flash filled the rink with bright, white light. ‘And a custom-designed Bertie Bennett bridesmaid dress has got to be something of a sweetener for you?’

‘It doesn’t hurt,’ she said with a shrug. ‘And it’ll be fun. New Year is always such a let-down, attending the wedding of the year in Milan doesn’t sound like a bad way to spend it.’

Inching left with staccato steps, I tried another angle. Good God, she was pretty. The cow.

‘In all honesty, I thought it was a bit odd for him to ask us to be bridesmaids but, you know, I don’t think he knows that many people,’ I said, my ankles beginning to ache inside my slightly too tight skates. How long had we been out here? It only felt like a moment.

‘Obviously, he knows a lot of people but I don’t think he has that many friends. He and Al were holed up in that house in Hawaii for so many years he was practically bouncing off the walls every day in Milan. I can’t imagine what Amy’s putting up with in New York.’

‘I can’t imagine the two of them living together, I’d be hard pushed to say which one is more mental. Poor Al,’ Paige said with a shudder. ‘Are we nearly done? I’m freezing my jacksy off.’

‘And a fine jacksy it is too,’ I said, gazing at her through my viewfinder and forgetting how cold I was, how much my ankles hurt, and everything else that wasn’t the perfect picture. ‘Almost done. Two more minutes.’

London had decided to play nicely for the Belle Christmas party and the miserable, rainy weather that had been bothering the city all day had been replaced with a beautiful crisp, clear night sky. Paige, wrapped up in long scarves and fluffy mittens, looked like a winter fantasy dream girl and with the beautiful backdrop of Somerset House behind her and bright white ice shining below, it was like a Christmas card come to life.

‘Apart from bullying your friends into playing model, what else have you been up to since you got back?’ she asked, reaching up to pull her perfectly imperfect blonde fishtail plait over her shoulder. ‘I’ve hardly seen you.’

‘That’s because you keep cancelling on me to play with your fancy new fashion magazine friends,’ I pointed out. Paige had moved from Gloss to Belle while I was working in Milan and now it seemed like she never had time for anything but work. Her new job sounded just like The Devil Wears Prada only without so much eye candy or free Chanel accessories. ‘I’ve been working for this photographer, Ess? He’s doing a shoot for No-No mag and he needed a second assistant. Do you know him?’

Paige screwed up her face and gagged.

‘You have had the pleasure then.’

‘Repulsive little turd,’ she nodded. ‘But his photos are amazing. I’ve got him booked in for a celeb shoot in a couple of weeks.’

‘Really?’ I wobbled on my skates. ‘You’re using him at Belle?’

‘The editor loves him and all the celebs want to work with him,’ she nodded. ‘Otherwise, you know, I absolutely would have asked you if you were available.’

Personally, I thought his photos were cheap, overexposed and tacky but who was I to judge? It wasn’t as though I could do a better job. Oh wait, yes I could.

‘Oh, that’s not what I was getting at,’ I said, waving away her embarrassment. ‘I mean, I’d love to shoot for Belle, but really, I’m not loving assisting. Today I had to pretend to be a giraffe to give his model “inspiration”. Do you know what noise giraffes make? I didn’t. I had to google it.’

She frowned, flexing her cold fingers and blowing on them, just in case I hadn’t realized how cold she was.

‘Do giraffes even make a noise?’ she asked.

‘It sounds like an angry cow that’s being strangled,’ I said, wincing at the memory. ‘I think that’s the reason we don’t hear their dulcet tones all that often.’

‘I can’t even begin to imagine it.’ Paige wrinkled her tiny nose. ‘That sounds horrible.’

I let my camera hang around my neck and cleared my throat. ‘Yeah, it’s like, ngggghhhh—’

‘Tess!’ She cut me off loudly. ‘Dear God, woman, pull yourself together. This is why I can’t take you to nice places.’

‘Oh my God!’ I stared at her. ‘I’ve turned into Amy.’

‘Yeah, that’s a thing that’s happened,’ Paige said with sympathy in her voice, but not on her face. ‘Are you wearing her clothes?’

I looked down at the cropped black T-shirt emblazoned with a neon unicorn that was peeking out from underneath my skimpy black cardigan and accessorized with a strip of very white stomach, covered in goose bumps. I’d had to take my bulky coat off to shoot and I could barely feel my fingers any more. And Paige thought she was cold?

‘The T-shirt is hers,’ I agreed, making a mental note to do a load of washing as soon as I got in. ‘And the cardigan. When did this happen?’

‘Oh, doll,’ she sighed. ‘So long ago.’

There was a time when I would never have gone out on a Friday night looking like such a tramp. Admittedly, not much of a time since I had spent almost every Friday working late since I graduated six years ago, but still. I would have been in my casual Friday best and neon unicorns were definitely not covered by the office dress code.

‘How’s she getting on with Al?’ Paige asked. ‘Everyone is talking about the AJB presentation. It’s crazy.’

‘She seems OK,’ I said. ‘It’s hard to tell with Amy; she doesn’t really take things very seriously.’

‘A lot of fashion people were annoyed he’s launching at Christmas instead of at fashion week,’ she said, reapplying her lip gloss as she spoke. ‘The powers that be don’t like it when you don’t play by the rules.’

‘I don’t think he cares about the powers that be,’ I admitted. ‘When I last spoke to him, he said he was dead set on Christmas because it was his wife’s favourite time of year. Amy tried to convince him to show in Milan or Paris but he wasn’t having it.’

‘Must be nice to be so sure of yourself,’ Paige replied and I nodded in agreement. ‘So, other than working for a tosspot and swapping lives with your sartorially challenged best friend, what else has been going on with you? I’ve been so busy with work and Christmas parties and everything, I feel as though I haven’t seen anyone.’

‘Oh yeah, all those parties must be a nightmare,’ I said, trying to capture the white light of the fairy lights that decorated the giant Christmas tree as they bounced off her pointy chin. ‘You sound gutted.’

‘You know work parties are never that much fun,’ she argued. I zoomed in on her face and clicked as her pale cheeks flushed. ‘There are always a lot of events at this time of year and none of them entertaining. And the weather’s been awful. And there’s nothing on TV. And, you know, stuff.’

I hadn’t known Paige nearly as long as I’d known Amy but it didn’t matter. She was a terrible liar.

‘Paige Sullivan.’ I narrowed my brown eyes and zeroed in on her green ones. ‘Why are you babbling? What aren’t you telling me?’

‘Nothing, there’s nothing,’ she scoffed, her face glowing more brightly than Rudolph’s red nose. And since there was a twenty-five-foot illuminated version of everyone’s favourite reindeer right behind her, it wasn’t a difficult comparison to make. ‘Like, what are you even talking about?’

‘Oh, no way!’

Delighted, I clapped and immediately lost my balance, the skates sliding underneath me. I threw my arms to steady myself as she tried to cover up a quiet laugh.

‘There is something! Spill, immediately. You have to tell me, I’m brilliant at keeping secrets.’

‘You can’t even keep your own secrets,’ Paige pointed out. ‘Why on earth would I tell you anything?’

‘Fine, I’ll guess.’ I stared until I had her locked in uncomfortable eye contact. ‘New job?’

‘No, no and there’s nothing. I’m not keeping any secrets,’ she protested, looking anywhere but at me. ‘You know, you didn’t have to wear skates to go on the ice. You could have worn your trainers.’

‘Where’s the fun in that?’ I asked. ‘Oh my God, are you pregnant?’

‘Christ no!’ she yelped. ‘At least, I hope not.’

And then it was obvious. She was calmer than usual. She had only complained about her terrible luck with men once all night and she was wearing flats. Paige Sullivan. Art Director at Belle magazine. Out on a Friday night. In London. In flat shoes.

‘Oh!’ I threw my hands in the air, knocking myself off balance and landing on my arse with a hard bump. ‘You’ve got a boyfriend!’

At first she didn’t say anything, she just sat there, concentrating on her mittens and shaking her head, while smiling. ‘I haven’t,’ she said eventually. ‘I haven’t, Tess, honestly.’

‘You’re a filthy liar,’ I replied in a strangled voice, waiting for my breath to come back. Ow ow ow. Broken coccyx for Christmas, brilliant. Maybe, if I was really lucky, I could spend Kekipi’s wedding sitting on an inflatable doughnut. ‘And lies make Baby Jesus cry. Do you want to make Baby Jesus cry this close to his birthday?’

‘I don’t have a boyfriend,’ she insisted, pulling out the hair tie in the end of her plait and looking up to meet my eyes. I took this to mean the photoshoot was over. ‘God’s honest truth. I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Fine,’ I said, crawling over to the edge of the ice and taking her hand as she helped me up, my camera swinging wildly around my neck. ‘I won’t ask any more questions. I’ll just assume you’re secretly boning some wonderful man’s brains out on the sly and when you’re ready to talk to me about it, you will.’

I stared at her for a moment, holding her eyes before she looked away. She looked sad. Which made me sad. Which I did not care for.

‘Or I could have him killed?’ I offered. ‘The mood I’m in, I’d be very happy to do it.’

She considered it for a moment then shook her head. ‘We can let him live for now. I’m all right, Tess, I promise.’

‘Well, of course you are,’ I said as we flopped down on the bench next to the ice. I sucked up a sharp breath as my bruised bum bones hit the cold, hard stone. ‘That goes without saying; you’re amazing. Whatever’s going on, you know you can talk to me about it though, don’t you? Absolutely no judgement.’

‘I know,’ she nodded. ‘You’re a good friend. It’s all right though, there’s nothing to talk about.’

It couldn’t have been clearer that that was not the case. I wondered what it could be. Did they work together? Was he famous? Was he married?

‘What about you?’ Paige fingered a delicate gold chain around her neck and gave me a nudge. ‘You still haven’t—’

‘No.’ I cut her off before she could ask. If she didn’t want to answer my question, I certainly didn’t want to answer hers. ‘I haven’t.’

‘And he hasn’t?’

‘No.’ I shook my head firmly and turned on the screen on the back of my camera, flicking through the fruits of our photoshoot.

‘Tess,’ Paige said, pushing my camera down onto my lap. ‘Don’t you think it might be worth giving him a call? It’s been months.’

‘Nope,’ I replied swiftly. ‘For now, I think it’s best I pretend it never happened.’

‘If only it were that easy,’ she agreed. ‘Why hasn’t someone invented a pill for that yet?’

‘Because there aren’t enough women scientists yet,’ I replied. ‘The ones we do have are busy trying to cure terrible diseases while all the men scientists work on inventing vibrating razors with five blades. We’ll get there eventually.’

‘I hope it’s sooner rather than later,’ she said. ‘It’s only two months until fashion week in New York and I’ve got outfits to think about. All this man drama is taking up altogether too much brain space.’

‘Priorities,’ I agreed, resting my head on her shoulder and watching the Zamboni buzz quietly around the ice in a graceful figure of eight. ‘And that’s another reason why I haven’t called him. I can only deal with one massive brain drain at a time. At least it’s nearly Christmas.’

‘I’m thinking about getting really fat and then juicing for all of January,’ Paige said.

‘I’m definitely in for the first bit,’ I said, pulling Amy’s T-shirt down over my belly. ‘Might give the second bit a miss.’

‘Me too,’ she admitted. ‘Kale makes me retch. Maybe I shouldn’t plan on porking out this close to fashion week.’

‘Or you could always quit your job,’ I suggested, patting her knee while she shrugged, considering her options. ‘Let’s go and get a proper drink before my fingers fall off.’

‘Now you’re talking,’ said my model as she hopped off the bench and helped me untie my ice skates. ‘First round’s on me.’

Seriously, one of the best human beings I had ever met.

CHAPTER TWO

‘Jess, can you lift that reflector up, please?’

‘It’s Tess,’ I said, stretching my arms higher above my head, wobbling as I went. My arse was still killing me from the coccyx incident the night before and I did not feel steady on my feet in the slightest. ‘My name is Tess, actually. Sorry.’

Celebrated celebrity photographer extraordinaire Ess – no last name – took a moment to throw me a filthy look, then went back to staring at nothing through his viewfinder. I couldn’t really complain, it was the first time he’d looked me in the eye all day, having been far more interested in my tits ever since I’d arrived on set at 6 a.m.

I had been so excited when my agent got me the job with Ess. It was a real opportunity, she said. I’d learn so much, she said. So far, I’d made four cups of tea that hadn’t been drunk, been out on two coffee runs in the pouring rain and contorted myself into more uncomfortable positions than the average yoga instructor, all while holding an arm-breakingly huge reflector. And that was just today. The closest I had been to a camera all week was when Ess accidentally hit me in the arse with his while I was underneath a desk, plugging in the MacBook. This was not the hands-on training I’d been hoping for.

‘Jess, I need it higher. For Christ’s sake, woman!’

I closed my eyes, prayed to whoever would listen that I wouldn’t be spending Christmas with a broken leg to go with my bruised bum and pressed up onto my tiptoes, swaying back and forth.

‘Sorry,’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘Is this better?’

‘Not really. Doesn’t help that you’re waving it around like a fucking flag,’ he replied, snatching the camera away from his face and throwing it at his first assistant, a small, scared-looking bleached blond boy called 7. Not the word seven, the number seven. He had been quite clear about that. Never the word, always the number, he’d said defensively. ‘It’s supposed to be still. You’re supposed to reflect light. Do you even know how to stand still, Jess?’

‘Nope,’ I whispered before pasting on my brightest smile and holding my breath. ‘Any good?’

