behind me. Unable to drag my eyes away I watched them for a while. They seemed positively buzzing with energy. A little piece of my heart broke away and I tasted bile in my mouth. Oh God, the smell of the dustbin was suddenly filling my nostrils and the whole scene was swimming before me. I had to get out of there. I lurched away on stupid, painful heels. The humiliation would be enormous. I couldn’t let Luke see me spying on them. A small voice inside me was protesting that this wasn’t something Luke would do, but I couldn’t shake the image of them. Even from this distance I could read his body language, leaning forward, the urgency as he spoke, the light in his eyes. It was familiar because it was how he used to talk to me.
My throat thickened as I retraced my steps to the Tube, clutching a set of iron railings for a moment, wanting to wish away what I had seen. It should have been fine, everyone had colleagues who were the opposite sex, I reminded myself. I trusted Luke: Luke who had held me close when I had found out Grandma had died, who’d bought me a silver keyring in the shape of a house when we’d signed our rental agreement together. Oh God, the flat, our entwined lives: it was all suddenly in jeopardy. My cosy world that I had been so sure of seemed to be dissolving around me as I stood next to the railings worrying about splitting assets, the soft grey suede sofa we had chosen together, the oak table and chairs – would we take two each? He had never liked the overhead yellow lamp but had let me buy it because I had loved it: would he fight for it now? Would I stay in the flat?
I knew I was racing on, knew I was getting out of control. I shook my head as if to fling off the madness. This was Luke, I reminded myself. I had to believe that this was a misunderstanding. This had to be innocent. I pulled out my mobile. I needed to find out. I could still turn around.
‘Lottie,’ he said and I could picture him now in the coffee shop mid-spiel, scooping up his mobile, a smile still on his lips from whatever story Storm was telling. Probably something about her five-a-side naked volleyball team or her part-time job as a contortionist. I hoped next time she straightened her hair a little bit of fringe burnt off.
‘Are you all right?’ He had forgotten to be frosty with me and for a second it was like any other phone call we had ever exchanged.
‘I’m fine, I . . . ’ What could I say? I’m in Pimlico and I was standing in a smelly doorway staring at you with your new girlfriend, and who is going to get the chairs if we split? You arsehole, you no-good lying piece of—
‘Lottie, sorry, I can’t take long.’ His voice became more guarded.
‘Right, well, I wondered . . . I just . . . hoped we could meet, to talk,’ I said, the words stilted.
A fraction of a pause, someone dropped a spoon near him. Stupid, spoon-dropping Storm with her tiny hands that can’t even hold cutlery right.
‘I’m just busy working on something right now actually, Lottie. Is it OK if we catch up later?’
The lie threw me. Working? So supping a cappuccino and sharing a carrot cake qualified as work, did it? My grip on the phone tightened. I found I didn’t have the words. I could hear the gurgle and steam from a coffee machine. Oh, so they do macchiatos in the office now, Luke, do they? Do they? Nothing came out of my mouth, though. My brain dried up. Even my usual curses had left me. A hole was opening beneath me: black and impossible.
‘I’ll be back tonight,’ he said, a stiffness to his voice.
‘Great,’ I whispered, not knowing what else to say, ending the call with a muffled, ‘Have to go.’
He would be back tonight, but then what?
Darling Cora,
I think I’ve got myself in a bit of a pickle. Lottie was here today. She arrived earlier in the afternoon, having got out of court unexpectedly. She turned up with the usual leather bag stuffed with paper and despite the mountain of paperwork seemed distracted. Even under the glamorous outfit, all dots and flame-red lips, she looked pale, eyes red-rimmed, and