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‘Cate, I don’t think I’m really even on his radar.’
Cate groans, tips her face back. Her sunglasses almost slide off the top of her head. ‘Oh, shut the fuck up.’
‘What?’
‘Of course, you’re on his radar. Seriously, I know these things, Millie,’ carries on Cate. ‘At that party, he’ll even have to nip off, stick his crotch in the hotel freezer .?.?.’
I burst out laughing. An old man ambling by in hiking boots with a folded copy of theDaily Mailunder his arm eyes us suspiciously.
‘Sure.’
‘I swear!’ beams Cate, and it’s so lovely to hear and see Cate so happy. She’s had her moments where I can tell she’s been crying, or she’s squirrelled herself away to her room and Ralph has mentioned how he hasn’t seen much of her, but, lately, shehasbeen Cate again. She looks ten years younger. She looks rested. I often get in from work to find her and Ralph in the middle of a puzzle, and it makes me laugh. The creepy steampunk puzzles of Ralph’s, among flickering NEOM candles and decorative silver pears. I’ve never really taken Cate as a puzzle girl, but she always seems so peaceful, as she sits there at the coffee table, beside Ralph, trying to fit a piece in.
‘Even the name’s hot, isn’t it?’ says Cate, as I slow on the bridge, peer over the railing because .?.?. ‘And that photo on Flye’s website, Millie. You can just see he’sbad—’
‘Cate, he’s .?.?. I think he’s over there.’
‘What?’
I stop dead on the bridge, and shrink back, away from the edge. ‘Jack. He’s .?.?. he’s there. I think? At t-the sailing club? Oh, God. Oh, shit.’
‘Sure, OK, pal,’ Cate laughs. ‘Way to shut me up. I was enjoying that. I was genuinely getting turned on. Think I need to up my erotica consumption—’
‘No, seriously.’ I swallow. ‘Just .?.?. look over the bridge. He said he was off today. He said he was going to be at a leaving thing. Sailing club, and pub or something but .?.?. I forgot and, also, it’s one in the afternoon and I just assumed it would be a night-time thing and—’
‘Oh my God, you’re serious? Actual Jack?’ Cate lets out a flurry of excited giggles, as if she’s just seen the entirety of BTS at a bus-stop. (Cate loves BTS.) ‘Where?’
‘Outside the .?.?. the ice cream place. The Mayflower. By the sailing club. He’s with—’
‘Oh my God, with the bloke and the dog! At the picnic table?’ Cate squeals, like a dog whistle. ‘Oh, holy shit, it’s like seeing someone famous. Come on—’
‘I can’t go down there.’
Cate swoops around. ‘Er. Excuse me?’
‘No, Cate, I look terrible. I’m only wearing concealer and I’ve—’
‘Hush.’ Cate removes her sunglasses and plonks them on my face. She brushes my hair out. She unzips my coat a bit, so my raincoat is open, showing my T-shirt. It’s baby-blue, with a big cartoon strawberry on it (and a teeny tiny caterpillar on the top, if you look hard enough). ‘Boobs.’ She shrugs.
‘No,’ I say, zipping back up. ‘No, not boobs. Let’s just – turn around and walk the other way.’
‘Are you joking me? We are going down this bridge, Millie Chandler. If I have to drag you by your hood, I will.’
‘But .?.?. I’ll laugh in his face,’ I whisper. A woman walks between us, a tiny, woollen-hatted baby sleeping soundly inside a carrier on her chest.
‘Why will you?’ Cate asks, a hand resting on her hip.
‘Because you’re with me and you just said he would be dying of longing and sticking his knob in fridges.’
‘Freezers.’ Cate giggles. ‘And you won’t bloody laugh in his face, Millie.Come on. He is a human being and you are simply walking home.’
I blow out a long breath, as Cate loops her arm through mine.
‘OK,’ I say.
‘And we have no idea he’s there, OK? We’re simply walking to our flat, because we’ve been shopping, and this is the way home.’
‘Right,’ I say.
