I have been dreaming a lot lately, vivid dreams about Summercove, something I haven’t done since I was a little girl. When I was younger, at least once a week I would dream I was there. Perhaps Jay and I would be crouched on the beach, picking out shel s, our bottoms wet from the sand as the sea crashed around us. Or we’d be on the lawn, chatting with Granny as she deadheaded the roses or picked the lavender. Or playing backgammon with Arvind, at the old table on the stone patio. Sometimes the sound of the sea would rush through my head so loudly I would rise into consciousness, a powerful sense of disappointment coursing through me, as I realised I was back in the flat in Bryant Court, dark and smel ing of damp and fish, the dul light of a cold West London morning creeping in through the curtains.

I felt safe in Cornwal . I felt safe with my grandmother. She wasn’t afraid of anything, and I think, more importantly, she understood her daughter.

One summer, when Mum eventual y joined us in Cornwal , Granny had found out – I don’t know how – from Jay about the week in Lisbon, and more stuff, like the parties she’d have, how she used to leave me alone in the evenings, and she slapped her. Actual y slapped her.

It was late at night, on the terrace; I was trying to sleep in my bedroom high above the house, but their voices woke me. I could hear them, whispering at first, then gradual y louder.

‘She’s terrified, don’t you ever leave her again,’ Granny hissed. ‘You selfish little—’ I think she cal ed her a bitch.

‘Why don’t you mind your own business,’ my mother spat back at her, and I could hear it in her voice, that she was drunk, her words slurring slightly. Mum didn’t often drink much; she couldn’t hold her alcohol, stil can’t. ‘Why don’t you leave me to bring up my daughter my own way.’

‘I’d love to.’ My grandmother’s voice was silky. ‘Believe me, I would love to.’

‘Listen. I don’t need your help – you’re the last person I’d go to for help on how to bring up – up . . . bring up their children.’ There was a pause.

‘I mean, we both know that. Don’t we?’

The only answer was my grandmother laughing, low, heavy. ‘You’re drunk, Miranda.’

‘I’m stil better than you. Even after everything I’ve done. I’m stil better. And I know it, and it kil s you, Mummy.’

Slap. A slicing sound, like the crack of a whip, in the dark. I lay there, completely stil , terrified they would notice the open window above them, know I could hear them . . .

When I open my eyes again, it’s morning, or so I think, and I realise I’ve been in the middle of a dream about Summercove again, listening to Mum and Granny argue. I am instantly wide awake, clutching the sheets, rigid, as I remember where I am and who’s with me. I give a little moan.

Oli stirs in his sleep, rol ing towards me and scooping me up so he is curled against me and we are like two prawns. I can feel his morning erection through his boxers, poking against my thighs. He clutches me to him, and I turn my head to see his eyelashes fluttering. He makes a sound, like ‘Mmm?’ but I slide gently away from him.

‘Hey, hon,’ Oli murmurs. ‘You OK?’ He’s stil half-asleep. ‘Good,’ I whisper softly. ‘Just a dream.’ I kiss his ruffled hair, and curl into his chest, and close my eyes again, my hangover from last night kicking in. Just a dream, a false memory of something that you misremembered, you don’t need to worry about it.

‘Tha’s al right then,’ he says croakily. He takes my hand and squeezes my fingers, kissing them gently, and then kisses my neck, my ear, as I lie against him, my head on his shoulder.

Oli moves my hand down his torso, so my fingers bump against his erection. It’s done so seamlessly I’m almost surprised. He smiles, his eyes closed, pushing his thumb against my fingers, opening them up and guiding them so they curl onto his hard cock. ‘Good morning,’ he says again.

His other hand slides over my vest and then under, and he squeezes one of my breasts, his hands clutching my flesh, warm and sweaty. He sighs. ‘Oh, Natasha . . . babe . . .’ He arches his back against my hand, trying to rouse himself even further. ‘Mmm,’ he murmurs again.

I am stil half-asleep, can stil hear the voices of my mother and grandmother shouting at each other. My brain is not ful y in gear, not questioning everything, and so I don’t think, I just carry on stroking him, loving the feel of him again, the warmth of the bed, of his body next to mine. It just feels good.

He stops and pul s the duvet over us, and at the same time he takes off his boxers and pul s my pyjama bottoms down, sliding them off seamlessly, curling himself against me afterwards, so I can stroke him, and he can kiss my skin, rub me with his fingers. He pul s my vest aside again, nibbling on my nipple, and then he stops, and I stop, and he looks at me, panting, under the duvet. I want him. I know I want him.