‘No. Get down and we’ll find something for you to do that isn’t as taxing as standing still,’ Ess said. He scratched his muttonchops and leered at my backside as I clambered off the stool he had balanced on the chair that stood on top of a suitcase. He did not offer to help. ‘Veronica said you were going to be good at this.’

It was delivered as a statement, no obvious question, no definitive inflection.

‘That’s nice,’ I said, tiptoeing across the all-white studio set-up. ‘And not at all like her.’

‘You doing her?’ he asked.

‘Sorry?’ I blinked.

‘Shagging her?’ he said.

‘No,’ I replied, shaking my head. ‘I don’t think so. Is she gay?’

‘She’s never tried it on with me,’ he said, shrugging as though that was an answer. ‘If you were good, you’d be able to hold up a reflector properly.’

He signalled for me to stand on the T-shaped mark 7 had created on the floor with duct tape. ‘Veronica isn’t usually wrong about people. You sure you’re not shagging her?’

‘I’m definitely not,’ I said, pulling the elastic from around my ponytail and securing as much of my curly copper hair as I could. ‘And I’m sorry if I’m not getting everything right straight away. I’ve never actually assisted before. I’ll get it, though, I promise. I’m sorry.’

It was as though I had apologetic Tourette’s. I couldn’t stop saying I was sorry even though an apology was not owed and unlikely to ever be deserved.

‘Oh, so you’re one of them,’ Ess said, eyes narrowing as a tight smile took over his bristly face. ‘You think you’re a real photographer so you’re too good to dirty your hands assisting me.’

‘Not at all,’ I replied quickly. ‘I mean, I am a real photographer but I don’t think I’m too good to assist you.’

I did though. I thought I was far too good but since no one had hired me to be a ‘real’ photographer for nearly three months, I didn’t have a lot of choice. It turned out that lucking into two jobs, no matter how brilliant they might have been, did not a career in photography make.

‘Yeah? You got lots of nice pictures of your dinner on Instagram, have you?’ he asked while 7 tittered in the background. ‘Maybe the odd cat? Few nice duckface selfies?’

‘No,’ I replied, tossing my head like an indignant pony. ‘I mean, yes, obviously, but not just that. I shot Bertie Bennett for Gloss magazine and I worked with him on the book he’s writing.’

‘Never heard of him.’ Ess dismissed my job of a lifetime without a second thought. ‘Gloss’ll be closed inside six months, mark my words. All those gash mags are going under.’

Apparently the look of horror on my face didn’t faze him one little bit.

‘Gash mags?’

‘Mags,’ he nodded, making a chopping motion with each word. ‘For gash.’

‘I’m not following,’ I replied. ‘Sorry.’

‘You,’ he pointed at me with a thick, unappealing finger, ‘are gash. Mags for you. Gash mags.’

Agent Veronica had warned me not to mess up this job. Those weren’t her exact words because Agent Veronica loved to swear like most people loved to breathe, so the whole exchange had been a lot more colourful than that but when she told me not to mess up, I just thought she was warning me not to be late or break anything. Dropping a camera seemed as though it would be considerably less damaging to my career than sprinting across the room and stabbing Ess through the heart with a biro.

‘Jess, are you with us?’ Ess snapped his fingers in front of my face and pointed at the mark on the floor. ‘I need to check lighting on this shot. You’re tall, well done. Get down on your hands and knees so I can see where to position the daft model tart when she finally shows up.’

Taking a short, sharp breath in, I reminded myself of how important this job was, of how much I wanted to get somewhere in my career. How this was all vital experience for my very light CV. Besides, what else was I going to do with my Saturday? I only had three episodes of Game of Thrones to watch and then I was completely caught up. After that, I was going to have to put myself into a medically induced coma until the new season started if I didn’t find something else to do.

‘Shall I just stay here?’ I asked, kneeling down and holding a hand over my eyes as 7 turned on the blinding studio lights, all aimed directly at my face. ‘Is this good?’

‘Look up at me,’ Ess directed, looking through his camera and edging closer to me. ‘Look right into the camera.’

‘I can’t really see it for the lights,’ I replied, blinking. ‘Am I looking at you? Can you see me?’

‘I can see you just fine, Jess,’ he said. ‘Now bend your elbows down a bit and look up. And stick your arse in the air.’

When Agent Veronica told me I was going to have to start at the bottom, I didn’t realize that meant I would have to start with my actual backside. Reluctantly, I did as I was told. Making my arse centre of attention went against everything that I was, I was worried that if I kept it up there any longer, planets would be drawn into its orbit.

‘God, it’s not easy, is it?’ I said. My arms were already shaking with the effort of holding the pose and the air conditioning whipped around the exposed strip of skin between my shirt and my jeans. Hello builder’s bum, farewell dignity.

‘Now open your mouth,’ Ess said, coming ever closer. ‘And stop blinking, look right at the camera like you want to suck it.’

I jolted backwards, backside crashing to the ground. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, can’t you be professional for one minute?’ He turned on his heel and threw the camera at a waiting 7. ‘I asked you to hold a pose for one minute and you’re giving me bleeding Naomi Campbell.’

‘No, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ I said, the words tumbling out of my mouth before I could think better of them. ‘I misunderstood. Where do you want me?’

‘On your knees, with your mouth open, waiting for me to come all over your face,’ he replied.

‘OK, yeah, sorry, no.’ I leapt to my feet, standing up and hitching my jeans back up over my backside, my face bright red. ‘That is totally not cool.’

Now I was standing up, and less than three feet away from him, it was clear that I was a good six inches taller than Ess, even in my Nikes. And with the righteous indignation jacking me up another foot, it felt as though I was towering over him.

‘You can’t say things like that to people,’ I said. My face was hot and my mouth was dry. ‘It’s not OK.’

‘It’s art, Jess,’ he said, hammering a fist into his hand as he spoke, his face even redder than mine. ‘It’s editorial. It’s a method. Didn’t you just say you were a real photographer?’

‘I am a real photographer,’ I stated as clear and loud as I could manage, while 7 skittered over to the computer, visibly shaking in his overpriced silver boots. ‘But I’m not going to sit there and let you talk to me like that. It’s horrible.’

‘It’s art,’ Ess repeated, not quite as sure of himself. ‘It’s my style. It’s why the magazine hired me and not you. It’s not like I’m really going to jizz all over your chops, is it? I’m just trying to make you look sexy – although clearly I’m fighting a losing battle on that front.’

‘It doesn’t feel sexy,’ I replied, flushed and upset. ‘It feels horrible. Why can’t 7 stand in for the lights? He’s exactly the same height as me and he’s probably skinnier. He looks more like a model than I do.’

Ess and 7 turned to look at each other and burst out laughing. True, hysterical, body-shaking guffaws.

‘Oh, Jess, he does, you’re right,’ Ess wiped away an actual tear. ‘That is priceless. I didn’t realize you were funny, I just thought you were shit.’

‘Do you think I might be able to set up some of the shots this afternoon?’ I asked. It had to be worth a try. ‘Or shadow you? Rather than, you know, just make the tea?’

The smile on his face evaporated in an instant.

‘Until you’re capable of making a drinkable brew, you’re on tea duty,’ he sniffed. ‘You don’t come within ten feet of my camera until I’ve decided you’re ready. Now go and get the kettle on before the model gets here.’

I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him he was a complete arsehole who didn’t deserve his job, his assistant or the air that he breathed. But I didn’t. I was broke, I was bunking down with my best mate and I needed the job. So I did what millions of women had done before me: shut my mouth and went to put the kettle on.

Tea soothed all ills. And failing all else, I could always piss in the teapot. That would probably make me feel a bit better.

‘And then he said he was going to jizz …’ I paused for effect while Agent Veronica stared at her laptop. ‘On my face.’

She looked up for a moment, fag hanging out of the corner of her heavily lipsticked mouth, her glasses hiccupping across her nose as she sniffed before turning her attention back to her computer.

‘And?’

‘Well, he can’t say things like that to me!’ I exclaimed before squeezing my eyebrows together with concern. ‘Can he?’

‘He can say whatever he wants as long as people keep hiring him,’ she replied. ‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Yes,’ I said, dropping my bag on the floor and my arse into a chair. I’d been too incensed to sit until now but her non-reaction had taken the rage right out of me.

‘What the fucking fuck is wrong with you?’

My arms froze in mid-air as I tightened my ponytail.

‘What’s wrong with me? Seriously?’

‘It’s got to be something,’ Agent Veronica said, stubbing out her cigarette and immediately lighting another. ‘Because I can’t think of a single reason why you’d be in here, complaining to me about working with one of the best fucking photographers in London.’

‘Because he said he wanted me to look at him as though he was going to jizz—’ I started.

‘Yeah, we covered that,’ Agent Veronica cut me off before I could finish. ‘It doesn’t get funnier the more you say it. Actually, it does, but I digress. What are you complaining about?’

I was stunned. In my old job, people were sent to HR for as much as showing an ankle to a chimney sweep and we worked in advertising, an industry that saw itself portrayed as a misogynistic, glass-ceilinged nightmare on Mad Men and thought, nope, that’s not sexist enough.

‘I felt uncomfortable,’ I said, trying not to choke on her cigarette smoke. ‘I didn’t like it.’

‘Oh, I am sorry,’ she replied, pressing her hands to her heart, a look of faux concern on her face. ‘My precious little baby angel! Did that bad man upset you? Did he hurt your feelings?’

I pouted. ‘Yes.’

‘There there.’ She reached across the table and patted me on the head. ‘Now calm down. Did he actually come on your actual face? No, he didn’t.’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ I muttered, beginning to feel stupid. And hungry. Terrible combo. ‘It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t be able to say things like that.’

‘No, he shouldn’t but welcome to the world.’ Veronica sat back in her chair, blinking through the fug of smoke around her, and shook her head. ‘Do you want to be a fucking photographer, Tess?’

Six weeks ago, when I left Milan and arrived home, bright and shiny, full of ambition and pasta, I had been fairly certain that I was one. Apparently I had been mistaken.

‘Yes,’ I said hesitantly.

‘Do you want to book actual fucking jobs that pay actual fucking money?’

‘Yes,’ I said quickly. That one I was sure about.

‘Then, I hate to be the one to tell you but there’s worse coming your way than Simon fucking Derrick telling you to get on your knees and make kissy faces at his tiny knob,’ she sighed. ‘You should have told him to whip it out and then pissed yourself laughing.’

‘Simon?’ I asked, the first smile I’d managed all day creeping onto my face. ‘His name is Simon?’

‘What? Did you really fucking well think his Mancunian mother took him down the swimming baths and shouted “What a fucking brilliant backstroke, Ess!”?’ She took a drag and blew it out hard. ‘I’ve had him on the books since he was taking pictures for the Argos catalogue. And they were shite.’

I would have killed to shoot the Argos catalogue.

‘And 7?’ I asked.

‘You mean Colin?’ Agent Veronica grabbed her mouse and began clicking manically. ‘Little shagweed. Went to Eton, daddy owns half the internet. I hate that child.’

‘It’s harder than I thought it was going to be, that’s all,’ I admitted, scratching at a blob of white paint on the knee of my jeans.

‘There’s nothing easy about breaking through as a photographer, Brookes,’ she replied. ‘It takes some people years. Early starts, late finishes, working weekends, hours spent photoshopping some wanker’s sausage fingers so he doesn’t look like the smackhead that he is on the cover of a magazine. And that’s when you get good enough to pick up that sort of job. Have you considered that maybe it’s not for you?’

I felt my mouth fall open and immediately choked on Agent Veronica’s cigarette smoke.

‘It is for me!’ I said, my eyes stinging from the same smoke. The air in her office was so dense with thick white fug, it could have passed for the set of a Bananarama video. ‘It definitely is. I’ll put in the hours, I don’t care about hard work, I’ll do whatever it takes.’

‘And that’s a fandabidozi attitude, Pollyanna, but it doesn’t mean it’s going to happen for you.’ She stubbed out her cigarette and immediately lit another. ‘It might be time to admit that I was a bit bloody ambitious in taking you on. I don’t really work with assistants, Brookes. I’m an agent, not a charity. Do you think I’m at work on a Saturday afternoon for fun?’

‘But I won’t be assisting for long,’ I protested, swiping at my watering eyes, desperate to convince her to let me stay. ‘I’m going to be booking shoots really soon, I promise.’

‘That’s not your decision to make though, is it?’ she grimaced, eyes flickering back and forth over emails I couldn’t see. ‘I’ve had you on the books near enough six months and you’ve booked two jobs for the same person. I can’t babysit you for another six. There are only so many bleeding hours in a bleeding day and, no offence, but I need to concentrate on clients who are bringing in money.’

‘But I will,’ I said again. ‘I just need time.’

‘News-fucking-flash.’ Veronica spoke in between intense inhalations. ‘No one knows who you are, no one’s worked with you, no one gives two shits. I know it’s nearly Christmas but it’d be a bigger miracle than the virgin sodding birth for me to get you another job like the one you blagged at Gloss.’

I opened my mouth to speak but she cut me off with a stab of her cigarette.

‘And you’ve got a dubious reputation at best, depending on who you ask.’

A dubious reputation? I was clean as a whistle. I’d won the attendance prize in school every single year, apart from that one time when Amy made us bunk off to meet Justin Timberlake but that was hardly my fault. If I hadn’t gone, she would have been arrested. Instead of just being cautioned.

