‘You think you should have stayed?’ Melissa asks for the bill, and waves away my attempts to get out my purse. ‘My treat.’
I’m careful with my response, not wanting to give her the wrong idea. ‘I don’t think that now; I love Simon, and he loves me. I count my blessings every single day. But I threw away a good thing the day I left Matt, and I know the kids think the same.’
‘Katie and Simon get on well though. They were thick as thieves over Sunday lunch, talking about Twelfth Night.’
‘Katie, yes, but as for Justin—’ I stop, realising I’m monopolising the conversation. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve made this all about me. Have you tried talking to Neil about how you feel?’ But the vulnerability I saw on Melissa’s face has vanished.
‘Oh, it’s nothing. He’ll get over it. Midlife crisis, probably.’ She grins. ‘Don’t worry about Justin. It’s completely natural; I loathed my stepfather for no other reason than he wasn’t my dad.’
‘I guess so.’
‘And don’t worry about Katie, either, with this Isaac chap. She’s got her head screwed on, your daughter. Brains and beauty, that one.’
‘Brains, yes. So why can’t she see that it would make sense to get a proper job? It’s not as though I’m telling her to give up on her dream; I just want her to have some insurance.’
‘Because she’s nineteen, Zoe.’
I acknowledge her point with a wry smile. ‘I suggested to Simon he might be able to get her some work experience at his newspaper, doing theatre reviews, but he wouldn’t even entertain the idea. Apparently they only take graduates.’ That had stung; that Katie’s clutch of hard-won GCSEs wasn’t enough even to work for free. ‘Can’t you pull some strings?’ I asked Simon, but he’d been immovable.
‘She’s an adult, Zoe,’ Melissa says. ‘Let her make her own decisions – she’ll soon learn which ones were right.’ She holds open the door for me and we walk towards the Tube. ‘I might not have brought up a teenager, but I’ve employed enough of them to know that if you want to make them do something, you have to make them think it’s their idea. They’re a bit like men, in that respect.’
I laugh. ‘Speaking of which, how’s Justin getting on?’
‘Best manager I’ve ever had.’ She sees the doubt in my face and loops her arm through mine. ‘And I’m not just saying that because you’re my friend. He turns up on time, hasn’t got his fingers in the till, and the customers seem to like him. That’s good enough for me.’
She gives me a hug before heading off on the Metropolitan line back to the café, and I feel so buoyed up by our lunch that the afternoon passes in no time at all, and even Graham Hallow’s pomposity doesn’t take the edge off my feelings of positivity.
‘Hello again.’
It’s twenty to six; the Underground packed with people who would rather be anywhere but here. I can smell sweat; garlic; rain.
And I know that voice.
I recognise the confidence in it; the rich tones of someone used to being the centre of attention.
Luke Friedland.
The man who saved me from falling on to the tracks.
Falling.
Did I fall?
I have a fleeting, half-formed memory; the sensation of pressure between my shoulder blades. It all seems like a blur, and longer – far longer – than twenty-four hours ago.
Luke Friedland.
Yesterday I practically accused him of stalking me; today I’m the one stepping on to a train in which he’s already standing. You see? I tell myself. He can’t have been following you.
Despite my embarrassment, the back of my neck is prickling so badly I feel as though everyone must be able to see the hairs standing up. I run a hand across the nape of my neck.
‘Bad day?’ he says, perhaps mistaking my gesture for stress.
‘No, good day, actually.’
‘That’s great! I’m glad you’re feeling better.’ He has the over-cheery tone of someone who works with children, or in a hospital, and I remember his suggestion yesterday that I might want to speak to the Samaritans. He thinks I’m suicidal. He thinks I tipped myself towards that train on purpose; as a cry for help, perhaps, or a genuine attempt to end my life.
‘I didn’t jump,’ I said. I’m speaking quietly – I don’t want the whole carriage to hear – so he manoeuvres his way past the woman in front, to stand next to me. My heart rate quickens. He puts his hand up to hold the rail above our heads and I feel the faint brush of tiny hairs, like an electric charge between us.
‘It’s okay,’ he says, and the disbelief in his voice makes me doubt my own story. What if I did jump? What if my subconscious propelled me towards the track, even as my brain sent messages saying the opposite to my body? I shiver.
‘Well, this is my stop.’