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orange streetlights illuminating the alleys I cut through. There weren’t many people around: a few dog walkers, a bunch of teenage boys and girls hanging out by the Lock, buckling under the weight of their facial jewellery. I walked past them and on towards Hampstead.
    When I got to number 54, I didn’t stop – just walked straight by, glancing to my right. The lights were off downstairs, but there was a light on in the first floor front room which I assumed was the bedroom: not a bright light, maybe a lamp, or candles. It was just before ten – too early for her to be in bed, surely?
    I walked to the end of the road then back, again sticking to the odd-numbered side. I lit a cigarette. I wasn’t sure what to do. I couldn’t keep walking up and down, could I? I felt sick. Should I go and knock on the door? No, of course not. What excuse would I give? There were none.
    I thought it would be okay to walk by one more time. I felt like there were hundreds of little butterflies going crazy inside me; a thousand newborn spiders wriggling in my stomach.
    I was about five houses down from Siobhan’s when her downstairs light came on. Very quickly afterwards, the front door opened.
    I ducked behind a car before anyone emerged. My breathing seemed so loud to me I was worried she might be able to hear it from across the road. But when I risked a glimpse around the car’s bonnet, I saw that the person who emerged wasn’t her. It was a bloke, a big, dark-haired rugger-bugger type. My heart sank.
    Then I heard the door shut, and the next thing I knew footsteps were coming straight towards me.
    I held my breath, wondering what the hell I should do. But then the footsteps ceased, and a car door opened and closed. The engine revved up and I peered through the window of the car I was crouching behind. I could see him in his car; a huge exhausted-looking man. He gripped the steering wheel and drove off.
    I memorised his licence plate number.
    And after all the lights had gone off in Siobhan’s house, I came home.

Chapter 5
    Siobhan
     
    Monday
     
As soon as he was through my front door, Phil told me that he and Lynn had split up.
    ‘Why?’ I asked, trying not to gloat visibly.
    ‘We want different things,’ he said. I nearly laughed out loud. That easy, catch-all, convenience excuse, like bands breaking up because of ‘musical differences’. In my opinion, couples should want different things. Life would be pretty excruciating if couples wore matching clothes, ordered the same things off menus, went to the same place on holiday every year for the rest of their lives because they both liked it. Of course I knew he really meant ‘she wants kids and I don’t,’ but I didn’t care. I didn’t even feel sorry for her, which surprised me. I suppose I always imagined myself as more empathic than that.
    ‘So the holiday’s off?’
    He nodded, looking so crestfallen that I forgot he was technically out of bounds now, and touched his shoulder. It made me shiver with possibilities and remembered sensations, the way his solid body felt underneath that stripy shirt. I’d forgotten that he always really turned me on – until we actually got down to it, that is. With Phil, the idea was always better than the reality: anticipation was everything. It’s weird how my body used to dupe me into thinking it was going to be great. I must be a sexual optimist, if such a term exists.
    ‘And what are you doing here?’ I asked. ‘You know I’m not a fan of unannounced visitors – what if the house had been a mess?’
    He half laughed, stretching out on the sofa the way he used to, having to bend his knees so his feet didn’t stick over the end. He was flattening all my cushions and I wanted to pull them out from under him and bang them together to fluff them up again.
    ‘Your house is never a mess, Shuv. I just wanted to talk to an old friend, that’s all. You don’t mind, do you?’
    An old friend? I’m not a sodding old friend! His