‘Word gets around in this industry,’ Agent Veronica said, seeing the confusion on my face. ‘And your cuntychops former flatmate has made it her business to make sure everyone has heard her side of the story.’

Oh, bollocks. Vanessa. Honestly, you steal someone’s job, their identity and let your best friend punch them in the tit once and you never hear the end of it.

‘That said, I like you, Brookes.’

She had a funny way of showing it.

‘I’d hate to see the way you talk to someone you didn’t like,’ I said behind a cough. ‘But thank you.’

‘You’ve got balls and I respect that,’ she went on, ignoring me as usual. Agent Veronica only really listened when you were saying something she wanted to hear. ‘But you’ve got to get used to throwing those fucking balls around a bit. Do you understand me?’

‘You want me to throw my balls around?’

‘You’re not going to get anywhere mincing around and fucking well sulking in corners.’ She pointed at me with her cigarette, causing a mini flurry of ash to fall into her keyboard. ‘And you’re not going to get anywhere crying to me about some arsehole asking you to polish his knob.’

‘That’s not going to be a regular occurrence, is it?’ I asked, genuinely at a loss. I came from a world where you worked hard and you got ahead. Or at least, I thought I did. It turned out I’d been very naïve. ‘I mean, tell me what to do and I’ll do it.’

‘That’s more like it.’ She sucked her second cigarette into nothing, grinding it out in her ashtray with what I supposed passed for a smile. ‘I want you to go home, put your big boy trousers on and go back on set tomorrow and kick Simon Derrick’s arse. That doesn’t mean you have to take his shit: that means you stand up for yourself and be amazing. Yes?’

‘What else can I do?’ I asked, trying to change the subject before she knocked me out with a single punch. ‘I’ll do anything, really, I’m not afraid of hard work.’

‘How about you take some fucking photos?’ she suggested. ‘Cocking revolutionary idea, I know. I can’t carry you much longer, Brookes, not when you’re not booking jobs. I don’t have the time to spend pulling assisting gigs that pay a pittance out of my wonderful arse.’

‘I’ll give that a try then,’ I said, grabbing my bag from the floor. It didn’t seem like the time to mention that she still took 15 per cent of that pittance. ‘Thanks for the advice, I won’t let you down.’

Before I could open the door, a tennis ball thwacked the wall, right next to my head. Bending down slowly, my heart in my mouth, I turned around to see Agent Veronica staring at me.

‘You dropped this?’ I picked up the ball and held it in the air, heart pounding.

She clapped for me to chuck it back. With a feeble underhand throw, I tossed it across the office, missing Veronica by a good two feet and knocking a massive stack of invoices off the desk.

‘I’m not really a thrower,’ I explained as they fluttered to the floor.

‘Do your research.’ She spoke to me without acknowledging the piles and piles of paper all over her floor. ‘Never have that camera out of your hands, shoot everyone and everything and make the most of every opportunity that comes your way. If you want this, you’re going to have to fight for it. It’s not going to be handed to you on a plate.’

‘I can fight,’ I replied, clenching my hands into fists. ‘I want this. I really want this.’

‘If you don’t book something in the next month, I’m going to have to drop you and then you’ll see how hard this really is. I want to see those balls, Brookes,’ she barked. ‘Show everyone who you are. You’re not Tess the shitty, sad office girl any more, you’re Tess Brookes, photographer, and a photographer should have something to say, should have a message. Show me what that is, who you are. Got it?’

‘Got it,’ I confirmed as I closed the door behind me. ‘Swing my balls around and show everyone who I am.’

It sounded easy. Only … I wasn’t entirely sure who I was any more.

CHAPTER THREE

‘And then Veronica said she was going to drop me if I didn’t start booking jobs,’ I said, shovelling salt and vinegar Pringles into my mouth by the handful. Damn Tesco and their seasonal three-for-two offers. Damn the woman on the checkout who asked if I was going to a party. There was absolutely nothing wrong with a twenty-seven-year-old woman eating two tubs of Pringles for dinner and saving one for dessert.

‘No way!’ Amy bellowed, the speakers on my laptop crackling with outrage during our daily Skype call. ‘She did not? She can’t do that, can she? She can’t fire you?’

‘She can,’ I replied, exhausted, glancing down at all the pieces of paper and empty Pringle tubs around me. ‘And she might. Looking at it from a business perspective, she probably should. She’s investing a lot of time in me and I’m not bringing much money in. My ROI is terrible and—’

Amy clapped her hands together and I snapped back to the camera.

‘Tess, please tell me you haven’t worked out the return on investment on yourself.’

‘No,’ I replied, slowly pushing my pad and calculator out of view of the webcam. ‘Of course not.’

‘She can’t drop you, you’re just starting out,’ she said, glancing away at her phone for a second. ‘You’re hardly going to be David Bailey overnight, are you? It’s not fair.’

‘It’s not about fair,’ I told her. ‘It’s about what’s best for business. Also, there’s a small chance I did think I would be David Bailey overnight. I suppose things don’t work out like that though, do they? I just don’t want her to give up on me.’

‘I don’t want you to give up on you,’ Amy corrected. ‘It’s a minor setback, that’s all. You’re killing it. You’re better than David Bailey. Fitter than him anyway … although I don’t think I’ve actually ever seen one of his photos. Or a photo of him. Is he fit?’

‘I appreciate that but it would be a massive setback,’ I said. ‘I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing, I wouldn’t even know where to start.’

But I was trying. The bed was covered in magazines and newspapers, every publication I could get my hands on lay open on top of the duvet, the name of every art director, picture desk and photo editor in London highlighted with neon-yellow marker pen. I was down but I was not out. Not yet.

‘You’ll work it out,’ Amy replied, her attention drifting. ‘You always do.’

‘Is everything all right? Do you need to go?’ I asked as she frowned at her phone again. ‘It’s OK if you do.’

‘Sorry.’ She threw her phone backwards onto the bed behind her and I winced as it bounced twice and then hit the floor. ‘I am listening, I’ve just got loads of emails coming in. This presentation is going to kill me.’

Amy was in New York to launch Al’s brand-new fashion line, AJB, and, from what I could gather, it was going to be quite the event.

‘If Kekipi doesn’t first,’ I replied. ‘How are you going to grow your hair to waterfall-plait length in the next three weeks?’

Amy, Paige and I had received emails in the middle of the night, detailing our mandatory bridesmaid prep regime. I loved that man like a brother, but there was no way on God’s green earth that I was booking myself in for a full body wax prior to my dress fitting. Yes, my legs needed shaving, but it wasn’t like I was rocking a full tache, I thought, absently stroking my face.

‘He’s taking me to get fitted for extensions tomorrow,’ she said, fingering her messy black pixie cut. ‘Or at least he thinks he is. Anyway, less about Kekipi Kardashian and more about this job you’re on. You didn’t get a facial and the photographer is a sexist wankpaddle who isn’t fit to wipe his arse with your negatives. What happened then?’

‘Oh, don’t worry about it, it doesn’t matter, I should let you go.’

As much as I missed Amy, I was keen to get back to my project. I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I’d found the contact details of every possible person who could hire me and worked out how to bribe them into hiring me. I had to show Agent Veronica I was a good bet. ‘I haven’t had dinner or anything yet, I’m starving to death.’

‘There should be some spaghetti hoops in the kitchen cupboard,’ she said with a nostalgic smile. ‘God, I’d take your arm off for some hoops on toast right now. Bread here is shit. What’s that all about?’

‘Where are you going for dinner tonight?’ I asked, hoping to distract her. I’d been living in her house for six weeks. The hoops were long gone. ‘Somewhere amazing?’

‘Everywhere here is amazing.’ She puffed out her cheeks and slapped her belly. ‘I’ve put on about a stone. Honestly, Tess, the food in New York – I want to eat everything. I am eating everything. You might as well burn all my clothes because they’re going to have to roll me home when I’m done.’

‘Sounds awful,’ I said, forcing a smile. ‘Speaking of home, any idea when you’ll be back? Still looking at flying on Christmas Eve?’

Amy scrunched up her face and shook her head.

‘Not sure,’ she said. ‘We’re here until the presentation on the twenty-third obvs and then Al said something about going to Hawaii to work on some new concepts before we go to Milan. He wants to go through some of Jane’s notebooks he’s got back at the house. I’d probably have to go with him – the time difference between London and Hawaii is mental and we’d never get anything approved in time.’

Al, AKA Bertie Bennett, AKA fashion industry legend, Amy’s new boss and one of my favourite people in the world, lived in Hawaii, which was where he and I had met. It was also where I had met another person who, for the time being, would remain nameless, lest I felt the urge to carve out my heart with a rusty spoon.

‘Hawaii is amazing,’ I mooned, eyes full of pineapples and palm trees. ‘You’ll love it, Aims.’

‘I know, I really want to go,’ Amy said, gurning like a mad woman. ‘And imagine Hawaii at Christmas. Wouldn’t that be amazing? I wonder if they still have Christmas trees. Shit, what if they don’t have Brussels sprouts? I hate them, obviously, but you’ve got to have them.’

Wuh?

‘You’re going for Christmas?’ I squeaked far too quickly, finally understanding what she was saying. ‘You’re not coming home?’

The last few months had been hard work but every time I’d walked past a shop window full of brightly wrapped presents I couldn’t afford or attempted to ignore drunk people wearing reindeer antlers on the Tube, I remembered that soon Amy would be home for Christmas and everything would be OK.

‘I want to come home,’ she replied, not quite quickly enough. ‘I probably will. But I may not be able to, Tess, and I know you of all people understand how sometimes work has to come first, even if I can’t quite believe I’m saying that.’

I hated it when my dedication to a cause came back to bite me in the arse.

‘Of course I do,’ I said, trying not to pout. Amy hadn’t held down a job for more than weeks at a time in years and working for Al was an incredible opportunity. I was so happy for her. And only the tiniest possible bit envious. ‘I miss you, that’s all. I can’t believe you’re in New York and I’m stuck here. I’m so jealous. But don’t worry about it, it’s fine.’

I couldn’t imagine getting through Christmas Day without my best friend. We’d spent it together every year for as long as I could remember, from being tiny tots skipping down to church with our families, right through to sneaking out while everyone was in a post-turkey coma and necking Baileys out of the bottle by the village pond. That tradition had lasted much longer than going to church ever did.

‘Christmas is still ages away,’ Amy added when I didn’t paste on my fake smile fast enough. ‘We’ll work something out.’

There wasn’t a woman alive who didn’t know that ‘fine’ never really meant ‘fine’. A man, maybe, but a woman? No way.

‘It’s only nine days away,’ I said, checking my half-eaten chocolate advent calendar as the terrifying prospect of having to spend the day alone with my family reared its ugly head. Nope, not worth thinking about.

‘Loads can happen in nine days, Tess,’ she replied, messing with her hair again. It had got so much longer since I’d left Milan that her shaggy fringe hung low over her big blue eyes. She looked gorgeous. ‘Don’t stress about it.’

‘I won’t stress about it,’ I echoed, stressing. ‘So, you’re busy even today then?’

‘I am. I’m busy every day. It’s mental,’ she said, eyes flicking up towards the top of my screen. ‘Cockmonkeys, is that really the time? Tess, I’ve got to go, I’m late.’

‘You’re always late,’ I reminded her. ‘It’s one of those wonderful annoying things I’ve come to love about you.’

‘I’m only late, like, half the time now,’ she said proudly. ‘I am the all-new and improved Amy Smith. Well, 50 per cent improved. Call you tomorrow?’

‘Of course,’ I said, giving her a swift salute. ‘Now, go on, before you’re any later.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Amy brushed at her hair one last time and blew a kiss into the camera. ‘Love you, skankface.’

‘Love you too,’ I said, waving before my best friend disappeared and the screen went blue.

My cheery smile faded. The suggestion that Amy wouldn’t be home for Christmas was worse news than the prospect of getting dropped by Agent Veronica. It was worse than my black-and-blue backside and Paige not telling me what was going on with her love life and never talking to Charlie any more, and it was almost worse than the fact I hadn’t heard from Nick Miller in nearly five months.

‘I’m pleased for her, I am,’ I said, stepping into the not-really-hot-enough bathwater fifteen minutes later. ‘It’s amazing, she deserves it.’

The rubber duck sat on the edge of the bath and eyed me with suspicion.

‘Don’t look at me like that.’ I shuffled around until I was somewhere near comfortable and tried not to knock a crusty looking bottle of Head & Shoulders off the side of the bath with my massive copper-coloured topknot. ‘She does deserve it.’

He still didn’t say anything.

‘I mean, yeah, I suppose if I really tried, I could be a bit annoyed that she’s never kept a job for more than three months and now she’s running all over the world with Al.’ I shrugged. ‘And she’s having this amazing adventure while I’m making tea and holding lights and letting a man pretend to ejaculate on my face but, you know, whatever.’

The duck wrinkled his rubber bill and I knocked him into the bath.

‘I hate you,’ I said, holding my breath and sinking underneath the bubbles, but there he was, all judgemental painted-on eyes, when I re-emerged.

‘I’m not jealous,’ I told him/myself. ‘She’s had so many shit jobs, this is amazing for her.’

‘Remember that time she got fired from the dog walking service for bringing the wrong dog back from the park?’ he asked.

‘I do,’ I admitted.

‘She took a Great Dane out and brought a Labrador home.’

‘She did,’ I admitted. ‘The owners weren’t that happy.’

