Although what was the point of that? After his nasty comments, he felt like a stranger with whom I shared a few memories. Not all of them good.

  When he finally spoke, his voice wavered, deflated. “Not being ready, not knowing me well enough, those aren’t the only reasons you didn’t accept, though. Are they?”

  Another voice, as familiar to me as my own and brimming with honest-to-god sincerity, crept into the corners of my mind. For me, it’s always been you.

  Could I have overlooked Cav’s faults? Settled for second best? And for how diminished he made me feel? Or had I been right to take a chance and walk away?

  For me, it’s always been you.

  Milo. Everything always came back to Milo. But what if that didn’t turn out?

  Yet what if it did?

  “No. I’m sorry. They weren’t the only reasons.”

  “So tell me what are? We can try again, can’t we? We can work on things. I can change. I can…” His voice shook as he turned back to look at me. No, not to look at, to fucking beseech me. “I could… control myself better. Get some help perhaps for my… moods.”

  Oh God. Those square shoulders, so proud a few minutes before, were hunched and beaten. “We’re a good team, Mungo. We can work on stuff. Because going through life together, we fit.”

  “I don’t think we do, Cav. You’re great. Honestly. And this coming to an end—” I waved my hand between us as if a vague gesture could sum up our entire year together. “It’s killing me, too. But I don’t think I’m the right person for you. And it’s better we realise that now, isn’t it? Rather than several unhappy years down the line?”

  He wrapped his arms tightly around his middle, holding himself together. I’d never seen him cry, but his eyes were awash now. “Have you met someone else?”

  “N… no.”

  A fraction of a beat too late. My gaze slid away from him.

  “Not exactly,” I qualified.

  Not strictly untrue. I hadn’t met someone else, because someone else had always been there. Someone who spent lazy Sunday mornings lounging in bed, instead of conquering the pavements and his metabolic rate, one faddy diet at a time. Someone who, when the rain poured outside, invented ridiculous names for cocktails while dressed in a hula skirt, for no other reason than to make me laugh. A man who collected stale crusts to feed to the ducks. A man who regularly faced down a cokehead, his wife, a feckless gambling addict, and every fucking ignorant homophobe who ever had the misfortune to accost him at Euston Square tube station, despite standing knee-high to a grasshopper. A man who scared, infuriated, and excited me in equal measure, and who took me right to the very edge of reason just because he fucking could.

  But more than all that, a someone who was my very best friend. And he’d told me he loved me. And I missed him. More than I’d missed Cav.

  “Not exactly? What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means I can’t… I didn’t love you as much as you deserve.”

  Just like that, his expression rocketed from hurt to anger to venom. He marched over, roughly brushing off his tears. “I don’t believe you. You’re fucking someone else, aren’t you?”

  I shook my head. “No! Of course I’m not. I would never do that.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Mungo.”

  Humiliate Cav once, in a restaurant, and with a prevailing wind and much grovelling, he might come to terms with it. Twice, and he’d burn down his own house if it destroyed the object of his murderous rage. Suddenly, I saw that clearly, as he towered over me, like I should have seen it every time he pressed me too hard against the wall of the shower in the name of teasing. Or in those playful slaps, always a little too sharp, when he pretended to be cross with me after I’d left a pan soaking in the sink instead of immediately washing it up. Or like now, as he bent down and gave my shoulder a vicious prod.

  I shoved his hand aside. “Hey, get off. That hurts.”

  “Look me in the eye and tell me you haven’t been shagging someone else.”

  “I haven’t, I swear. You know I wouldn’t. You know me.”

  Dry-eyed now, his cold pupils glinted, boring into me as if trying to steal my soul. “Do I? I’m beginning to think I never knew you at all.”

  He prodded me again, and I twisted away against the cushioned sofa. My pulse skittered, like a frightened rabbit. God, I was pathetic. Sixteen stones of cringing weak-willed cowardice.

  “It’s that little shit, Milo, isn’t it?” he snarled. “You’re always looking at him. And wouldn’t that be so fucking perfect for you all?”

  The prod turned into a clamp, his fingers digging and twisting around my collarbone.