‘Come inside me,’ I whisper, and he grins, boyishly, and nods. ‘Lie back, babe,’ he says. With barely any preamble he’s between my legs, rubbing his cock against me. He does this for a minute, and then wraps his hand round himself.

‘Oh, Natasha,’ he says, his slight frame shuddering as he pushes inside me. ‘Oh. Oh.’ He buries his head over my shoulder, and I can’t see his face.

Suddenly, everything’s changed. I feel nothing. I am wide awake now, and it’s different. Oli leans down to kiss me. His breath is stale, rank, his mouth is open, his eyes are half-closed. I can’t do it, I can’t kiss him, I pretend to arch my back and tilt my head. He puts his hands on my hair, pul ing it, and I cry out.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘You’re pul ing my hair, darling,’ I say. I look down, and see I’m stil wearing my thick green bedsocks, as he moves inside me.

He hasn’t noticed.

‘It’s so good, you’re so good,’ he tel s me. ‘I’m so close . . . how about you?’

I want to shout with laughter at the idea that I too am on the verge of orgasming wildly after thirty seconds of sex, but instead I pul his fingers away from my hair. I just want it to be over. He puts his hands either side of my head and pumps away. I count in my head. One . . . two . . . three . . .

four . . . five . . . six . . . seven . . .

‘Ooooh!’ Oli comes, crying out, his voice high, rising at the end of his shout. He always shouts, incredibly loudly, I’d forgotten because it’s been a while; in fact, it’s been over two months since we had sex. He lies on top of me, panting. I can’t feel him inside me. He’s squashing me. I am thinking about this, and then I suddenly realise that the last time he had sex was with someone else. He has done this with someone else more recently than with me. Been inside another woman. Kissed her, stroked her, fucked her.

He pats my back, his hands moving gently across my skin, as his penis slides out of me, and his fingers are warm and soft on my spine.

‘That was good,’ he says, elongating the last word. He blinks, smiling. ‘Thanks, darling. Thanks a lot.’

He is so sincere, and his fingers are lovely, knobbling the bones in my back. I am going to be sick. I rol away as he’s stroking my breast with his other hand, and I stand. Oli looks up at me, surprised. ‘I’m going to have a shower,’ I say. I walk out as he flops back onto the bed, his slimy cock like a slug against his pubic hair as if crawling away in disgust. I go into the bathroom and shut the door, and then I throw up.

Chapter Thirty-Five

‘So – what have you got on today then?’

Oli stands in front of me, decked out in a new change of clothes, showered and shaved. I pul my knees up so they’re under my chin, hugging myself. I desperately want him to go, but I say politely, as if we’re old friends catching up, ‘I’m seeing someone about doing my stal again, and I’m meeting Cathy for lunch. Working on the new col ection.’ I remember the photos Ben took last night, the girls in the bar with the lovely necklace. My stomach swoops, my head pounds. What have I done? On both counts, what the hel have I done?

We both pause, and neither of us says anything for about five seconds, which is a terrifyingly long time when it’s a silence like this. Eventual y, Oli says, ‘I’d better go—’

‘Yes,’ I say, and I nod eagerly. ‘So—’

‘Yes,’ Oli says. ‘Look, Natasha, about last night—’

‘This morning, I think you mean,’ I say. ‘Wel , both,’ he says. ‘I was drunk when I rang you. I’m sorry. I know you were angry, and I know you didn’t want me to come round, and I should have understood that.’

God, he’s clever, apologising for it like this. ‘Look,’ I say. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t have done it. But—’ I hold out my hands. ‘Oli, you know what? It was real y good to see you.’

Oli shuffles on his feet, as though he doesn’t quite know what I’m getting at, what my move is, but I’m just tel ing the truth. The truth is, I’m lonely. I stil miss him, it’s surprising to me that I do. But then, if it was up to me this wouldn’t ever have happened, and then I realise we’re back to where we were, two weeks ago, and nothing’s changed. Except . . .

A jolt of memory passes through me.

Except I kissed Ben last night, and I don’t know if that was an even bigger mistake. I rub my forehead, wishing . . . wishing I hadn’t done it. Is that what I wish? Because Ben was one of the few good things in my life, a friend, someone who I could talk to about anything, who made me laugh, who got my family, my situation, my life. And now he’l probably never speak to me again, and I don’t blame him. I blink and screw my eyes up, remembering what he said to me last night. I can’t go over it again in my head, it’s too – it’s too painful.

‘You OK?’ Oli says. ‘I’m fine.’ I clap my hands together gently. ‘I’m just a bit hungover, that’s al .’