And now she was more or less running the show at Bertie Bennett’s new label. My friend, Amy, working for my friend, Al. He was fashion royalty and she was a woman who couldn’t get a second interview at Topshop because she laughed when they told her she’d have to work Saturdays and every other Sunday.

The duck still looked sceptical.

‘She likes to have her weekends free,’ I mumbled. ‘But I think it’s nice that she’s finally found something she loves.’

Silence.

‘Maybe we could brainstorm some ideas that would help me, that might be more productive?’ I suggested, poking my toes up out of the water.

‘One, you could assume your flatmate’s identity and run away to Hawaii to shoot a feature for a fashion magazine,’ he suggested.

I gave him a level stare and said nothing.

‘Oh right,’ he said. ‘You’ve done that already. Two, go to Milan and shoot a retrospective of Bertie Bennett’s fashion archives and document the creation of his first designer collection.’

‘Come to think of it, that sounds familiar as well,’ I said. ‘What do you want me to say? Stop sulking, accept the photography isn’t working out, be a grown-up and get a proper job?’

The duck gave me the beady eye.

‘Or four,’ I finished. ‘Drop a little rubber duck into the toilet and wait for one of Amy’s flatmates to flush him?’

Before he could reply, the handle on the bathroom door began to jerk up and down.

‘There’s someone in here!’ I yelled, sloshing around in the bath water. The door was only held shut with one rusty old bolt and I wasn’t convinced it would hold.

‘What?’ a male voice shouted on the other side.

‘I said there’s someone in here!’ I shouted back.

Why would you keep trying the door when someone was clearly inside? Amy lived with idiots. Correction, Amy lived with Al and Kekipi in amazing houses and hotels all over the world. I lived with idiots.

‘Are you going to be long?’ the voice called.

‘As long as it takes for the hot water to come back on,’ I called back, trying the tap with my toe. Still freezing. ‘I need to wash my hair.’

And washing my ridiculous mop required enough water to cause a hosepipe ban in the Home Counties.

A loud sigh rattled through the wooden door. ‘I’ll have to have a shit downstairs then.’

I made a sour face at the duck and waited for the disgruntled footsteps to fade away.

‘I’m so glad I decided to take Amy up on her offer of a place to stay,’ I said to the duck. ‘I’m having such a wonderful time here.’

The duck sailed past my kneecap with a quirk of his little plastic eyebrows that suggested I could have come up with other options.

‘Maybe we could pack up and go and stay with Charlie?’ I suggested.

The duck gave me a death stare. He and Amy both had Charlie Wilder at the top of their shitlists.

‘Oh, wait. We can’t, he hates me.’ I paused. ‘So you can stop looking at me like that or we’re off up north to live with my mother.’

As much as I missed Amy, I knew she had to come home sooner or later. It was nothing compared to how much of a gaping hole Charlie had left in my life. He was the third member of our squad but even I had to admit I could understand why he wasn’t busting my door down to be best friends forever.

I’d been nursing a crush on Charlie Wilder since the first day of university and when it seemed as though we had finally found a way to be together, we managed to cock it all up. Him by sleeping with my former flatmate behind my back and me by falling in love with the worst man alive. And the more I thought about it, the less sense it made.

The duck gave a reassuring quack and floated back down towards the taps.

The hardest part was having absolutely no idea what was going on in his life. We used to talk or see each other almost every day, but after an ill-fated trip to Italy earlier this year, when Amy and I were out there with Al, he had blocked the pair of us from all forms of social media. No status updates, no tweets, no Instagrams, Snapchats, Vibers, WhatsApps or even so much as a Periscope update to give me a clue as to what was going on in his life. When someone declares their undying love and then you declare your undying love to someone else, a freeze out is to be expected. I’d stopped trying to talk to him after thirty-six unanswered text messages.

I missed Charlie. I missed Amy. I missed the certainties and straightforwardness of my old life.

The handle jerked into life again, the bathroom door rattling on its hinges.

‘I’m still in here!’ I yelled. ‘I’m in the bath!’

I missed being able to have a bloody bath in peace.

‘There’s no bog roll downstairs,’ the man’s voice bellowed through the door. ‘Can you chuck us some out?’

I looked over to see one sad piece of toilet paper fluttering from the draft that blew in around the warped wooden bathroom window frame.

‘There’s none in here, either,’ I shouted back. ‘Sorry.’

‘F’king hell,’ the voice grumbled outside the door. ‘What am I supposed to do, wipe my arse with my hand?’

I gave the duck a desperate look.

‘First things first,’ I muttered. ‘Let’s get out of here ASAP.’

The duck’s buoyant bob seemed to suggest he agreed. As soon as possible. If not sooner.

An hour later, I was safely wrapped up in Amy’s giant bed, in Amy’s tiny bedroom, holding a letter in my wrinkled fingers. It was one hundred and thirty-six days since I had been given this note. One hundred and thirty-six days since I had opened the envelope and seen his handwriting for the first time. It was something I’d never thought about before, his handwriting. Between emails and texts, I hardly ever saw anything written down these days, but as soon as I saw this, I knew it was from him.

My handwriting had always been flagged as an area for improvement in school, and now that I hardly ever so much as picked up a pen, it was a disgrace. Nick’s handwriting was perfect, of course. Elegant, joined up, and entirely sure of itself. His beautiful, heartbreaking words, etched into a page he had torn from the expensive leatherbound notebook he carried around with him and then hidden away in my passport for one hundred and thirty-six days.

Dear Tess,

I told you I didn’t know if I could do this and it turns out that I can’t.

I’ve been thinking about it all week and I just can’t see another way. Even if you hadn’t left, I still would have been on a plane to New York in the morning – you gave me a coward’s way out. Don’t think this is your fault.

I’d been fooling myself into thinking this was fun and easy and that I could do it but there’s nothing fun and easy about the way I feel. Everything you said last night was incredible. I love you so much, my bones ache. You, Tess, are spectacular and everyone should be so lucky to have you in their corner but I’m not ready for you and it’s not fair.

I could stay and we could keep playing this game but eventually, I’d hurt you one too many times and you would put up with so much before that happened, so I’m saving us both the heartache by leaving now, before I turn you into me.

You deserve better. I want to be better.

All my love,

Nick

Given how fast and how fiercely I had fallen in love with him, I only realized after he left that I really didn’t know all that much about Nick Miller.

The fact I’d never seen his handwriting until he wrote this letter should have been the least of my worries but, looking at it now, it was all I could think of. Before the tears could start, I folded the note along its one crease, once sharp, now so soft I worried it would tear in two from being opened and closed so very many times, and tucked it back inside my passport, back underneath my pillow.

Maybe I didn’t know that much about him but what I did know was how much I missed him. I missed the sound of his voice when he laughed and when he said my name. I missed the little growling noise he made before he ate. I missed the way he would kiss the top of my head before I fell asleep and how he let me put my cold feet on his warm legs in bed and how he always laughed at his own terrible jokes and how he made me feel brave and proud and utterly myself. Ever since he’d called things off, it was as though someone had taken all of that away and no matter how hard I looked, how determined I was to work these things out for myself, I could not find the answers. I didn’t want to need him like this but I did want him to need me. It was all so confusing.

It turned out I could lie to myself about a lot of things if I thought they were for the greater good. I could tell myself that Charlie would forgive me and that we would be friends again. I was happy to pretend I wasn’t at all jealous of Amy’s sudden success and I almost believed it when I told people I didn’t regret walking away from a career in advertising to make cups of tea and sweep up studios but I couldn’t keep telling myself stories about Nick any more.

We had spent two weeks together and one hundred and thirty-six days apart. He hadn’t called, he hadn’t written, but then neither had I. Every time I opened my inbox, I looked for his name; every time my phone rang, the split second before I saw who was calling, I hoped it would be him. The fact he hadn’t even tried to speak to me since he left me in Milan was the reason I found it so hard to fall asleep every night but the thought of calling him and having him tell me he didn’t want me and never really loved me? That was the thing that woke me up in a cold sweat. I wasn’t lying when I told Paige I hadn’t contacted Nick because I wanted to concentrate on work but I wasn’t telling the whole truth either. I’d lost Charlie’s trust and friendship, my career was in shambles, Amy was thousands of miles away and only moving further from me, but with Nick’s letter safely under my pillow, and the tiniest spark of hope that we could still be together one day, that I could get back the things I had lost, I got to keep something.

When anxiety woke me in the middle of the night, it was the memories that lulled me back to sleep. I let myself remember the time we walked through Milan, hand in hand. The time we kissed in the square in front of the opera house. The look on his face when I told him that I loved him. I indulged in our days in Hawaii, swimming in the waterfall, sitting on the beach at sunset. The memories I kept locked away, day in and day out because, in the middle of the night, they felt like a warm blanket pulled right up to my chin on the coldest of nights but in the daytime, they were blinding. A constant reminder of what I no longer had.

It was easy to believe in dreams at night but the tiny spark of hope that I carried around all day was starting to burn my fingers. Something was going to have to change.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘You sound a lot happier today,’ Amy said. ‘Way less like you’re going to kill someone.’

‘I do feel a bit less homicidal,’ I replied, running to the underground station to avoid the sudden shower that had started the second I left the studio. ‘Today is definitely an improvement.’

‘I can’t believe you’re working on a Sunday,’ she clucked, disgusted. ‘You know how I feel about that.’

‘I do but lots of people work weekends and the world doesn’t end. Actually, it would be more likely to end if they didn’t. Anyway, I’ve only got today and Monday left with the lovely Ess, I think I can manage that.’

I thought I could, I wasn’t absolutely certain.

‘Then I ought to get this out the way while you’re in what passes for a good mood,’ Amy said. ‘I’m definitely not going to be home for Christmas.’

‘Oh.’

‘Obviously it would have been better if Kekipi wasn’t dead set on this bloody New Year’s Eve wedding but he’s been such a bridezilla about the whole thing and Domenico was insistent that they had to get married in Italy and we could only get the Park Avenue Armory on the twenty-third so we were kind of stuck with all the dates.’

‘Oh.’

‘Between the presentation on the twenty-third and flying to Milan for the New Year’s wedding, going anywhere else in between is just impossible – I’ll have so much to clear up on Christmas Eve and Boxing Day. You know they only take Christmas Day as holiday here?’

‘Makes sense.’

I wondered whether or not I still had the receipt for her Christmas present so I could take it back and swap it for a sackful of coal.

‘I completely understand.’

‘But here’s what I was thinking …’ Amy was still talking, the strain in her voice breaking into a familiar giddiness. ‘You should come here!’

‘To New York?’

‘To New York!’ Amy confirmed. ‘It would be amazing. I miss you so much and Al and Kekipi would love for you to be here at Christmas. God knows how I’ve managed this long without you, so please come? I need you!’

‘No you don’t,’ I replied. ‘You’ve done everything by yourself so far. You’re going to be fine.’

I looked up at a snowman hanging from the telephone pole above me. His big white bum shone yellow in the smog but the bulbs had gone in his top half and nobody had bothered to replace them. His cheery grin and corncob pipe were lost in the drizzle and the whole effect was really rather sad.

‘All right, I might not need you but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t come,’ she replied. ‘I want you there. I want you to see the presentation – we’re using your photos and I know you got an invitation – and take me for drinks when I’m crowing on about how amazing I am to anyone who will listen. Tess, Christmas in New York – you know you want to.’

I did. Amy knew I’d always wanted to go to New York but I’d never had the time, Amy could never afford it and Charlie hated to fly, so year after year, it had passed me by. But New York for Christmas … I had a sudden vision of myself, wrapped up in a cosy coat, mitten in mitten with Amy, buzzed on good cocktails, laughing with Kekipi and getting a grandfatherly hug from Al.

God, it was tempting. It would definitely be better than curling up on the settee with my family, drinking five cups of tea and putting away an entire box of half-price Christmas chocolates. Well, the chocolate part didn’t sound that bad but the rest of it sounded incredibly depressing. And all too familiar.

‘Well?’ Amy was as impatient as ever. ‘Unless you’ve been stunned into silence by my genius, this is the part where you’re supposed to make agreeing noises. Wow, Amy! What a good idea, Amy! I’m on my way, Amy!’

‘I want to come,’ I said, having already talked myself out of it. It was way too expensive, it was way too far, I didn’t even have any mittens – and what if Veronica got me more work? ‘But I’m saving for somewhere to live. And you’re supposed to be working, aren’t you? I know it’s going to come as a shock to you but you’re expected to do it nearly every day.’

‘You can put it on your credit card and I will be working,’ she protested. ‘I have had this job for over four months now, titface, surely that calls for a celebration?’

‘New record,’ I said with a heap of approval. ‘I’m proud.’

‘I’m good at it,’ she replied simply. ‘Come on, Tess, it would be awesome. I hate being here without you, it feels weird. I had my knickers on inside out all day yesterday and I didn’t have anyone to tell. I need you.’

I smiled in spite of myself.

‘And what would I do with myself while you’re swanning around New York being the world’s most amazing … you?’ I asked, all my features pinching together as I tried to remember what her job title was supposed to be.

Amy cackled triumphantly.

‘I’m the Vice President of Special Projects,’ she said. ‘Can you even effing believe it? Kekipi came up with it, he’s amazing. It was that or Head Bitch in Charge and he said I couldn’t have that title because that was him.’

It was impressive. The most special project Amy had worked on before now was the time she tried to work out if you could make toast with an iron.

Amy made a huffing sound down the line. ‘And if I’m not enough to tempt you, there’s at least one other really good reason for you to come over here.’