  “Ow! I said don’t do that! Knock it off!” Furiously, I stood, pushing him away. “I’m not fucking anyone else, okay? I promise. I would never cheat on you. Cav—listen. Maybe we need to…”

  “You lying fucking cunt.”

  An open-palmed slap landed on my cheek. An unexpected searing pain, been and gone before I’d had chance to process it. I staggered back on waxy legs, my arm reflexively covering my face.

  “Don’t believe you. You’re a fucking cheating cunt.”

  The second, with his other hand, connected harder. Milo would have punched him back then clobbered him in the nuts, to hell with being a foot shorter. Yet, like the snivelling coward I was, I ducked away from him. “Get off, Cav! I’m telling the truth!”

  “No you’re not. You’re a pathetic, lying piece of shit. Come on, Mungo, are you too pathetic to hit me back?”

  The next one connected harder, a closed fist into my exposed flank, stealing the breath from my lungs. I forced a gasp, something that should have been instinctual. Then he did it again. My fists tightening, I reared up. One punch, or a kick, and he would stop.

  “Go on, hit me,” he goaded. “You’re fucking pathetic, Mungo. Big strong guy like you, too afraid to hit me back? Go on, hit me, you cheating cunt!”

  “No. Cav. Stop. I don’t want to hit you! Let’s talk about this like adults. I said I’m sorry, all right?”

  “Not until you stop lying to me.”

  Another thud, dead centre in my solar plexus, and any thoughts of hitting him back evaporated. Dizzily, I clawed for air, but then he kicked me in the balls, forcing me on my knees. The light on the coffee table spun. His strength shouldn’t have surprised me; he was in good shape. My vision clouded. I tried to focus on the skirting board, where the wall began, and the floor ended. His Krav Maga instructor would have been so proud. After one more brutal kick to my ribs, I didn’t remember much of anything.

  CHAPTER 15

  MILO

  A whole hour passed since Tristan’s visit, two since I decided to ignore his good advice. I didn’t give a fuck what everyone else thought was prudent. Mungo White was my specialist subject, and he needed me. I sensed it in my bones. He’d lost his partner, his home, and the future he’d mapped out with both. He required consolation and loving care from his best friend, even if that best friend happened to be elated by the turn of events.

  His best friend also harboured a sneaking suspicion he’d become a bit of a social pariah.

  Since the engagement debacle, I’d heard nothing from Frankie or Maddie. What if they were pinning the blame on me? And correctly? Perhaps I’d been wrong about Cav, that my suspicions about him stemmed from nothing more than plain and simple envy? Sour grapes, as Frankie had warned? What if, right now, Mungo should be bickering with Cav over wedding venues and matching buttonholes, instead of mourning the fag end of a relationship that should never have been extinguished in the first place? What if, all along, Cav had been the right man for Mungo, and my intervention had planted seeds of doubt? And those seeds of doubt, which shouldn’t have been sown in the ground in the first place, had mushroomed into a humungous tree? Rammed with big fat woodpigeons, dropping tonnes of shit on Mungo from a great height?

  There was only one way to find out. I texted him. When he didn’t respond, I phoned. When it went to voicemail, I Snapchatted, Insta messaged, composed a friendly email, even fired up my long-dormant Facebook account. Nada. At this point, perhaps most people would get the message. But I wasn’t most people, and neither was Mungo. He stepped forward when everyone else stepped back. He'd shown me how to behave like a normal, well-adjusted, and productive member of society, how to fit in, that my family hadn’t broken me, that I was someone worthwhile, despite their best efforts. And my saviour was hurt. So, until he told me to my face I was no longer welcome in his life, I’d keep trying.

  I sensed this thing was much bigger and nastier than any of us had appreciated when I phoned the unfamiliar and dreary Conveyancing department, where he worked. I affected my work voice (a toned-down and poshed-up version of my lispy gay voice), only to discover he hadn’t been at his desk for the entire fucking fortnight. And his doctor had signed him off sick for another two weeks.

  Snapchat Maps—why hadn’t I thought of Tristan’s little trick sooner?—showed him at the penthouse. Thirty minutes later, I was there myself, buzzed in by the friendly concierge who knew me by sight.

