And then the rain starts to absolutely chuck it down, immediately muting the flames of the candles.
‘Leg it!’ Aled yells as the rest of them start making a dash for the skylight back to the apartment.
‘No! Wait!’ I call out. ‘We didn’t express our gratitude!’
But they don’t hear me. One by one they disappear down the stairs. Mrs Casablancas, the last one to leave, turns around. ‘You need me to stay?’ she shouts over the rain.
‘No!’ I yell back. ‘It’s fine. I’m good on my own for this part. Meet you all in the pub?’
Eyes twinkling, Mrs Casablancas lifts her hand in afingers-crossed motion and heads down the stairs and out of sight.
I take a deep breath, the rain now soaking me through, my hair clinging to my head, the periwinkle kaftan practically see-through.
I look up at the sky, mostly having to close my eyes because the raindrops are splattering my eyeballs.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper. ‘Please accept my …’
The sky flickers once, from a distance. And then again, a little closer.
It’s happening.
This is it. I look upwards to see pewter clouds rushing across the sky. Something is definitely happening.
With another dazzling flash of light and an outrageous boom of thunder, I run for cover beneath the gazebo at the far end of the rooftop, heart surging with hope.
‘Please, please, please,’ I whisper over and over, squeezing my eyes shut, fists clenched. ‘Please bring him back.’
And then, just as suddenly as it started, the storm halts.
I open my eyes, scan the vicinity. Then I run across the rooftops, not caring as I splash through the puddles that have formed in just thirty seconds of insane rainfall, the rainwater soaking my socks.
But I don’t see him. Not on the roof, not on the street below.
Leaving behind all the paraphernalia, I race back downstairs to my flat, pushing open the door, breath held in my throat.
But he’s not there.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
I wake up with the dull headache of a woman who drank an unreasonable amount of Aftershock shots last night and ended up at a house party in Paddington with some of Aled’s friends. Eyes glued shut, I catch a whiff of something both disgusting yet familiar and entirely unexpected – the scent of premium kibble.
My hand flies out for my glasses. I open my eyes and shove them on to see, sitting uncharacteristically patiently at the end of my bed, Squish, a green bedazzled ribbon around his neck, and – hanging from that ribbon – a small pink envelope.
I blink in shock.
‘Squish?’ I gasp as, in response to signs of life, Squish bunny hops across the duvet into my arms. ‘Squish!’ I bury my head into his soft warm fur and start to laugh. He squeaks with joy, short tail thumping against the blankets. ‘Hello, good boy! Hello! How’ve you been?!’
He plants a kibbly-scented lick on the lens of my glasses.
‘Hold still!’ I say, and he immediately obeys, while I untie the letter from around his neck.
Oh God. I halt, my stomach sinking. What if River readmy letter, decided he didn’t want to return and sent Squish back instead, on account of his accidentally stealing him and taking him to a parallel universe? And what if this here is his apology letter?
I grimace because, while I’m much, much happier these days, that scenario would be too mortifying, even for me.
I nervously tear open the pink envelope, my stomach dipping with nerves. I unfold the single sheet of paper, noticing, to my surprise, that the lines of handwriting across it are not River’s neat loop, but an unfamiliar, effervescent scrawl.
Dear Gertie,
