He groans. ‘God, Bells, what’s got into you?’
‘Nothing . . . yet,’ I reply with a smirk.
He pulls back and looks at me with surprise.
I immediately realise that I shouldn’t be so forward. This wasn’t how Bella acted with him. I grin, trying to brazen it out. ‘What?I told you this year I was going to be more fun. This is me, trying.’
‘Well, I like it. But I really have to go. You know what Dad’s like when I’m late.’
‘Go.’ I make a shooing motion.
‘I’ll try to get away early. Then we can carry on where we left off. You’ll call me later?’ he asks, already halfway out the door. ‘Or, you know, we could meet at the pub after?’
‘Pub sounds perfect. Text me when you’re done.’
He slips out, with one last bemused look, and then I’m finally alone.
Once the door slams behind him, I feel the whole flat shift and settle, like a lake surface smoothing after a boat has left the shore. I stretch out decadently in Bella’s king-size. It’s such a luxury to sleep on an expensive mattress, rather than Mum’s saggy sofa bed. When I was little, Mum would say, ‘Don’t get used to things, love. Everything changes in the end.’ I somehow don’t think this is what she meant.
The thought of Mum back home in her flat alone on New Year’s Day brings me down, so I push away the image and instead let myself marinate in the memory of last night – the dark tangle of Reece’s hair in my fingers, the sharp clean smell of his aftershave, the way he looked at me with that weird, soft awe. I’ve never been the object of awe. Desire, sure – hunger, sometimes – but not awe.
I try not to think about Zac. But of course, I do. I think about the way he used to pull me up against him like I was a bear he’d won at a funfair. He’s not built like Reece – he’s thinner, paler, always a bit hunched, as if he suspects that any moment the world might swat him away. I go through the list of last night’s disloyalties and count them off on my fingers. I don’t feel as guilty as I should. Or maybe I do, but it’s too late for guilt.
I sit up and take a sip of my coffee. Even my morning beverage tastes expensive – a little too strong, but I could get used to it. Bella has one of those bean-to-cup machines that probably costs more than the average person’s monthly rent. I press the side of the mug to my cheek, savouring the warmth, and stare out at the view from Bella’s window, which is mostly rooftops and a pale slice of January sky.
The flat is absurdly, impossibly quiet. No toddler shrieking from next door, no arguing couple upstairs, no creak of central-heating pipes, no tinny radio in the background. Even the fridgehum is soft and expensive-sounding, like an executive toy rather than an appliance. I take my coffee and walk around the flat just to feel the warm wood floors beneath my feet. I run my hand along the furniture, like touching it will make it more real.
The rest of the morning passes in a delicious haze of laziness and satisfaction. I shower in the beautiful, oversized jewel-green cubicle, letting the rainfall showerhead soak me from top to bottom. I tip my face straight into the deluge and let it flood my nose and eyes, feeling like I could drown right here and be happy about it.
I use too much of Bella’s shampoo. It comes in a frosted glass bottle with a label that reads, in tiny serif font, ‘Restorative Marine Cleansing Elixir’. I lather it through my hair and try to imagine what it would be like to have always lived like this. My hair smells like expensive holidays, like spa days and French mothers who call youma chérie. No three-for-two deals from Superdrug here. Even the water feels softer and less limescale-y.
Back in the bedroom, I towel off, take time styling my hair into soft waves, and dress in cream joggers and a soft navy sweater. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this relaxed and content in my life.
In the kitchen, I pour oat milk over a bowl of organic granola. I eat it slowly, reading the back of the box for lack of anything else to do. Every mouthful tastes like ‘wellness’ and ‘intentional living’. I let my mind drift. I do not, under any circumstances, allow myself to think about Zac or Mum again. Instead, I imagine my life stretching out before me like one of those time-lapse videos online. I watch myself ageing in this flat, growing more and more like Bella every day, until at last no one could possibly distinguish us.
That’s when the intercom buzzes. Just the once – sharp and insistent. My mind immediately serves up the memory of Mum’s old flat, how people would lean on the buzzer at all hours. Random kids, bored, pressing every flat’s bell at once; delivery guys wantingyou to take in someone else’s parcel; sometimes just strangers, lost, needing to get in from the rain. We learned to filter out the noise, even when it was intended for us. But here, in this world, no one buzzes unless they mean it.
That makes the buzz feel worse.
Maybe it’s someone trying to break into the building.
The buzz comes again, longer this time. I look at Bella’s phone – no new messages, no missed calls, nothing on the building’s WhatsApp group. I let the granola go soggy in its lake of milk and listen to the silence that follows, waiting for the third buzz that will prove it’s not a mistake.
It comes. It could be one of Bella’s friends. But what if it’s not? My peaceful frame of mind is evaporating fast. I know I should answer it. Put myself out of my misery, but something is telling me not to.
A few moments later, the buzzer sounds again, but this time it’s not tentative. It’s a long, insistent blast. After a couple of minutes, there’s a heavy pounding on the apartment door. Someone has let them in to the block.
This is where every cell in my body starts to panic.
I freeze, and for a full ten seconds, I am absolutely certain that I am going to die, or go to prison, or both. The world telescopes, sharp and focused – the nail polish chipped on my thumb, a couple of dropped coffee beans on the kitchen floor, the slow, cold seep of dread into my bones.
A man’s voice booms from the landing – deep and aggressive, not the sing-song tone of an Amazon or Sainsbury’s delivery person. Not the friendly banter of a friend.
‘Open up, this is the police!’
I drop the bowl that’s in my hands. It smashes – pottery shards, milk, and granola scattering across the oak floorboards beneath my feet.
My mind goes instantly and completely blank, the way a computer screen whites out after a crash. There’s a long silence as I try to process it. Then everything collapses inward, and my thoughts splinter into a thousand tiny, panicked questions.
