‘I got some croissants in Marks yesterday in case we’re hungry, Natasha, do you want one?’

‘No, thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Are you sure?’ She stares at me. ‘It’s a long journey. You look rather tired.’

‘I am tired,’ I say. ‘I had a long night yesterday.’

‘Single girl, out on the tiles!’ she says, with an attempt at jol ity, but she’s trying too hard and her voice sounds a bit hysterical, as though she’s sorry for me. ‘Good for you! Was it that?’

‘Something like that,’ I say. I can’t bear to go into it with Louisa. The truth is I just want to be off, for this day to be under way, so that last night can begin to be a dim and distant memory. Last night, and today. Once today’s over, then the future can begin.

‘Oh, Natasha. You’re wearing that lovely ring.’ Louisa smiles, her eyes glistening. ‘It was Franty’s, you know. She gave it to Cecily, the day she .

. . the very day she died. Poor Aunt Frances.’

I glance at the Bowler Hat but he doesn’t betray any flicker of emotion. Does he feel guilt at al ? Or is he just used to this, every day? It occurs to me that perhaps he must be.

Louisa says, ‘It is lovely. How sweet of you to wear it. Where did you get it from?’ She asks this without rancour.

‘Arvind gave it to me,’ I say. ‘So I felt I ought to wear it today.’

‘Wel ,’ she says, looking at the Bowler Hat and then at the croissants. ‘It’s lovely that you are.’

I want to agree.

I went back to the studio last night, to get it. I wish I hadn’t, in a way. I wouldn’t be feeling like this today if I had.

I’d left, about six-thirty, to go and meet Cathy and Jay for a drink, and halfway down towards the Whitechapel Road I’d remembered and turned back, with an oath. Work is real y busy this week which is great, but I wasn’t anxious to spend any more time in the studio where I’d been since eight that morning.

I’ve been working that out, these last few weeks. And ‘Cecily’s Necklace’, as I’ve cal ed it, the charm necklace model ed on the ring and those charms I designed, has been reordered twice now, by Emilia’s Sister and by PipnReb, and another shop, this time on Cheshire Street, has asked if they can stock me – they cal ed me, not the other way round, which is amazing. Most amazing of al , someone claiming to be from Liberty came to the stal and bought a whole load of stuff on Sunday. It was only my first week there – I’m stil in shock. It’s the necklace with Cecily’s ring, they al want it. It’s like a sort of good-luck talisman.

So I was a little reluctant, therefore, to revisit the studio where I and Maya, the scary design intern I’ve hired, had been slaving away al day putting the necklaces together, but I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t. Today is important, and I wanted to wear Cecily’s ring for it.

Back at the studio, the writers’ col ective was having one of their readings in the basement, which normal y meant a piss-up starting at about five; I’d managed to avoid it, but it was clearly stil going on, and I could hear people chatting, laughing raucously, as I walked past. I didn’t turn the light on when I got to my studio; it was stil just light outside, and I dashed in to pluck the ring off the counter where I’d left it. As I was locking up again, I heard a noise down the corridor and looked down to see Ben coming out of his studio with Jamie, the Sophie-Dahl-alike receptionist. They can’t have realised I was there.

She leaned against the railing and he came forward and kissed her, his hands on her face, her long, beautiful corn-coloured hair glimmering slightly in the evening light. Two plastic cups, their clear sides stained with cheap red wine, were stacked at their feet.

I always knew Ben had a crush on her, even though he denied it. He was fascinated by Jamie’s love life, we were always discussing it – even that night in the pub right before we kissed. Now I know why, I said to myself.

Luckily I didn’t have to pass them to get down the stairs, they’re at my end of the corridor. I just pretended not to have seen them and walked off. I didn’t want to embarrass Ben. I didn’t want to be embarrassed, is more likely the truth. But I was embarrassed. I burnt hot at the thought of it, as I scurried away; why?

The last time Oli and I had sex, that awful, deadening Friday morning, we didn’t kiss. I let him fuck me, and we didn’t kiss once. So Ben is the last person I kissed, I guess, and that thought makes me sad for al sorts of reasons, most of al shame that I wanted him to mix himself up with me and my messy life. I think about him and Jamie together, and I nod. Yes, it makes sense. Of course it does. And I feel glad that, every time I’ve thought about him since, about how good that kiss was, about his face, his eyes, his friendship towards me, how great it felt to be in his arms . . . I feel glad that I pushed it away, never let myself give in to it. It just means it’s easier now.

