almost every time, it had been over almost before it had even begun. I remembered taking Jude’s hand afterwards and guiding it gently between my legs, and waiting. And how he’d stroked me for a few seconds, casually, not really taking any notice of my response, before kissing me, telling me he loved me and I was beautiful and amazing, and then rolling over and going to sleep.
I knew that was what would happen again this time. I knew I had to talk to him about it, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, and how on earth could you tell a man that sex with him wasn’t working without hurting his feelings, exactly? If I hurt him, I might lose him, and then what? But the thought of what was going to happen in the next few minutes – the growing surge of desire and then the disappointment and resentment I’d feel when it was over for him and also for me, way before I was ready for it to be – and the prospect of that happening over and over and over again, and me being powerless to ever change it, was awful.
I knew what I was feeling, I realised, as he moved on top of me. It was dread. I remembered the message the Stargazer app had sent to me that morning, and I felt totally seen.
‘Jude, I’m too tired,’ I said. ‘Not tonight, okay?’
The next morning, feeling horrendously guilty for some reason I didn’t quite want to pin down, I got up early and silently, careful not to wake Jude, showered and went downstairs to the dark, silent pub. The cleaners had recently left, I could tell, because the smell of bleach was still hanging in the air, overlaying the smells of long-dead fires, beer and varnished wood, which were so familiar to me now I barely noticed them.
I let Frazzle out into the garden, then glanced into the kitchen and saw that everything was in order, ready for Robbie and me to start the day. There was the bread to prove, the breakfast pastries to bake, a vegetable delivery coming at nine and a vat of stock to reduce. But there was no hurry for any of that; no urgency. It was only six thirty and I could enjoy half an hour of blissful solitude with a coffee.
Every day used to be like this, I remembered, back when it was just me and Frazzle. I’d imagined that the rest of my life might end up being the same way, and even embraced the idea. But now, I’d got used to sharing my space with Jude – well, used-ish. However crowded the tiny flat might sometimes feel, whatever doubts were threatening to grow in my mind, there was no doubt that having another person in bed with me was reassuring; that I was only starting to realise that I hadn’t just been alone, but also lonely.
I carried my mug over to a table by the window, pulled up the cheerful orange-and-green-striped blind and sat down. The street outside was just beginning to get busy. Early commuters hurried past on their way to the station, laptop bags slung over their shoulders and phones clamped to their ears. A lorry rumbled by on its way to deliver an order to the Sainsbury’s supermarket down the road. The woman who owned the florist a few doors down parked her neon-pink van on a double yellow line, jumped out and began unloading armfuls of blooms and foliage. As I watched, the sun emerged over the rooftops opposite, and the street was suddenly flooded with light.
I noticed a man standing outside the pub, stock-still, staring up at my flat. He was wearing jeans, an open-necked white shirt and a leather jacket, and he, too, was carrying a laptop bag and a phone. A totally normal-looking guy on his way to work – so why was he staring up at my window like that?
It was only when the sunlight illuminated him that I realised it was Adam.
I put down my half-finished coffee and opened the door, stepping out into the bright morning. The sound alerted him to my presence and he spun around. He didn’t look surprised to see me, or guilty about having been caught loitering in the street outside the pub, though. He smiled and beckoned me over.
‘Look, Zoë. Look up there.’
I took the few steps over to join him and followed his pointing finger. High up in the