  “Mungs, it’s me, and I’m coming in. If you don’t want to see me, then say something now, and I’ll go away, but I… I… you know me, respectful of your need for personal space but nosy as fuck. It was killing me not seeing you, but if you want me to piss off, then… oh, shit. What the hell?”

  We stared at each other from either side of the threshold. Or rather, I stared at Mungo, horrified, while he stared at the doormat separating us. An ugly red blotch stained his cheekbone. Another, harsh and purple, climbed out of the top of his towelling robe. He stood oddly; his left arm wrapped around his middle, protecting himself. The towelling cord of his robe swished around like a tail, he trembled so fiercely.

  “I’m… I’m fine,” he muttered. “Honestly, it’s not as bad as… Just… not feeling too good.”

  “You… who… Christ, Mungo. Have you been in a fight?” As I squinted at him, dumbstruck, he pressed a hand to his forehead. He couldn’t quite believe it himself either. His eyes filled with tears.

  “Shit, Mung…”

  “Don’t say anything. Please don’t say anything.” Swaying, he took a step backward. “I didn’t want anyone to see me like this.”

  “Where’s Frankie? And Lys? Have they been burgled? Have you been…?”

  “They’re away for the night. Honestly, I’m fine… Cav… he… we just…”

  My belly plunged. Oh God, please, surely not. “Cav did this to you?”

  He braced against the wall in defeat, waxy face sheened in sweat. “He… he takes martial arts classes.” Mungo’s voice broke, and he shook his head slowly, like it really fucking hurt, or might even fall off. “Cav… we had a row. He hit me. And I let him. I deserved it. It’s fine. It’s just… the shock. I’ve had worse playing rugby.”

  I clapped a hand to my mouth; surely, I was going to vomit. Sick to my stomach, disoriented even, my whole understanding of how the universe worked tipped on its head. Aghast, I stared at my bestest friend in the whole world, the person I adored the most.

  “But you… you’re…” Tears welled in my eyes from nowhere. Unasked questions pressed down on me. He was your boyfriend. He loved you. How could he? How hadn’t I known? Why didn’t you say?

  Pushing himself off the wall, Mungo lurched toward the sofa, almost falling, crumpling into it. “There’s some stuff I should probably tell you. About me and Cav. But I’m… not… not now.”

  I took a few deep breaths, trying to clear my head. Some stuff he wanted to tell me? Was he saying this wasn’t the first time?

  Fuck, I knew how the world worked. I was a qualified lawyer, for Christ’s sake, even if I had steered far away from that area of law. With my own personal insight into abuse. I’d held a ringside view at a shitty marriage for eighteen years. Some stuff? My mum had sucked it up for thirty and still wasn’t ready to spill the beans.

  All those times I’d seen Cav and Mungo out together. All those times Cav had made me feel uncomfortable. The subtle interactions. The excuses for leaving early. Mungo’s quietness. I should have spotted it, shouldn’t I? The signs had been there all along. Why the fuck hadn’t I joined the dots? Coming from my background?

  But I knew why. Young Danny would know too. And his brother, Simon.

  Because domestic violence was piss easy to cover up. A way of life for many families. Health Visitor knocks at the door? Give her a cup of tea served in the sole un-chipped mug and bring out the chocolate digestives. Tell her how well the kids were doing at school. Butter wouldn’t fucking melt. Social Services come calling? Long-sleeved sweater to hide the bruises, a slash of bright lipstick, and divert her by moaning about the steep council tax bill. And keep schtum.

  An old friend suggests you’re not yourself these days? Get into a quarrel with him about it? Easy. Avoid him as much as possible.

  Skidding over the floor, I knelt at Mungo’s feet, clutching his thighs. “Listen, Mungo. You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to. Or you can tell me everything. It’s up to you. Take your time.” I brushed his wet cheek with my thumb. “But open your eyes and look at me, and listen. It’s over. He’s gone. You’ve got me now. And I’ve got your back. Forever.”

