forget about the dead body I saw on Roundthehouses – if I agree to pretend I imagined it.’
‘You did imagine it, sweetheart. Come on, you must see that you can’t have it both ways: if stress can make you faint and have dizzy spells, it can also make you see things that aren’t there at one in the morning, surely, when you’re exhausted.’
He’s right.
‘Imagining things doesn’t make you a freak, Con. You’re talking to the man who once imagined that loads of blades of grass turned into a gigantic grass monster and attacked his feet – remember?’
‘You were pissed out of your head. And stoned.’ Reluctantly, I smile at the memory. A few weeks after we first met, Kit woke me up in the middle of the night, weeping and demanding that I examine his shoelaces, insisting they were frayed and full of holes from the grass monster’s assault. It took me nearly an hour to persuade him that there was no monster and his shoelaces were intact. The next morning, he declared marijuana the root of all evil. He hasn’t touched it since.
‘I’ve been lying to you,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve been going to Cambridge. Nearly every Friday.’ I look down at the white Formica table, wishing I could sink into it and disappear.
Kit says nothing. He must hate me.
‘I go by train,’ I say, keen to continue with my confession now that I’ve started. ‘The first couple of times I drove, but then Mum asked me why my car wasn’t in the driveway two Fridays running, when I was supposedly at home working. I couldn’t think what to say, until it occurred to me to tell her to mind her own business.’
‘That must have gone down well,’ says Kit. To my relief, he doesn’t sound angry.
‘After that, I decided to get the train, which takes twice as long. There’s no direct train – you have to change at King’s Cross. Once, I . . . I only just got back before you. We were both on the 17.10 from London to Rawndesley. You didn’t see me, but I saw you. It was the scariest journey of my life; I knew I wouldn’t be able to lie – if you’d spotted me, I’d have blurted it all out. When you got off at Rawndesley, you were talking on your BlackBerry. I hung back, waiting to see if you’d stay on the platform to finish the call. Luckily for me, you didn’t. You headed for the car park. As soon as you’d gone, I made a dash for the taxi rank. I got home about two minutes before you. Another time, I—’
‘Connie.’ Kit squeezes my hand. ‘I don’t care about train timetables. I care about you, and us, and . . . what this means. Why have you been going to Cambridge nearly every Friday? What do you do when you’re there?’
I risk a quick glance at him, see nothing but unhappiness and incomprehension. ‘You can’t guess? I look for you.’
‘For me? But I’m in London on Fridays. You know that.’
‘Sometimes I sit on the bench at the Trumpington Road end of Bentley Grove and watch number 11 for hours, waiting for you to open the front door.’
‘Jesus.’ Kit covers his face with his hands. ‘I knew it was bad. I had no idea it was this bad.’
‘Sometimes I stand at the other end, behind a tree, waiting for you to drive up. Which you never do. Sometimes I wander round the city centre hoping to see you with her – in a café, or walking out of the Fitzwilliam Museum.’
‘Her?’ says Kit. ‘Who is Her?’
‘Selina Gane. Though I only found out her name today, when Sam told us. Sometimes I stand in the car park at Addenbrooke’s and—’ I stop suddenly. Selina Gane, Selina Gane . . . My throat closes tight as I make the connection. How could it have taken me so long? Instantly, I regret trusting Kit, telling him everything I’ve just told him. ‘Show me your diary.’ I say.
‘What?’
‘Don’t pretend you haven’t got it with you. You always have it.’
‘I wasn’t going to pretend. Connie, what is it? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘Give it to me.’ I hold out my hand.
He pulls his diary out of his pocket, red in the face, and passes it to me. I flick through the pages. I know it was May, but I can’t remember the exact date. There it is. I spread it open on