So as I hurried back down Brick Lane towards the pub, I tried not to feel sad, even though I couldn’t help it. But, as I reasoned to myself, one hand on Cecily’s necklace, it’s only natural. I think I persuaded myself into love with Oli. We both did. I should be careful about doing the same again. Next time, it’l be for ever. I’ve got to get next time right. Cecily didn’t have a next time. I do.

My mind is drifting towards the latter stage of the evening, when I am recal ed to the present, to the railway carriage, to the Bowler Hat, picking daintily over the croissant his wife has given him, long fingers taking up pastry flakes and careful y eating them. I look away, suddenly nauseated.

‘The train leaves in five minutes,’ Louisa says, looking out of the window anxiously. ‘Where is your mother, Natasha? She can’t miss this train, it’l be a disaster. She’s making the speech!’

She looks at me slightly accusingly, but I remain calm. Before al this, I would have felt guilt on Mum’s behalf. Now I don’t. If I was her I wouldn’t want to turn up at al , frankly. I don’t even know if she’s back – if she’s ever coming back. I can see why she likes being away, now.

Once again, my head shoots up as the doors open again. But it’s no one I know, a vast mum dragging two smal children with her. She plonks them into the seat behind us, puffing at the exertion, her face stained red. I look at the clock. 7:26. My mind drifts again.

* * *

‘What time is it?’

Cathy had asked me this question yesterday evening. ‘Nearly eight,’ I’d replied.

‘Exactly. So you can’t just run off. It’s been an hour! I thought we’d meet Jay and check out Needoo. You know, the new Tayyabs. I’ve not been before.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I’d said, swinging my bag over my shoulder and standing up. ‘I’ve got to get out of here . . . Sorry, Cathy.’

Dead Dog Tom’s was loud, crowded, hot, ful of girls much younger than me. It’s new and I’d been meaning to go for a while. But the moment I arrived, I knew it was a mistake. Not my kind of place at al . Asymmetric haircuts and big black glasses are one thing, but this was like an episode of The Hills, everyone tanned with perfect teeth, endless legs and beautiful hair – and that was just the guys. Cathy had just battled back from the bar with our second drink when I’d looked up and seen it.

‘Why?’ Cathy’s face was a picture of childish annoyance, like a little girl who’s been told she can’t go to the zoo. She pouted. ‘I want to tel you about our weekend away! I think he’s taking me to Southwold, we’re staying next to Benjamin Britten’s house, can you believe it?’

I touched her shoulder. ‘Cathy – it’s Oli,’ I said. ‘Look – over there. He’s – I’m sorry. I just, I just want to get out of here.’

Open-mouthed, Cathy turned. She looked over to where I was staring.

There, his elbows on the bar, hands waggling intently as he talked fast and low, was Oli. He was saying something to a girl with her back to us.

She had blonde hair, and was wearing a high-waisted tulip skirt, a puff-sleeved little shirt and tights with a black seam, and she was nodding at him.

‘Oh, my God,’ Cathy said. ‘It’s Oli! Bastard.’

As if by some kind of magic alchemy the music stopped and the thunderous chatter abated for a few seconds, the way there is suddenly a strange lul in a noisy bar. Cathy’s voice echoed around our corner, so loudly that Oli looked up and saw us.

Pushing himself off the bar, Oli stood up straight. He raised his hand as if in greeting and then, obviously thinking better of it, walked towards us, turning the handwave into a ruffle through his thick dark hair, which stuck up on end even more as a result.

‘Cathy,’ he said, kissing her cheek. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi,’ Cathy replied, leaning up on tiptoe to kiss him. ‘Look, I’l —’

‘I was just going,’ I said to him. ‘Honestly.’

‘I’l see you outside,’ said Cathy, vanishing discreetly towards the Ladies.

We stood on the pavement on Whitechapel Road. It was stil light.

‘Look, I’m sorry I haven’t cal ed,’ Oli said. He looked much younger. Dressed much younger, in a cardigan, jeans, plimsol s. I held up my hand.

‘No, it’s fine. I haven’t either. You got my email, about you maybe moving back into the flat, though?’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Yeah. It’s a good idea. If you’re sure?’

‘Definitely,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to go back there, honestly. How – how’re Jason and Lucy? You stil staying with them?’

A tiny hesitation. ‘Yep. They’re wel . You stil liking Jay’s?’

‘Yeah,’ I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder. ‘Went back to the flat the other day to get some stuff, saw you’d been back too.’

‘Yeah, me too,’ Oli said. ‘Needed a few more things. I guess we should . . .’

‘Yes, I guess we should,’ I said, not knowing quite what the next stage is with this. Instruct the divorce lawyer, say I’m going through with it?