My ears prickled and I felt my entire body tense up. She didn’t even need to say his name, I only had to think it.

‘Unless you’re about to say “hot dogs” I don’t want to hear it, Amy,’ I warned her.

‘OK, don’t be mad at me,’ she began, knowing I would immediately get mad. ‘But I did a bit of internet stalking and, you know, as luck would have it, someone else is in New York as well.’

‘Is it Michael Fassbender?’ I asked, refusing to play along.

‘I know you’re going to say you don’t care but we both know you do and what harm could it do to say hello if you’re in the same city coincidentally and don’t tell me you’re over it because you’re not and it’s horrible and I hate it.’ She barely broke for breath, afraid I would cut her off. ‘You should call him. What harm can come of saying hello?’

So much harm, I thought.

‘Tess?’

‘I’ve got to go,’ I lied. ‘I’m just about to get on the Tube, I’m late for something.’

‘For what? Get on a plane and come to New York.’

‘I’ve got to go,’ I repeated. She didn’t need to know the only place I had to be was in bed with a six-pack of Wotsits but I just didn’t have an answer for her that wasn’t hysterical sobbing and I didn’t think anyone fancied sitting opposite a crazy person on the Tube. Well, not any more than usual.

‘I think you should call him,’ she said. ‘I think you should pick up the phone and say, “enough of this radio silence, you wankpaddle, we need to talk.”’

‘OK, really going now,’ I told her, blocking out all her arguments. ‘I’ll talk to you later. Love you.’

I dropped my phone back in my bag, wincing at a regrettable thunk as it hit my camera.

The camera Charlie had given me.

It was funny to think about it now, but if he hadn’t given me this camera, I might never have gone to Milan. And if I’d never gone to Milan, he and I might be together. Amy would still be in London and none of this would be happening.

It was Amyisms like ‘get on a plane and come to New York’ that made me miss him the most. Before, I would have gone over to his flat and told him all about my day, he would have made fun of Ess, we would both have laughed and then one of us would have made a cup of tea and put the telly on and everything would have been fine. With Amy all the way in New York and Paige so wrapped up in her work and her love life, I’d been feeling so alone. Which was silly, really, when one of my best friends in the whole world only lived half an hour down the road.

I stood in front of the turnstiles of the Central Line, trying not to get in everyone’s way while I thought hard and fast. Everyone was so keen for me to take charge, swing my balls around, show everyone who I was and take what I wanted in life. Maybe they were right. Maybe it was about time I did something I’d been thinking about but too afraid to act on for months. Amy was right.

What harm could come from saying hello?

The rain had stopped by the time I got to Charlie’s flat.

All the way over on the Tube, I’d run over every single scenario of how my first attempt at ball swinging might turn out and each one was worse than the last. What if Charlie was still so angry with me he didn’t even open the door? What if he did open the door but he shouted at me? What if he had a girlfriend and she was there and he had told her what a terrible person I was and she was a Brazilian jujitsu fighter and she killed me with her bare hands? All entirely possible.

I was scared. I hadn’t been this nervous to talk to Charlie since our media studies seminar in the first semester of university. I filled my mind with happy memories, laughing, smiling, cheerful Charlie. Not the face of the miserable, angry man I’d watched ride the train out of Milan. The first man that evening who told me he didn’t want to see me again. Unfortunately, not the last. Really, even by my standards, that was an incredibly poor twenty-four hours for me.

It was almost seven by the time I had forced myself down his street and even if Arsenal had played, he would be home by now. It was the best time to catch him. Unless Arsenal had lost. Oh God, I thought, grabbing hold of the railing beside me, what if they had lost? That was the only possible thing more dangerous to my health than a Brazilian jujitsu-fighting girlfriend. I scrambled in my bag for my phone, pulled up the app that still had a place on my home screen and madly flicked through the fixtures. They didn’t play every Sunday, did they? I hoped against hope that this was one of their weeks off.

‘Tess?’

I looked up and there he was in front of me. Red shirt, striped scarf, copper curly hair that looked just like mine, only considerably shorter, soaked from being out in the rain all afternoon.

‘Did you win?’ I asked, frozen to the spot, phone still in my hand.

‘We drew,’ he said, not moving. ‘One-one.’

I slipped my phone carefully back inside my bag, painfully aware of the four feet of space between us.

‘That’s better than losing,’ I said.

Charlie pulled out his house keys and I stepped aside so he could open the door. He turned to look at me again, blinking as if to make sure I really was there.

‘Yeah,’ he said, holding the door open and nodding me inside. ‘You coming in or are you just going to stand there like a lemon?’

‘I’ll come in,’ I said, skittling through the door and letting a little smile grow on my face.

So far, no violence, so good.

CHAPTER FIVE

‘Look at you,’ Charlie said, throwing the soggy scarf onto his blue sofa, his keys into the bowl on the bookcase and marching straight into the kitchen to put the kettle on. I immediately picked up the wet scarf and laid it on the radiator. Nothing had changed. His flat was exactly the same as the last time I’d been here.

‘Look at you,’ I echoed, not sure what else to say. The whole way there I’d run over what I would say to him in my head but I couldn’t find the right words. I figured I’d know when I saw him but I was absolutely none the wiser. If anything, now I was inside his flat, all warm and cosy and familiar, I was more confused than ever.

‘No, really.’ He ducked out of the kitchen, all six feet three of him, and smiled. I felt my stomach fall to the floor and smiled back. ‘Look at the state of you.’

My smile didn’t last very long.

‘Are you wearing denim dungarees?’ he asked, trying not to laugh. ‘And what has happened to your hair? It’s massive.’

‘It’s raining,’ I said defensively, pulling my hair back into a cack-handed ponytail and wrapping a hair tie around the split ends. ‘I got caught in it. And yes, I’m wearing dungarees, only we call them overalls now and they’re very trendy.’

‘You look like a giant toddler who’s come round to fix my toilet,’ he replied. ‘Why are you covered in paint?’

‘It’s make-up,’ I muttered, scratching at the multicoloured smears on my clothes and wondering if he had noticed the extra pounds I’d picked up in Italy. Amy said you couldn’t tell, but I could. Why had I come over without sorting myself out first? What a bloody rookie mistake. ‘I was working.’

Charlie cocked an eyebrow. ‘As what?’

‘Photographer’s assistant,’ I replied. ‘We were doing a shoot for a magazine.’

He nodded slowly. ‘Better than a magician’s assistant, I suppose,’ he said. ‘Milk and sugar?’

‘The usual.’ I sat down on the edge of his settee and tried not to read too much into the fact he was asking how I wanted my tea when he’d been making me tea almost every day for the last ten years.

‘Two cows of milk and three sugars it is then,’ he replied, disappearing into the kitchen. Phew. He hadn’t forgotten, he was just being weird. Brilliant. ‘I haven’t got any biscuits so if that’s all you’ve come for, you might as well go now.’

‘How can you not have any biscuits?’ I shouted, still searching his flat for evidence of what he had been up to for the last one hundred and thirty-seven days and coming up with nothing but a well-thumbed copy of GQ. Even for a slow reader like Charlie, that hadn’t taken almost five months. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

How could nothing have changed in five months? The same books sat on his coffee table, the same pair of trainers lay at the side of the door and the same dusty red Netflix envelope was wedged between his Blu-ray player and the PlayStation. My entire life had been turned upside down and he hadn’t even sent his DVDs back. How was that possible?

‘Health kick,’ he said, emerging from the kitchen with two mugs in his hands. The same mugs. His mug and my mug. ‘No biscuits, no sweets, no chocolate.’

‘Are you dying?’ I asked, only half joking.

‘Just trying to take better care of myself.’ He held my mug out to me and went to sit down on the sofa. Just before his bum made contact he shot back up and perched himself decidedly on the armchair he never used instead. ‘Can’t live on biscuits forever.’

‘That’s a lie and you know it,’ I said, wrapping my hands around my mug, even though it was far too hot. ‘Biscuits are the staff of life.’

‘Isn’t that bread?’ He pinched his shoulders together and fell silent, the awkwardness of the moment finally winning out over our terribly English desire to drink tea and pretend nothing was wrong.

I stared into my mug and tried to remember the last time I’d been so tongue-tied around Charlie. It hadn’t been this bad since the first week of university when I’d watched him playing a Smiths’ song on his guitar outside our halls of residence. A verse and a chorus of Morrissey’s finest and, just like that, I lost the power of speech.

‘So …’ He broke the silence, pulling off his Converse and kicking them underneath his uncomfortable chair. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Not much,’ I said in a voice much squeakier than I had intended. ‘I’ve been running my toddler plumbing company and Amy’s in New York. She’s working for Al Bennett – you know, the man I was taking photos of in Hawaii? She’s his Vice President of Special Projects, isn’t that amazing?’

‘What kind of projects?’ he asked, puzzled. ‘Is he building a house out of Dairylea Triangles?’

‘No, he’s opening these clothes stores, these boutiques.’ I held my tea in one hand and waved the other around as I tried to explain. ‘And starting a clothing line and, you know, she’s got loads of experience in—’

‘I don’t really care, if I’m honest,’ he said, interrupting. ‘I meant, what’s going on with you?’

I opened my mouth to answer but nothing came out. Instead, I held on to my scorching hot cup of tea and sat in silence.

‘Why are you here?’ he went on. ‘It’s been months since, er, since I saw you. Why did you come today?’

Pulling on the end of my ponytail, I sipped my tea and focused on the Netflix DVD, wondering if he even knew it was still there.

‘Why not?’ I asked quietly.

Now it was Charlie’s turn not to have an answer.

He was sat right on the edge of his chair, his white-socked toes curled underneath each other, clenching and unclenching every other second. I waited another minute, watching him watch me, not saying a word, before I gave up.

‘Do you want me to go?’ I asked, then stood up to leave. At least if I offered, he wouldn’t feel like he was kicking me out. ‘I’ll just go. I shouldn’t—’

‘No.’ He jumped to his feet. ‘Sit down, stay. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s fine.’ I grabbed my bag and swung it onto my shoulder, my camera smacking me in the shoulder blade to remind me what an imbecile I was. ‘I’ll go. I should have called or not come or got run over on the way or something. My mistake.’

‘Tess, stop.’ As I made for the door Charlie grabbed hold of my dungarees by the shoulder strap and my mug flew out of my hand. It bounced off the blue cushions and clattered onto the floor, breaking into three large chunks as it landed. ‘Just stop.’

‘Oh balls, I’m sorry,’ I whispered, as I bent down to pick up the pieces. ‘I’m so sorry, Charlie.’

‘I know,’ he said, yanking me by my shoulder strap until I stood up to face him. ‘So am I, I’m sorry.’

Chewing my bottom lip so hard I thought I might break the skin, I turned towards my friend.

‘Come here, you daft cow.’ He wrapped his arms around my shoulders, pressed his lips against the top of my head and sighed. I felt one hundred and thirty-seven days fall away from the calendar as I buried my face in his armpit, greedily breathing in his teenage boy deodorant, smiling and ignoring the tickling in my ears and lump in my throat.

‘Your hair smells like a wet dog,’ he said, squeezing me tightly.

‘I know.’ My voice was muffled by his damp football shirt and smiles. ‘It’s a new thing I’m trying. All the rage in Milan.’

‘I’m glad you’re here.’ He squeezed my shoulders once more and then let me go. Without the weight of his arms around me, I felt so light I worried I might float away. ‘I’ve been feeling like shit for months.’

I’d never been so happy to hear that someone I loved had been miserable because of me.

‘I wanted to say something but the longer I left it, the more I felt like a dickhead,’ he said, avoiding the broken mug and throwing himself onto the settee, arms and legs all over the place. I sat down next to him, our denim-clad knees just touching, just barely. ‘And then you went quiet and I thought it was too late.’

‘You didn’t answer any of my texts,’ I said, working very hard to resist the urge to clean up the broken mug. Now was not the time. ‘I didn’t think you would want to be friends again.’

‘I didn’t.’ He leaned back against the settee and closed his eyes. ‘I was so angry with you, Tess. I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry about anything. But, you know, feelings go away eventually.’

I pursed my lips and cocked my head thoughtfully. Did they? Just like that?

‘I should have been honest with you,’ I said slowly. The peace between us felt fragile and every word out of my mouth seemed heavy and dangerous. ‘About you know, about the other situation.’

Nick. Nick Nick Nick Nick Nick.

Charlie took a deep breath and let it out, hard and heavy.

‘Yeah, maybe,’ he said. ‘But I understand.’

‘You do?’ I really hoped he had more to say on the subject because I definitely didn’t.

‘Yeah, I understand.’ Charlie wiped the palms of his hands over his face and I realized what he meant. Just because he said he could understand it didn’t mean he had to like it. ‘You were confused and you were going through some stuff and I didn’t exactly help, did I? Then you go off on an adventure and you meet this …’

He paused to take another deep breath while I held mine.

‘You meet this bloke …’ He kicked the ‘k’ out hard. ‘And it’s exciting and fun and it is what it is. We’ve all done it.’

And by ‘done it’ what he actually meant was that what he’d done was ‘shag your awful flatmate without telling you’, but in this instance I was prepared to give him a pass.

‘It doesn’t matter now,’ he said with a shrug. ‘We’ve been friends a long time, Tess. I should have called you and I didn’t, more because of hurt pride than anything else. It was stupid. I was stupid and I’m sorry.’

