‘No.’ Fran laughs. Looks at her knees. ‘Course not.’

  Maths has always been a mystery to her. Numbers never do what she expects. They trick her, elude her. She has no qualifications worth shit.

  ‘You still seeing that guy Hugo?’ Lesh is asking.

  Fran shrugs. ‘For now, but … I don’t know.’ She takes another swig of beer. ‘I’d drop him in a heartbeat if I could see Jacob. If only I had his details. Fuck. Fuck. Why didn’t I get his full name? I messed up so badly. I can’t even stalk him on Instagram.’

  Alesha gives her shoulder a gentle shove. ‘Probably a good job. You have the worst taste in men.’

  ‘And you always go for the obvious. Look at Carl. Handsome and solvent. I mean, what’s wrong with you, Lesh?’ Fran rolls her eyes. ‘Couldn’t you go for someone a little fucked up, like a normal person would?’

  Alesha laughs. ‘I’m not looking for drama. And Carl knows not to touch my hair.’ She taps her painted nails on the bar rail, each one striped like a stick of rock in pink and white. ‘I like to be fussed over. Have my man buy me flowers and shit. You should try it sometime.’

  Fran concentrates on her jeans, rubbing a finger over a small stain. Dad used to arrive through the front door with armfuls of roses and lilies. Cora would always say something irritating like Oh, you shouldn’t have. Or Andrew darling, the garden’s full of flowers. Or, the most stupid comment of all, My goodness, what are these for?

  Dad would smile and say, ‘Just because.’

  And Fran knew. He gave because he could, for the joy of giving. For love.

  She misses him so much. But if he was here, she couldn’t bear the disappointment in his eyes. She applied to drama school just before his accident. He cracked open a bottle of champagne to celebrate the beginning of her career, never doubting she’d be accepted.

  Her scalp has begun to itch. She hasn’t washed her hair since she walked out of the audition. She gives in to the urge and scratches. Alesha throws her a sideways glance, brow furrowed. Jesus, that look again. A mirror image of Cora’s. Fran can’t get away from it. Even her best friend is a reminder. She may as well have ‘failure’ tattooed on her forehead.

  ‘So, Friday night?’ Lesh says brightly. ‘That new club in Dalston? We could invite Marsha and Lucy.’

  ‘Sure,’ Fran says, knowing she can’t afford the entrance fee. She can’t even afford to buy a drink. ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Great. You need cheering up.’

  They hug before parting, Fran breathing in her friend’s particular scent, the mix of coconut oil and lavender essence. She feels guilty about all the lies she’s been telling – Lesh doesn’t deserve it. She promises herself she’ll do better. A swinging braid tickles her cheek.

  She gets on a Central Line train. She’s using Luke’s Oyster card. The boy never goes anywhere, except school, so he won’t miss it. She leans against the end of the carriage, near the dividing door. The window is open and she inhales a rush of air, dense with shed skin and mouldy dust. She observes the other passengers, the ones sitting down, all of them staring at phones or folded pages of the Standard, and imagines herself in one of the seats, passed out, imagines Jacob coming over to her sprawled body, touching her shoulder. She has a horrible thought. Was her mouth open? Was she snoring? Or dribbling? God, she hopes he doesn’t think of her like that.

  The train screeches to a halt at a station, and she lurches to the side, banging her elbow. Who is she kidding? He doesn’t think of her at all.

  Queensway

  Every Friday before work, Cora gets the Tube to Queensway to meet Helena for a jog around Hyde Park. They’re stretching to warm up. Cora shivers inside her yellow running anorak as she kicks her foot up behind her, and pulls. There’s a light drizzle blurring the air, catching in her eyelashes. She holds the pose, enjoying the sense of lengthening in her right quad.

  Helena, sleek as a seal in black exercise tights and top, is windmilling her arms vigorously. ‘We doing five K today, then?’

  Cora grimaces. ‘I suppose we’d better.’

  At this early hour, there are only a few other joggers and dog-walkers around. The two women set off together down the path towards the Albert Memorial, keeping a steady pace. They usually loop around the perimeter of the park before doing a circuit of the lake.

  ‘God, I hate running,’ Cora says.

  Helena laughs, ‘You say that every time. Maybe we should do something more entertaining to keep fit.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Salsa dancing? Bouldering?’

  ‘I vote for Salsa. Best outfits.’

  As they near the Gothic extravaganza of the memorial, the sound of traffic from Kensington Road gets louder, and Cora feels a stitch starting under her ribs. She glances up at the lonely figure of Prince Albert on his plinth, washed with rain. ‘He was only about forty when he died, wasn’t he?’ she pants, as they run past.

  ‘Forty-two, I think. Poor Victoria. Left a widow when she was still young—’ Helena turns her head towards Cora. ‘God. Sorry, Cora! That was thoughtless of me.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Lots of women lose their husbands too young. I’m not the only one.’

  The path is slightly uphill and both women lean into the gradient, arms pumping. ‘Are you going back to internet dating?’ Helena asks breathlessly. ‘I know that last date was a disaster, but—’

  ‘No,’ Cora says. ‘It’s not for me.’

  ‘Then how will you meet someone?’ Helena leaps across a puddle. ‘You shouldn’t be put off by one wanker.’

  ‘London’s full of people. You can meet someone anywhere.’ She waves a hand. ‘The Tube, even.’

  ‘Nobody ever met anyone on the Tube.’

