‘Three weeks. You've had this man's number for three weeks and you're telling me now?’
‘I haven't used it.’
‘Obviously you haven't used it. If you'd used it you wouldn't sound like someone who's been sleeping on a bed of nails. Have you thought about using it?’
‘Every day.’
‘Every…’ She stopped. Then, softer: ‘Neil.’
‘I know.’
‘Do you? Because from where I'm sitting you've got a man who's interested enough to give you his number and you haven't rung him because you're scared and the fear is eating you and you're letting it.’
‘It's not fear. It's…’
‘It's fear. Don't dress it up. Don't call it caution or professionalism or thinking about Freddie. Freddie is at my house. Freddie is fine. Freddie is currently building a rocket outof toilet rolls and doesn't know or care what his father does on a Friday night. This isn't about Freddie. This is about you being terrified.’
The kitchen was quiet. The fridge hummed. From the living room, the clock.
‘You told me about… when you went out,’ Gemma said. Quieter now. ‘I know that. No names, no consequences. And you stopped because they weren't enough. So now there's someone who knows your name and buys you coffee and… Neil, you're more frightened of him than you ever were of a stranger. You know why?’
He didn't answer.
‘Because this one could actually matter. And that's terrifying. I know. Ring him anyway.’
He didn't argue.
That was new.
‘Gemma…’
‘Ring him. This evening. While Freddie's here.’
‘What do I say?’
‘You say: This is Neil. Is that offer still open. And then you shut up and let him talk. He'll know what to do.’
‘How do you know he'll know?’
‘Because he gave you his number three weeks ago and he's still giving you coffee. Someone who does that knows how to wait. Ring him, Neil. I'll speak to you tomorrow.’
She hung up. He sat at the kitchen table with the phone in his hand and Gemma's voice in his chest and the card thirty feet away.
He showered too hot. The water scalded his shoulders and he didn't adjust it, stood under the stream with his head bowed and braced against the tile. Steam filled the room. The extractor fan whirred.
Dried off. A line wiped through the fogged mirror . His face looked back: flushed, a vein at his temple. He'd already decided.
He hadn't said it out loud.
That didn't matter.
Dark jeans. The good ones, worn twice. A plain grey T-shirt. A darker grey jumper, V-neck. He checked the mirror. Changed the T-shirt.
Spent four minutes on his hair, four minutes more than he'd spent on it since his wedding day, and ended up pushing it back off his forehead in a way that looked effortless and had been anything but.
He looked at himself. Really looked, past the clothes and the grooming. Thirty-three. Lean. Brown eyes that Gemma had once said were the best part of him. A face that sat most naturally in neutral, the resting expression of control. But tonight the face showed hunger. Raw, impossible to disguise.
The mirror showed him a man dressed for a date. He closed his eyes. Opened them. The man was still there.