I chewed the inside of my cheeks, admittedly a little confused. In my heart of hearts I had to admit it stung that he wasn’t crying himself to sleep over me, just a little bit. I’d nursed my agonizing, unrequited crush on Charlie for the best part of a decade. He got over me in less than six months.

‘I just want to be mates again,’ he said. ‘And Paige told me that, well, she told me you and this bloke were the real thing.’

‘Paige?’ I turned to look at him so fast my ponytail whipped around and whacked me in the chops. ‘My Paige?’

‘Yeah, when we were working on the Peritos pitch,’ he explained. ‘And I suppose, while I’m being the bigger man, I’m glad you’ve met someone. Not to be a girl about it but, you know, maybe me and you weren’t meant to be.’

‘Maybe.’

Even now, when I knew he was right, it was hard to say.

Charlie rolled his eyes and smiled, looking just like my Charlie, the one I’d been in love with for so long, and my heart began to beat just a little bit faster. The last time I had been in his flat, I thought, running a hand over the settee, the last time we’d been sat here together …

‘So can we call a truce?’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Go back to how things were before: Tess and Charlie versus the world?’

Ten years I’d waited for Charlie to tell me that he loved me, and as soon as he did, I went and fell in love with someone else. Brilliant bloody timing, Brookes.

‘I suppose so,’ I said, taking his hand in mine and shaking it hard, sad for what could have been, happy for what was – and still confused, but more than anything else, relieved. ‘I need someone to watch the last five episodes of Breaking Bad with me, I’ve been too scared to watch it on my own.’

‘Your bloke not into television or something?’ he asked, his face looking like he had tasted something bitter. ‘Because you know how I feel about people who don’t like telly.’

‘He actually hasn’t got one,’ I admitted. ‘But that doesn’t really matter, given that we’re not together.’

Now it was Charlie’s turn to look confused.

‘I told you,’ I reminded him. ‘Remember when you told me to piss off and I said I wanted to make things right and you asked if it was because he’d dumped me?’

Ah, happy memories.

‘Bit of a blur to be honest,’ he said. ‘I thought you were all loved up. I thought that’s why you stopped texting me?’

I shook my head. ‘We were never really together, if I’m honest.’

I hopped up off the settee, gathered up the pieces of broken mug and carried them into the kitchen so he wouldn’t see the tears in my eyes. Dumping them in the bin, I turned on the cold tap to rinse off my hands, holding my wrists under the cold stream for a moment with eyes closed. I took a deep breath in and blew it out slowly through pursed lips.

‘I can’t really remember exactly what I said the last time I saw you.’ Charlie’s voice made me jump. I turned around to see him in the doorway, arms raised above his head, fingers clinging to the kitchen door frame and his pale, perfect arms peeking out of his shirt, his head ducked low.

‘It wasn’t pleasant,’ I said. ‘But probably not entirely undeserved.’

‘I was so angry,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t mean it, whatever it was. You know what I mean, don’t you?’

I nodded automatically, wishing I could forget so easily. I remembered every word. Every cruel, carefully selected insult. I’d replayed it so many times, each time running it through a guilt filter, I’d probably made it worse than it really was. What I wouldn’t give to trade that searing accuracy for a comfortable blur.

‘I thought you were still seeing him,’ Charlie said. ‘I didn’t know it didn’t work out.’

I wrapped my fingers around the stainless steel of the sink, the cold tap dripping in time to my heartbeat as I stood there, waiting. ‘Well, it didn’t,’ I said in a tight voice. ‘Sometimes it doesn’t, does it?’

‘I know that shouldn’t have made any difference,’ he went on, scuffing his toes along his floor tiles. ‘Because you have been my best friend for so long and even if I can’t remember what I said, I know it wasn’t very nice. I wanted to hurt you because I was hurt. My ego was hurt; I thought that you loved me. You said you did.’

‘I do,’ I said without thinking.

He looked up suddenly.

‘You do?’

‘I did,’ I corrected softly, crossing one arm in front of myself, cradling my elbow in my other hand.

With a sad smile, he choked out a half-laugh in the back of his throat.

‘And how do you feel now?’ he asked.

Drip drip drip. Thud thud thud.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I missed you.’

Charlie looked around the kitchen, his head gently nodding up and down as he considered my response.

‘There have been a million times in the last few months when I’ve thought, “I wish Charlie was here.”’ I carried on talking, scared of what would happen if I stopped. ‘Or, “Charlie would think that was so funny.” But you weren’t there and it was my fault that you weren’t there. I really want us to be friends again.’

‘Friends then?’ He turned his golden eyes on me and there was nowhere to go.

Friends. It was all I wanted. Or was it?

I’d worked so hard for the last few months, trying to get on with my life and over my feelings for Nick, thinking Charlie and me had been a mistake. But here, now, I wasn’t so sure. Nick was gone but Charlie was here. Would it be incredibly stupid to even think about giving us a chance?

Suddenly, Charlie burst out laughing.

Apparently it would.

‘I’m so happy I’ve got my mate back,’ he said, crossing the kitchen in a single stride and wrapping me up in the least sexual embrace in human history. ‘You know, I’ve had no one to watch Vampire Diaries with, it’s been a disaster.’

‘Your secret shame,’ I winced as he rubbed his knuckles across the top of my head and pawed at my hair to smooth out the frizz. ‘Good to know I’m good for something.’

Charlie looked down at me and our eyes met as he reached out a hand, his knuckles brushing my cheek.

‘Watch out,’ he said, opening the cupboard behind my head. ‘I’ve got an emergency pack of Hobnobs in here somewhere. I say we crack them open, make another cup of tea and get the telly on. You in?’

‘I am,’ I agreed, trying to shake off the tension that apparently only I felt. ‘But only if you’ve got the Hobnobs. Otherwise you’re going back out to Tesco in the rain.’

He rifled around behind the dinner plates for a moment before producing a bright blue package. ‘Milk chocolate Hobnobs at that,’ he said, tapping me on the head with the packet. ‘Best Sunday night ever.’

‘Best Sunday ever,’ I replied, happy, sad, and with a Hobnob craving like you wouldn’t believe.

CHAPTER SIX

‘Morning.’

‘Nnueeughh,’ I groaned, my face buried deep into a pillow that I immediately knew was not my own.

‘You’ve always been such a delight first thing in the morning,’ Charlie said as he opened the living room curtains. I rubbed my eyes with tight, tired fists. ‘Nice pants.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, rolling myself up in his quilt and promptly falling off the settee. ‘God, I feel rubbish, I should have gone home.’

‘I’m not sure sleeping on my settee is why you feel rubbish,’ he said, tapping an empty bottle of white wine with his foot. ‘But you were in no fit state to go home, madam.’

‘And apparently you were in no fit state to give up your bed for a lady,’ I replied, clambering back up onto the settee, curling my legs up underneath myself and pressing my head back into the pillow. ‘What a gent.’

‘You refused,’ he reminded me. ‘You said you didn’t need to be patronized, you were perfectly fine on the settee and you wanted to be closer to the toilet in case you threw up.’

‘Oh yeah.’ I looked across into the bathroom and saw the toilet seat up. ‘It’s coming back to me now.’

‘And you said I’d have to carry you and, honestly, I couldn’t be arsed,’ he said, stretching upwards and tapping his fingertips on the ceiling. His T-shirt pulled up around his flat belly, showing off a trail of brown hair that disappeared under the waistband of his shorts as well as some abs I definitely didn’t remember seeing before. His no-biscuit regime was clearly paying off.

‘I should get to work,’ I said, sitting up and trying not to cry. Charlie’s settee was not the place to get a good night’s sleep. ‘If you’re late, Ess makes you wear the Hat of Shame.’

‘Hat of shame?’ Charlie asked, flicking at his phone, a look of concern on his face.

‘It’s a bright pink baseball cap with the word “cock” embroidered on the front.’ I tried to run my fingers through my curls but last night’s rain, sleeping in a plait and a night on the settee had worked together to create one giant dreadlock. Wearing the hat might actually be preferable.

‘I can’t believe you’re working as an assistant to an arsehole.’ He leaned over the back of the armchair to give me a sad look. ‘I know you’re a complete martyr when it comes to work but at least at Donovan & Dunning you were getting somewhere.’

‘I worked eighty hours a week and I was the first person they made redundant when the shit hit the fan,’ I replied. ‘Yes, totally getting somewhere.’

‘But this is better?’ he asked. ‘Fetching and carrying for a wanker?’

‘This is how it is,’ I told him. ‘You know how people say, “you’ve made your bed, now lie in it?” This is my bed. This is me lying in it. You have to start at the bottom, Charlie.’

He made a humming noise and tucked his phone away in his back pocket. ‘You say it like you don’t have any options, but you do. You could get another job in advertising tomorrow.’

‘Firstly, who would want me with a six-month gap in my CV? And secondly, I don’t want to go back into advertising,’ I said, almost surprising myself with my certainty. ‘I love photography. I’m a photographer.’

‘You’re also a brilliant creative director,’ he replied simply. ‘And I’d have you.’

I pressed my lips into a tight, silent line.

‘I mean, I’d hire you,’ he clarified. ‘I’m serious, I was thinking about it when I woke up. I interviewed someone for creative director last week but it’s not too late. You could still take photos on the side and you wouldn’t have to do all this assisting shit. You’re better than this, Tess.’

I methodically worked my fingers through my hair and pretended he hadn’t just made me the most spectacular offer.

‘That sounds really amazing,’ I said, overwhelmed by the sudden vision of myself striding into a meeting with nice clean hair and a lovely pair of shoes on my feet instead of balancing on a chair, covered in sweat, wearing a pair of dirty trainers. ‘But like I said, I’m a photographer now.’

‘I’m serious, Tess,’ he repeated, squatting down on his uncomfortable armchair, elbows on his knees. ‘I’m not saying you don’t love photography and I’m not saying you’re not good at it but I’m offering you something else. You’ve had six months out and maybe you needed a break. There’s no shame in saying the photography thing didn’t work out as a career and keeping it as a hobby. You could be a director. If you wanted, you could be a partner, we’d be a team. The business is really starting to take off.’

It was something I’d wanted for so long. I’d worn my corporate blinkers for years with partnership the only goal in sight and here it was, being dangled in front of my face. And it was tempting. Going back to the beginning, a month before I turned twenty-eight, starting back at the bottom? Less appealing.

‘Think about it,’ Charlie said. ‘I told the bloke I interviewed I’d let him know after Christmas so he can sort everything out with his old job in the new year. That gives you time.’

‘I will,’ I promised. ‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Yeah, well,’ he said, clearly a little bit offended. ‘Don’t think you’ve got to stick this out because you don’t want to admit you made a mistake. Tea?’

I nodded and waited until he had disappeared into the kitchen before I gave him the finger. Did he really think I’d made a mistake? Did everyone?

I knew that going back to advertising would be easy and working with Charlie would be fun, but what I didn’t know was whether or not it would make me happy. Nick always said I was too worried about the things I thought I should do, rather than the things I wanted to do. This definitely felt like a ‘should’. But since when was I taking Nick Miller’s advice?

Pulling the blankets up around my chin, I grabbed my phone to check my messages. There was a late night text from Paige, asking if I wanted to get a drink. A message from Kekipi attached to a photo of him and Domenico singing karaoke in some dimly lit dive bar and seventeen texts from Amy, half written exclusively in Emojis, the other half more or less unintelligible swearing but the general gist of them was that I should get my arse on a plane to New York ASAP.

‘Maybe I should be Amy’s assistant,’ I called through a yawn. ‘She’ll be queen of the world in six months at this rate.’

‘Maybe this Al dude is her Mr Miyagi,’ Charlie shouted back. ‘She’s going to be the fashion equivalent of The Karate Kid.’

‘Karaoke kid, more like,’ I muttered, flicking through her Facebook posts. Kekipi and Domenico were not alone in that bar. ‘I don’t really see Al as the wax on, wax off type.’

‘I don’t know.’ Charlie stuck his head out of the kitchen. ‘He made a big impression on you.’

‘He did,’ I admitted. ‘He’s a really great man, you’d like him.’

Growing up, it hadn’t really occurred to me to miss my dad. My mum remarried a couple of years after they got divorced and he was never more than an occasional visitor after that. Brian, my stepdad, was a total champ, but the fact of the matter was always there: he wasn’t my real dad. Whether I knew it or not, I’d missed out on something. Al, or Bertie Bennett as most of the world knew him, was the kind of granddad everyone wished for. A kind, generous, gentle man armed with all the wisdom of old age combined with the same curiosity and preference for neon T-shirts as your average six-year-old. Al was the kind of person you needed in your corner, only you didn’t know it until you met him.

‘Hasn’t he got a job for you somewhere in his empire?’ Charlie asked. ‘Personal photographer to the Bennett estate?’

‘It’s not like I haven’t thought about it,’ I admitted. ‘But I don’t want to take the piss. He helped me out loads by getting me in to work on his book. I can’t expect him to hand me a job every time I’m on my arse.’

‘Don’t be afraid to ask people for help,’ he said after a moment’s consideration. ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘I do need help,’ I told him as the kettle whistled for attention in the kitchen. ‘I need help getting to work in an hour and I need help explaining to Amy why I’m not going to New York for Christmas.’

‘First one’s easy, I’ll get you an Uber,’ Charlie said, setting a cup of coffee down in front of me. ‘And don’t understand the second one. Why aren’t you going to New York for Christmas?’

It was a fair question.