  Frankie’s bathroom cupboard was a well-stocked pharmacopeia, chock-full of pill bottles neatly lined up, like soldiers on parade, ranked with the weak stuff at the front, which I flung aside to get to the good shit at the back. Lysander’s comprehensive drinks cabinet was similarly organised. I took a few necessary moments in front of both to get my act together. Mungo needed my help. As a friend, his best friend. The past was gone, and the future could wait. The only important thing now was to care for him.

  “Shall I drive you to the hospital, to get checked out?” I asked gently on my return. “It would be sensible, to make sure there’s no serious damage?” Mungo lay curled on the sofa, making himself as small as possible. A wealth of experience told me I already knew the answer.

  “No. I’ll be fine.”

  “Did you… did you lose consciousness? Bang your head or hurt your neck?”

  He shook his head, as if demonstrating. “My head and neck are fine. I was dizzy that’s all. After he…” He indicated to his lower belly. “It winded me. I’ll be fine.”

  A mighty useful coverall, fine. Adaptable to suit most situations. In this one, it was code for I’m broken.

  “Okay. No hospital. But drink this down and swallow these. You’ll feel better and they’ll help you sleep. Do it for me. Please.”

  By the time I’d found a duvet and a couple of cold compresses, the aged malt whiskey and an array of painkillers were kicking in. He looked fragile and younger. Defeated.

  “Are you warm enough?”

  He nodded, despite shivering so hard the glass of whiskey rattled against his teeth. Like a black-and-white photograph, a lock of dark hair hung over his forehead, the skin underneath as pale as porcelain.

  “Can I get you anything else? Is there anything you want me to do?”

  “Stay with me. That’s all.”

  Like I’d ever leave. After tucking him in, I settled on the floor with my back to the sofa and a hand in his. I gave it a squeeze.

  “Sleep, Mungs. I’ll be here if you need me. Today, tomorrow, for as long as it takes.”

  CHAPTER 16

  MUNGO

  I woke to Milo’s voice, low and serious-sounding, coming from one of the bedrooms. Lifting my groggy head to the noise, every cell in my body screamed, and like shards of glass slicing through my wounds, memories of last night came roaring back. Cav’s flushed features after he hit me the first time and my inability to hit back, the pain in my belly and ribs, his grim determination to put me on the floor, his final, brutal lashing-out. My complete and devastating shock. Before I had time to smother it, a pathetic moan escaped my lips.

  Milo’s phone conversation halted abruptly, and he came rushing back in.

  “I’m here, sweet. You’re okay.” At my side once more, he brushed my hair from my clammy forehead, and I swallowed down a bubble of hysteria. “I was only on the phone to Frankie and clearing my absence from work. Let me get you a drink and some more painkillers.”

  I sunk back against the cushions, wrung out. Thanks to Milo’s combination of booze and pills, I’d slept long. I knew that much from the golden sunlight streaming through the windows, but my overloaded brain felt no more rested. My body still shuddered; my soul still felt like it was crumbling. There weren’t enough painkillers or whiskey in the world to anaesthetise that.

  Some things hurt more, much more than vicious kicks and harsh slaps. Long after Cav had left, I lay unmoving on the shiny parquet, curled up like an overgrown, trembling foetus. Stunned. Battered and bruised on the outside, loathing myself on the inside. I didn’t want to get up, didn’t care if I never got up again. Everyone could carry on with the unremarkable business of living. I’d simply lie there and let my entire belief system—who I was, what I stood for, how well I thought I knew myself—crumble around me.

  Until Milo pounded on the front door, as if pounding on my skull. For me, it’s always been you. I needed to try to remember that.

  As I closed my eyes again, a bucket of ice-cold shame splashed across my face. Shame for pretending not to notice the toxicity in my relationship, shame for choosing not to stand up for myself. Shame I didn’t fight back. Shame I’d been exposed as so utterly, utterly weak.

  “I don’t want to see Frankie,” I managed, my throat rasping and dry.

  “You’re not going to,” Milo answered, still stroking my hair. “I told them you had norovirus and it would be in their interests to keep away for forty-eight hours. They didn’t need asking twice. Lys was staying in Oxford for another night anyhow—Frankie’s very happy to work from there.”