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And then she thought of last Friday night. She thought of her mother calling her down for dinner and the two of them eating together in silence. She thought of getting into bed at midnight, still wide awake and listening to the sounds of Torrington on a Friday night—silent but for the occasional passing car. And she thought of that hollow feeling, that sense of uselessness and emptiness, that sense that nothing good was ever going to happen to her again that kept her blankly sleepless until one o’clock, and never thinking for a second that just a week later she’d be here. In London. Sitting in a deckchair in a garden in Ladbroke Grove. Living with a woman from Perthshire and about to have an adventure with a six-foot-tall session singer and a mysterious man called Flint.

And at this thought she felt her heart fill up with joy, and an incredible feeling of well-being suddenly overcame her. She closed her eyes and let the rays from the sun kiss her all over her face while the noises of urban life—the high-pitched squeal of black cabs, the rhythmic thud of distant bass, the sonorous rumble of double-decker buses, and the shouts and hollers of a nearby game of basketball—seeped into her consciousness like the soundtrack to some classic film that people had been recommending to her for years but she’d only just got around to watching. And now she was wondering why she’d waited so long.

“Bee,” she whispered to herself as she hugged all these feelings to her chest and realized that there was only one thing missing, “I wish you were here.”

Lol took Ana out again that night. They went for cocktails at a snazzy bar by a smelly canal next to a noisy bus station, full of loads more trendy types. Why did trendy types insist on hanging out in such grotty areas? They talked about Bee and they talked about Keith—who was currently holed up in a cottage in Cornwall trying to make the deadline on an astrology book he was writing—and they talked about their plans for the following day. Then Lol called a cab at ten, insisting that she and Ana both go home, get some sleep. They had an early start the next day.

When Ana got back to Gill’s that night, the little house in Ladbroke Grove was in darkness. She took off her snakeskin stilettos and tiptoed slowly up the stairs toward her tiny bedroom. As she neared the landing she saw that Gill’s light was still on, and as she approached her door she could hear music. And squeaking. And groaning. And sucking. And slapping. And banging.

Ana felt slightly shocked. Obviously there was nothing that shocking about a thirty-year-old woman having sex on a Saturday night, but Gill just hadn’t seemed the type, for some reason. There are some people in life who you can easily imagine having sex and some that you just can’t, and Gill definitely fell into the second category. She seemed too clean, too fresh, too sporty, too neat, the sort of person you couldn’t imagine pooing, or farting, or having smelly trainers, either.

When Gill came back from her lunch that afternoon, they’d chatted for a while, and Ana had discovered that Gill used to be a gymnast. She’d represented Great Britain at the Barcelona Olympics and had been working as a personal trainer at the local gym before the redundancy. The counseling course she was about to start was actually sports counseling (Ana had wondered what that was. “My swimming coach never hugged me”?), and Gill spent 90 percent of her free time at the gym and at the local swimming pool. Her fridge was full of energy drinks and yogurt and fresh fruit, and she had about ten pairs of dinky little size three trainers lined up in her bedroom, none of which looked like they’d ever been worn. She was wholesome and fit and the sort of person who made you feel like a big, smelly, unhealthy monster.

Which was why it seemed weird that she’d be doing something as base, animal, and generally messy as having sex.

Ana pushed down slowly on her door handle, trying desperately not to put Gill and her lover off their stroke. She eased open the door, gently hit the light switch, and was about to close the door behind her when the sound of male laughter made her suddenly stop in her tracks. Because it wasn’t just the sound of one man laughing. It was the sound of men laughing. Together.

As she stood in her doorway, statue-still, not knowing where to look, not knowing what to do, Gill’s bedroom door suddenly flew open, and there in the doorway, silhouetted from behind and absolutely stark-bollock-naked, stood a man. A big Black man. With huge muscles. And a shiny chest. And thighs so large that his legs didn’t close properly. His head was shaved and he had a little strip of goatee on his chin.

“Hi,” he beamed at Ana, cupping his rude bits with his hands. His voice was mellifluous and his smile captivating.

“Hi,” said Ana.

“Sorry. I—er—didn’t know there was anyone else in the house. I’m just—er—” He indicated the bathroom with embarrassed eyes and then skipped off down the hallway, the moonlight gleaming off his two perfect buttocks as he ran.

“Oh fuck. Ana. Sorry.” Gill appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a duvet, her hair all over the place, a cigarette in one hand and about as drunk as Ana had ever seen anyone in her life. “God. Shit. Fuck. I forgot about you.” She giggled and shuffled toward the door. “That was Tony,” she slurred, “and this”—she stepped aside and gestured toward her rumpled bed and a second naked man lying on it—“is… is—wash your name again?”

“Marcus.”

“Marcus,” she said, smiling and swaying. “Look. I hope we didn’t dishturb you, Ana. I mean—things must be tough for you right now. Her sister died,” she said, turning toward her bed to address Marcus. “She took an overdose and she died.”

“No shit,” said Marcus.

“Uh-huh.” Gill’s duvet was beginning to slip a little and Ana didn’t know where to look when a tiny little pink nipple suddenly popped out. “Look,” she continued, taking a big drag on her cigarette, “you should get ta bed. We’re finished in here now. We willn’t dishturb y’anymore. You sleep tight now, y’hear.” She gathered up her duvet and got onto her tiptoes and kissed Ana warmly but wetly on the cheek. “Night night. Say night, Marcus,” she said, turning toward the bed again.

“Night, Marcus,” said Marcus.

At which Gill dissolved into hysterical laughter and closed the door behind her.

chapter twelve

Ana’s alarm woke her up at eight thirty the following morning. She tried to turn over but her back screamed out in agony. She’d never slept on a futon before but had always been under the impression that they were supposed to be much more comfortable than normal beds. What a load of bollocks that was.

She could hear some kind of activity downstairs, and then she suddenly remembered last night—Tony, Marcus, Gill’s nipple. Jesus. Had that really happened? Really and truly? She slipped out of her bed and padded softly to the bathroom, looking around her gingerly for any errant naked men, but everything seemed back to what she supposed was normal. Early morning August sunshine streamed through the spotless windows, the air smelled of Ambi Pur and Mr. Sparkle, and Gill’s bedroom door was wide-open and displaying a gleaming white, freshly made bed.

After an invigorating shower she made her way warily downstairs, just in time to see Gill, her hair in a perky ponytail, her body encased in an immaculate little Ellesse gym ensemble, glugging down a glass of something golden in color and glowing like the healthiest woman in the world.

“Morning!” she chimed as she spied Ana coming toward her. “Juice?” she said, proffering the jug.

“What’s in it?”

“Mango, kiwi, papaya, egg yolks, and honey.” Gill counted off the ingredients on her fingers jauntily. “The best hangover cure known to man. Have some—it’s yummy.”

Ana nodded mutely and accepted a glass.

“There’s bagels, too. Fresh. I picked them up earlier on.”

Earlier on? Earlier on? How much earlier could it be than it already was? Ana was feeling strangely off-kilter. It was nine o’clock in the morning. A mere ten hours ago this woman had been off her tits and having sex with two men. And now here she was, up and about, buying bagels, making juice, and looking like the neatest, sweetest little PE teacher you could ever hope to meet.