‘I do want to go,’ I said, scooting up the settee so he could sit down beside me. ‘But I can’t go. I’ve got work and I don’t really have the money and, you know, I should spend Christmas with my family. Or something.’

Charlie did not look convinced.

‘Christmas Day at your mum’s house makes Eastenders look like a sitcom,’ he reminded me, needlessly. ‘And as for work, most people take time off at Christmas, although I know that’s going to come as a shock to you.’

‘It’s less shocking than the thought of going to New York to visit the Vice President of Special Projects at Bennett Enterprises,’ I said while searching for my overalls. Ah, there they were, rolled in a ball in the bath. Of course, where else would they be?

‘Do you know what I do whenever I’m not sure what to do?’ Charlie asked.

‘Lie down on the floor and eat Maltesers?’ I suggested. ‘No, wait, that’s me.’

‘I sit down and I ask myself, what would Tess do?’ he said with a knowing smile and a smug nod. ‘Works like a charm.’

Amy was right: he really was a cockwomble.

‘And there was me thinking you were going to say something helpful,’ I said with a filthy look on my face. ‘Thanks, Charlie.’

‘Good to have you back, Brookes,’ he replied, slapping a heavy hand hard on my arse as he strode back into the kitchen. ‘Now get your arse to work, your Uber’ll be outside in two minutes.’

‘Jess, I’ve got a mouth like a badger that just went down on a camel and liked it,’ Ess declared later that morning. ‘Go and get us a coffee, I am parched.’

Across the studio, I gave him a startled look from the make-up artist’s chair. ‘Right now?’ I asked.

‘No, next Tuesday,’ he replied. His flat cap and muttonchops clashed with his flashy silver tracksuit, making him look like a disgruntled sheep farmer who had come to work in fancy dress as a twat. ‘I wouldn’t ask for it now if I didn’t want it now, would I?’

‘It’s just, I’m not really in any shape to pop to Starbucks right now.’ I bit my lip and got a mouthful of something rancid.

Ess dropped his camera, 7 diving across the room to grab it before it could hit the hardwood floor. ‘What’s the problem? The model is going to be here any minute.’

I looked at Rachel the make-up artist with wild eyes. Well, I assumed I did; it was very hard to tell under all the face paint and false eyelashes and cock cap.

I had been three and a half minutes late.

‘I’ll go,’ she offered, turning to Ess. ‘I can be there and back before Tess washes all that off her face. What does everyone want?’

‘Why would she need to wash her face?’ he asked, trying not to laugh. ‘I need you here, Rach, the model will arrive in a minute and we’ll have to get started.’

‘I can’t go out like this,’ I said. ‘You’re not serious.’

‘You look grand to me,’ he said, staring right at me. ‘Doesn’t she look grand to you, 7?’

‘Grand,’ he squeaked, hands pressed over his mouth. Wanker.

‘You said you’d look at my portfolio today before the model came in,’ I reminded him, stalling for time. ‘When are we going to do that?’

‘When you’ve got my coffee,’ he replied. ‘I’m dying on my arse over here, Jess. If I don’t get a coffee in me in the next two minutes, I’m going to turn into a right old – Kelly, you’re here!’

A six-foot-something goddess with glowing black skin and a weave that would make Beyoncé weep strolled into the studio, only to be swept up in Ess’s arms and lavished with kisses.

‘Jess is going out to get coffee,’ Ess said in between gratuitous snarfs of her neck. ‘What do you want?’

‘Oh, I’m fine,’ she said, taking off her sunglasses, giving me a double take and then putting them straight back on so she could stare more freely. ‘Thank you.’

‘You need a juice, she’ll get you a juice,’ he reassured her before turning back to me. ‘If you’re back in less than ten minutes, I’ll look at your portfolio.’

‘Can I wash my face first?’ I asked, bouncing my weight from foot to foot.

He sneered. ‘7, start a timer for ten minutes,’ he called across the studio. ‘I don’t know, can you wash your face and get coffee in less than ten minutes?’

‘Bollocks,’ I muttered, grabbing hold of my bag and running for the door. ‘I’ll be back in nine.’

‘She’s not going out like that, is she?’ I heard the model ask in a low voice as I left. ‘Does she know what’s on her face?’

‘Yeah,’ Ess said gleefully. ‘Yeah, she does.’

Starbucks was exactly two minutes away from the studio and the juice bar was next door but one. I’d spent all week bouncing between the two and had my coffee run down to six minutes exactly, I could absolutely do this.

‘No one will be in Starbucks,’ I told myself, shaking out my ponytail and trying to cover my face with my hair. ‘It’s East London, no one will be in Starbucks. It won’t be busy.’

No, the voice in my head reminded me, they’ll all be in the organic juice bar, you fool.

Whatever, I argued, as if I would be the strangest thing on the streets of London today. What were the chances of bumping into someone I knew, anyway?

‘Tess? Is that you?’

The chances were high.

‘Raquel?’ I squinted through my hair to see a small, squat blonde woman staring at me, slack-jawed, in the middle of the street. ‘Hi!’

Because there was no better time to bump into the woman who had fired you from your last proper job than when you were wearing dirty denim overalls with unspecified muck all over the knees and an entire make-up artist’s palette of unblended contouring slap all over your face.

‘Are you …’ She peered up at me, half confused and half delighted. ‘What’s going on with your face?’

‘I’m working,’ I told her, trying very hard not to touch my face. ‘I’m doing a thing.’

‘What kind of thing?’ She kept staring, her eyes flickering from red triangles underneath my eyes and lavender circles on my chin to the brown shading all around my cheeks and nose. ‘Are you a clown?’

I gave her as ferocious a look as I could, given the circumstances.

‘Do I look like I’m laughing?’ I asked.

‘Sort of,’ she replied tartly. ‘That’s an interesting hat.’

‘Thank you,’ I said graciously, touching the peak of the Hat of Shame. ‘Anyway—’

‘I’m glad you found work,’ Raquel said, interrupting me to be even more condescending. If that was possible. ‘You disappeared off the face of the earth and I was wondering where you’d got to. What agency are you with?’

‘I’m not in advertising any more,’ I said, aware of every single person on the street turning to stare as they passed. ‘I’m a photographer.’

Raquel looked at me with her dead shark eyes. ‘You’re a what?’

‘A photographer,’ I replied. It was hard to sound confident when you looked like a Picasso painting of a clown. Brown blocks on my cheeks, silver triangles around my chin, bright red circles under my eyes. It was a grand look.

‘I see.’

‘I’ve been in Hawaii,’ I said, folding my arms around me. ‘Shooting for Gloss magazine.’

‘Is that right?’

‘And Milan,’ I said, nodding. ‘I was working with Bertie Bennett. You probably won’t know who he is but he’s basically a fashion legend. He’s huge. Just an incredible man. An inspiration really.’

‘And this …’ She gestured towards my face, reminding me of my current situation in case I’d somehow forgotten for a split second. ‘Is something to do with that?’

‘It’s a make-up test,’ I said, hoping she didn’t have any follow-up questions. ‘I’m testing make-up.’

Playing make-up guinea pig was another in a long line of Ess’s super-fun challenges. Like how he’d had me wear a necklace of sausages for two hours last Wednesday morning and then source fourteen gerbils and six guinea pigs for a ‘concept’, only to discover that the model was allergic to rodents, meaning I had to return them before she would even walk into the studio.

‘And what about Charlie?’ Raquel asked. ‘How’s lovely Charlie?’

‘He’s fine,’ I told her. ‘I saw him last night.’

‘So exciting to see him go out on his own,’ she said, her over-tweezed eyebrows arching high into her hairline. ‘And picking up Peritos as his first client? Impressive.’

‘He’s very talented.’ I shoved my hands in my pockets and wished I’d brought my gloves. It was windy and cold and I very much wanted to be inside. ‘He’s going to do very well.’

‘I was surprised to hear you weren’t working together, you two were always so buddy-buddy.’

‘You know, I’m actually late,’ I said, looking past her to see a queue forming out the door of Starbucks. ‘I’m shooting a feature for No-No magazine – have you heard of it?’

‘I can’t say I’m familiar with it, but I’m sure it’s very good,’ she said, flipping her bleached blonde head around, stretching up to her full five-foot-nothing.

I stood in the street, looking down at the woman who had taken away my job with a smile, and suddenly realized she didn’t matter. None of it mattered. She could stand in the middle of the street and try to make me feel shit every single day for the rest of the year and it wouldn’t mean a thing. She couldn’t fire me again; I was the only one who could fuck up now. So why waste another second worrying about what she thought of me?

‘You know, you actually did me a massive favour,’ I said, giving her a big, bright smile. ‘And I never said thank you.’

‘I did?’ she asked, her smile fading as mine grew. ‘How’s that?’

‘Sacking me,’ I explained. ‘Best thing that ever happened to me.’

‘Oh.’ Her thick foundation formed deep orange creases on her forehead as she frowned. ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve been able to find a positive in such a difficult situation.’

‘Absolutely! And not just because I never have to see you again!’ I replied, quickly looking at my watch. ‘Ooh, is that the time? It’s been so great to see you—’

‘I’m at Eskum now,’ she said, interrupting before I could make my escape. ‘Director of people—’

‘Wow, yeah? I actually really don’t care,’ I said, taking my turn to interrupt. I flashed her one more smile as she visibly shrivelled in front of me. ‘But gosh, those poor, poor people.’

Raquel looked as though I’d slapped her in the face and I wished I had.

‘I wish I could count all of the fucks I don’t give but I’ve only got eight fingers and two thumbs and that’s not nearly enough,’ I said, giving her a brief hug and ever such a tiny shove. ‘Have a lovely day, Raquel. Or don’t. Doesn’t really matter.’

I turned on my heel and marched off down the road, ridiculous painted head held high in my cock cap.

‘Ess!’ I shouted as I pushed the door open against the wind.

‘Thank God, my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut,’ he said, holding his hand out for his coffee with one hand and scratching his crotch with the other. ‘You were gone more than ten minutes though.’

‘I haven’t got your coffee,’ I replied, marching across the studio and throwing the Cock cap at 7. ‘I want to go over my portfolio.’

‘We haven’t got time,’ Ess replied, pointing across the studio to the styling area. ‘Now sod off and bring me a coffee.’

‘We won’t be done for at least an hour,’ Rachel the make-up artist called over to us with a thumbs up. ‘Take your time.’

Hands on my hips and feeling only slightly less confident than I had been thirty seconds earlier, I stared Ess down until he gave a sigh and shook his head in defeat.

‘Fine, pass it here,’ he said, holding out his hands. ‘But if they’re shit, I’ll tell you they’re shit.’

‘Good.’ I pulled my portfolio out of my bag, bouncing across the room. ‘Whatever advice you can give me, I’d appreciate it.’

‘Most of the time my advice is stop trying to take photos,’ he grunted, flicking through the pages, skipping over my shoot for Gloss, my pictures of Milan, without even stopping to take a proper look. ‘It’s quicker.’

Biting my thumbnail, I crossed my fingers.

‘Shit,’ he said, flipping through the pages without really looking. ‘Shit, shit, shit. Ready to give up yet?’

‘No,’ I said, barely breathing. ‘You can keep going.’

He paused on a shot of Al, sat on the beach in Hawaii and staring out at the ocean.

‘I don’t hate this one,’ he announced, slamming the book shut. ‘Now go and get my coffee.’

‘That’s it?’ I asked, crushed. ‘You don’t hate that one so we’re done?’

‘I don’t hate that one so I’ll look at the rest later,’ he clarified. ‘Now you go and get my coffee and we’ll go through the rest of them after the shoot if I don’t decide it’s a complete waste of my time before then.’

‘Oh my God,’ 7 whispered, pulling me away after Ess shoved my portfolio into my chest and walked away, muttering to himself. ‘That’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard him say about anyone’s photos.’

‘Really?’ I asked, a tiny spark of hope lighting up inside me. ‘That was nice?’

‘Have you met him before?’ he asked. ‘Don’t push it. That was a big compliment.’

‘Why are you still here?’ Ess barked, looking over his shoulder at me. ‘Why isn’t there a cup of coffee in my hand?’

Nodding, I threw my portfolio back in my bag and ran out the door. Two weeks I’d been there and I’d finally got him to look at my photos. If I could get Ess to give me some genuine feedback, I felt as though I could do anything. This must have been that ball-swinging feeling Agent Veronica had been talking about and I didn’t hate it.

As I jogged down the street I made another big ball swinging decision. Pulling out my phone, I opened up the internet browser and tapped in ‘New York flights’. There was nothing stopping me taking photos while I was in New York, was there? Maybe there would even be a course I could take. Donovan & Dunning’s American office barely closed for the holidays so I was far more likely to find something useful in New York than I was hanging around my mum’s house getting squiffy on Baileys and ignoring my sisters.

As soon as I’d picked up four flat whites, two Frappuccinos and a green juice, I told myself, I was going to book my flight to New York and work the rest of it out from there. Well, after I’d done that and finished the day at work, washed my face, gone home and had some tea. And packed. And called my mum. And done the online paperwork.

But once all that was out of the way, New York City, and the rest of the world, had better get ready for me.

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘TESS!’

Resplendent in a red velvet Santa hat, gold-glitter leggings, neon-blue fur coat and clutching roughly enough balloons to float a house, Amy Smith was impossible to miss as I walked through the arrivals gate at JFK. She fought her way through with the helium-filled herd, the biggest balloons practically lifting her off the ground as she hurried across the airport, bashing people in the head as she went.

‘You’re here!’ She threw herself at me, wrapping her arms around my neck and her legs around my waist while Kekipi clapped and cheered behind her and half the balloons floated off up to the ceiling.

‘I’m so happy to see you,’ I said, dragging my case behind me with Amy still clinging around my middle like a glittery little spider monkey. ‘It feels like forever.’

‘It’s been forty-nine days and fifteen hours,’ Amy confirmed as she hopped to the ground. ‘God, Tess, you look knackered.’

‘That’s because I am knackered,’ I replied, trading air kisses with Kekipi. ‘I had to change planes twice to get any kind of cheap flight. Turns out it’s expensive to fly at Christmas. What time is it?’

‘It’s 1 a.m.,’ Kekipi said, taking custody of my suitcase as Amy grabbed hold of my hand. ‘What time did you leave London?’

‘Yesterday?’ I said, shaking my head. ‘But Amsterdam was today I think. And I got to see Chicago! Or at least I got to see the airport. But I’m here now, that’s all that matters.’

‘At least you can fly directly from here to Milan,’ he said. ‘Amy told you I’ve booked your flights? I want no arguing from either of you.’

‘You won’t get any,’ I said wearily. ‘Usually I would fight you on it but this one bankrupted me, so thank you.’

‘You’re welcome. I couldn’t have my bridesmaid missing the wedding, could I?’ he asked. ‘And you look wonderful. Look at those charming overalls, you’re so Madonna circa 1986.’

‘No, she’s right, I look like a tramp,’ I replied, stifling a yawn. ‘I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t wearing these. If it’s 1 a.m. here, what time does that make it at home?’

‘Party time,’ Amy said confidently. ‘Maybe a little bit past.’

‘That’s funny, it feels more like bedtime to me,’ I said, trotting through the airport, hand in hand with my best friend. I was tired, I ached from cramping my stupid long legs up in an economy seat, but I was so, so happy. Of all the spur-of-the-moment, credit-card-destroying flying decisions I’d made in the last year, this felt like the best one. ‘Can party time be tomorrow?’

‘I suppose,’ she replied. ‘I’ve got a few meetings in the morning but then we’re going to have the best time ever! I’m so excited. We’re going to do everything – carriage ride round the park, boat ride round Manhattan, sunset walk over Brooklyn Bridge – everything.’

‘Sounds like the most romantic holiday ever,’ I said as I craned my neck to peer out the windows, trying to catch a glimpse of the city. ‘Maybe Kekipi can keep me entertained while you’re busy.’

‘I will be drowning in wedmin,’ Kekipi said, miming himself hanging from an imaginary rope. ‘I can’t believe it’s so soon.’

‘Don’t listen to him.’ Amy slapped his hand back down by his side. ‘He’s been a total bridezilla. Domenico is a saint to put up with him.’

‘I’m actually going to Tiffany to look at china patterns,’ he confided. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t get married years ago, it’s wonderful. All you have to do is throw a party and people buy you obscenely expensive presents.’

‘Don’t worry, you don’t have to babysit me,’ I told them, a wave of exhaustion rolling over me. ‘I made a list of things I want to see on the plane and I can get started on my own.’

‘Of course you made a list!’ Amy clamped her arm through mine. ‘Just when I thought you’d really changed.’

‘Shut up,’ I told her sweetly. ‘I was researching courses and exhibitions and stuff, to see if there was anything I could do while I was here, and there’s a thing I want to enter. It’s a photography exhibition in a Manhattan gallery but they have a new-photographer type thing that’s open to anyone and the winner gets an apprenticeship with a working photographer. I’m going to enter.’

‘And win,’ Amy replied. ‘Are you going to enter a photo of me?’

I looked at her, smiling sweetly up at me, framed by red velvet, blue fur and a shimmering background of sequins.

‘We’ll see,’ I said, glancing over at Kekipi and his impeccably groomed and impressively raised eyebrow.

The double doors of the airport slid open and a blast of cold air slammed into me, turning every inch of exposed skin to fire and then to ice. My fingertips burned as I tried to hide my hands inside the sleeves of my jumper and my eyes began to water immediately.

‘Oh my God,’ I gasped, the wind catching in my throat. ‘Oh my God, it’s cold.’

‘Winter is coming,’ Amy said in an ominous voice. ‘Sorry, I should have told you to bring a proper coat.’

‘You should have told me not to come,’ I corrected her through chattering teeth. ‘It’s freezing! Amy, it’s so cold.’

‘Tess hates the cold,’ she told Kekipi as she breezed along towards a line of yellow taxis as though it was the middle of a sunny Tuesday in June. ‘She’s such a baby about it.’

‘I’m not being a baby!’ I protested, excited about the taxis but still wondering whether or not my nose had fallen off. ‘It’s about a million degrees below freezing!’

‘Not yet,’ Kekipi said, hustling me across the road. ‘But it will be tomorrow.’

I paused and looked up at a plane screeching above us.

‘Is it too late to go back?’ I asked.

‘Get in the taxi, you twatknacker,’ Amy instructed. ‘We’ll get you a proper coat tomorrow.’

‘A coat, a cocktail and a big handsome man to keep you warm at night,’ Kekipi added. ‘Something in a blond, maybe? With a beard for added warmth?’

‘Don’t get her excited,’ Amy told him as a taxi driver hopped out of his cab and popped the boot for my suitcase. ‘We’ve got to share a bed.’

‘I’m very glad you’re here,’ Kekipi said, wrapping me in a bear hug while the taxi driver screamed at Amy as she tried to force the remaining balloons into the back of the taxi. ‘We’ve missed your civilizing influence.’

‘And the scary part is,’ I said, watching as the driver began popping the balloons with a lit cigarette faster than Amy could get them in the car, ‘I’ve really missed her.’

For the third time in three days, I woke up without a clue as to where I was. Rubbing my eyes, I looked around the room. It wasn’t Charlie’s living room and it definitely wasn’t the departures lounge in Amsterdam. Thick cream carpets and heavy matching drapes made it look like the inside of a very swanky igloo, although it was considerably warmer than that, thank God. Turning over on my white pillow, underneath the white duvet, I saw Amy, flat on her back and snoring with her mouth wide open.

‘Amy,’ I whispered. ‘Are you awake?’

‘No,’ she replied, snorting twice and then rolling across the bed. ‘Go back to sleep.’

‘I can’t,’ I said. A quick glance at the clock showed it was 6 a.m. I’d only been in bed for five hours and I was wide awake. The wonders of jetlag. ‘Wake up!’

‘I am awake,’ she said, pulling the thick, fluffy duvet over her head. ‘I might not reply but I’m definitely awake and I’m definitely listening.’

I shuffled upright for a better look at the bedroom. I’d always imagined homes in New York to be either poky little shoe boxes or huge industrial loft spaces but I really should have known better than to expect any of that from one of Al’s homes. Amy’s room was huge, the bed taking up more space than her entire bedroom in London. The furniture was simple, with clean modern lines that made it look as though it had been brought in from the set of some sixties TV show, and huge, long swathes of heavy fabric hung all the way from the ceiling down to the carpets. Pin-thin lines of a brightening dawn ran all the way around them, promising a world outside these four walls.

‘Amy?’

My best friend snored in response.

Wired and tired and generally suffering from my impromptu long distance flight, I rolled out of bed and headed for what I assumed was the bathroom. The mattress didn’t even dip and Amy’s delicate snorts kept on coming.

‘Definitely awake, my arse,’ I mumbled, tiptoeing into the bathroom and shutting the door as quietly as I could.

The sun had only just begun to rise when I stumbled out onto Fifth Avenue, big sunglasses and an even bigger smile on my face. Bumbling towards a zebra crossing in the dawn light, snow seeping in through my Converse, my knees bound together by a floor-length sleeping bag of a coat I had borrowed from a wardrobe by the front door, I was cold, uncomfortable and ridiculously happy.

‘I’m in New York,’ I whispered to myself, not caring whether or not anyone could hear me. It felt so improbable. I was finally here, walking around a city I had dreamed of visiting for so long, just as though it was a perfectly normal thing to do. It was all I could do not to grab hold of passers-by, just to explain to them how excited I was.

Even though it was still early, not even seven, there were already so many people on the street. I sensed a certain solidarity in our matching coats and gave a small, smug nod to everyone I passed, feeling like such an insider. No touristy, inappropriate-but-visually-appealing jacket for me. Less than twelve hours in and I was practically a born-again New Yorker as I stopped at the edge of the pavement, waiting for the little white man to tell me it was safe to walk.

‘Hey! Watch it, lady!’

A tall man in a black version of my blue coat bashed into me, phone in one hand, coffee in the other, a frustrated look on his face.

‘Sorry,’ I spluttered, starting left then right as he tried to get around me. ‘I was waiting for the light to change.’

‘There’s no cars,’ he replied, waving his phone hand down the street before he stepped right into the street. ‘You need me to hold your hand? Watch where you’re walking.’

‘I’m walking here,’ I whispered, delighted as he walked off, giving me a surly look as he went. ‘Fugeddaboutit.’

I couldn’t think of another time when I’d felt this excited just to be in a place. Hawaii was paradise, Milan was beautiful but New York was electric. The green street signs, the slightly off spellings, the threat of parking tickets and towing fines in dollar signs all made my heart beat slightly faster. I held my camera in my freezing cold fingers and clicked away at everything I saw.

Without any idea where I was going, I started walking south along the park, following the flow of people and letting my mind begin to wander. How many times had Amy walked down this street since she got here? And Al? I knew Jane had chosen their house in Milan because it faced the park – had she picked this place for the same reason? I wondered how things had changed since they’d moved to New York in the sixties and how much was the same. Everything in my life seemed temporary at the moment; twenty-seven years of the same followed by six months of madness. It was so hard to know what I was supposed to do now. Carry on down this road of not knowing or go back to my old life with my tail between my legs? A partnership in an advertising agency with one of my best friends shouldn’t have felt like second prize but I couldn’t shake the feeling that accepting that would be settling.

And try as I might, I couldn’t stop my eyes from searching the crowds for his face. I stopped for a moment, reaching into my handbag to rest my hand on my passport, to find his note. It was strange sometimes, the thought of Nick was always there in the back of my mind but every now and then it popped up to say hello, punch me in the stomach and stop me dead in my tracks.

Nick lived here. I was in Nick’s city.

But New York was a big place, wasn’t it? I wasn’t about to bump into him on the street, even if I wanted to. I didn’t know which area he lived in, but I couldn’t see him rubbing elbows with Upper Eastsiders. That said, I could absolutely imagine him running up here. Every few minutes, a Lycra-clad jogger whizzed by me and disappeared into the park, like a lululemon-sponsored ninja. And in that moment, he was real again. He wasn’t a fading holiday hangover memory, he wasn’t the super human I’d built him up to be. He was just Nick, a man who might go running around the park of a morning. A man who walked and talked and breathed and ate and did everything the same as everyone else, here in this city. And all the arguments I’d had with myself, all the reasons I’d come up with not to call, suddenly seemed silly.

‘I could call him,’ I whispered, my fingertips finding my phone in my pocket. ‘I could send him a text to let him know I’m here.’

Before I could act, my Nick-induced trance was broken by a loud snuffling and heavy breathing around my shins. I looked down to see a huge, smiling golden retriever wearing a purple puffa jacket and slobbering on my jeans.

‘Hello,’ I said, bending over as far as my coat would allow to pat his happy head. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Don’t touch my dog!’ His owner, wearing his very matching purple puffa jacket, yanked on the dog’s lead and pulled him away down the street.

‘So friendly,’ I muttered as the dog made eyes at me over his shoulder.

I stared at the phone in my hand but the moment was gone. I wasn’t ready. What if he didn’t want to see me, or speak to me? I didn’t want to ruin my first day in New York. I’d call him later.

With my phone safely zipped away, I carried on my march along Central Park, washing away thoughts of Nick Miller by filling my brain with a million new memories. Across the street I saw tall men in grey coats and top hats, hurrying in and out of buildings with snow-covered green awnings, opening the doors of long black cars for women wearing floor-length furs and sunglasses, and on my side, men in jeans and two pairs of gloves were setting up shiny steel food carts as far as the eye could see.

The carts looked so out of place, all bright colours and unappetizing photos of greasy doner kebabs hanging from them, right in the middle of the elegant, icy neighbourhood. It would make a great picture, I thought, as I watched one of the men blow into his hands while he watched out for a customer.

‘Excuse me …’ I sidled up to one of the carts and gave the sullen-looking owner my brightest, non-teeth-chattering smile. ‘Hello.’

‘Hot dog?’ he replied. ‘Two dollar.’

‘Oh, yes, I do want a hot dog,’ I said, pulling my camera out from inside my coat where it was safely nestled in my armpit. ‘And a coffee—’

‘Three dollar,’ he said before grabbing the handle on a silver lid to reveal a bucket of hot dog sausages, resting in an inch of unpleasant-smelling hot dog juice. ‘Onion?’

‘Oh, no!’ I waved my hands madly as he started fishing for a limp sausage with a bun in the other hand. ‘If it’s all right, I want to take your photo first?’

He didn’t say anything.

‘Me, take photo?’ I pointed at my camera and held it up to my face, making clicky noises. ‘Photo of you?’

‘You wanna take my picture?’ he asked, dropping the hot dog back in the grey water with a splash. ‘Sorry, it’s early, I didn’t get ya’ right away. No worries, hun, snap away. This is my best side.’

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