  They run on in silence, their breath coming harder, feet keeping time as they cross the top of the lake at Long Water and head down Buckhill Walk. Cora’s stitch has become a tight pain cramping her side; she grits her teeth. ‘Actually, I have,’ she gasps. ‘Met someone on the Tube. Fran met him first.’ Her feet thud over the path, ‘Well. He found her. Brought her home and—’

  ‘Stop.’ Helena slows to a walk, her hands on her hips. Her cheeks are flushed. ‘What are you talking about? You’ve met someone?’

  Cora slows too, panting, and digs her thumb between her ribs. ‘No.’ She winces. ‘I mean, he’s too young for me. But he just kind of turned up in our lives. Because of the Central Line, of all things.’

  ‘What?’ Helena shakes her head. ‘You’re not making any sense. Let’s forget the rest of the run. Get out of the rain and have a coffee. This sounds way more important.’

  ‘Nothing’s open yet …’ Cora protests, wishing she hadn’t said anything. Helena is on a mission to get Cora paired up. She’s not going to let this go without an interrogation.

  ‘The Lodge Café is. Come on. Race you there.’

  Helena dashes off, her dark ponytail swinging behind her. Cora sighs, and follows. All her energy has dissipated and she can hardly keep up with Helena’s determined figure.

  Over her cappuccino, Helena leans forward, eyes wide. ‘Tell me the whole story,’ she orders. ‘From the beginning.’

  Cora explains everything, leaving out her feelings, because how can she explain something she doesn’t have words for?

  ‘God, that’s exciting.’ Helena sits back, looking pleased. ‘A toy boy. Just what you need, some energetic sex.’

  ‘Stop it!’ Cora shakes her head. ‘We bumped into each other and went for a drink. It’s not a big deal. And anyway, I’m pretty certain I made an idiot of myself. I was flirting. He was probably mortified.’

  ‘Rubbish. You might be out of practice, but you’re a catch for any man, and don’t forget it.’

  ‘He’s coming over on Saturday to fix my bike.’

  ‘Aha!’ Helena raises her eyebrows. ‘Now you tell me!’ She swirls her teaspoon through the froth on her drink and licks it. ‘That’s such an obvious excuse to see you again.’

  Cora makes an annoyed noise. ‘Or he just wants to mend my bike.’

  Helena shakes her head sorrowfully, ‘Darling, you’re in denial, and I understand. You’re scared. It’s not surprising. It’s been a long time since you’ve had a man in your life. But don’t be. It’s obvious he’s interested. He’s going out of his way to see you.’

  ‘I can’t honestly tell if he likes me or not.’ Cora looks into her cup, ‘But I … I do like him. And you’re right … it’s the most frightening thing that’s happened to me for a long time.’

  Helena’s eyebrows arch. ‘Admitting it is the first step. So this is progress. Good.’ She tilts her head to one side. ‘And how is Fran in all of this? Do you think she’s learnt something from having to confront her rescuer?’

  ‘I hope so.’ Cora sits up straight. Her leggings are damp. Her top sticks uncomfortably to her skin. ‘She was quiet around him. I think she was embarrassed.’

  ‘So she should be!’ Helena snorts. ‘You’re too lenient on her.’

  Cora shakes her head. ‘I know it might seem that way, but she’s had a difficult time since Andrew died. You know how close they were. He meant the world to her.’

  ‘But you can’t mollycoddle her for ever, Cora.’

  ‘I don’t …’ Cora sighs, breaking off. ‘She’s always been young for her age. Impetuous. Volatile. But something’s going on with her at the moment. I’m worried. She’s avoiding me, just mopes in her room.’ She bites a fingernail. ‘She hasn’t had any kind of acting job for ages. It’s hard – all those rejections. She seems to have lost her sense of direction. Her ambition.’

  Helena smiles, ‘She’ll sort herself out. Don’t worry. Not everyone can be as driven or efficient as you.’

  ‘I’m not driven.’

  ‘It’s not an insult!’ She grins. ‘When you lived in Suffolk, you made your own jam from fruit grown in your own garden. In my book, that’s efficient. And now look at you – after everything you went through, you’ve reinvented yourself. You’ve got a great job and you’re managing as a single mother.’

  ‘Badly.’

  ‘Just accept the compliment. You’re the most capable person I know.’

  ‘That’s not true. I wasn’t always like that … you know what happened after I had Fran,’ Cora says in a low voice.

  ‘You were ill. That’s different.’

  ‘You sound like Andrew used to.’

  Helena smiles. ‘Because it’s true.’ She puts her hand across the table to rest it over Cora’s, and squeezes.

  On her way home, Cora stands with the other commuters in the swaying carriage. Telling Helena about Jacob has made her anxious, made her feel somehow exposed. Since Andrew, she hasn’t looked at another man, until now. She’d forgotten how vulnerable it makes you feel.

  Just thinking about a new relationship is exhausting. She was with Andrew for such a long time, it was as if they were one person. He became her whole family after her parents died, and he understood why she wanted to have a baby as soon as possible. It seemed a simple thing. She took it for granted that she’d be a good mother.

  Cora opened her eyes into darkness. Warmth was spreading under her, wet between her thighs, a circle of damp on the sheet. Her back ached. Bands of steel tightened around her stomach.

  ‘Andrew,’ she shook his shoulder, ‘wake up, I think … it’s started.’

  He turned, groggy with sleep. ‘But … you’re four weeks early.’

  They got to the hospital just in time; no chance of birthing pools or epidurals, the birth was fast and brutal. When they placed a creature on her chest, red-scrunched, slippery with white, Cora had only moments to stare into her baby’s face before they took her away. In the premature ward, days had no edges and the endless nights drifted on. Fran wasn’t strong enough to feed; they put a tube up her nose held down with pieces of tape that puckered her skin. She developed jaundice, and they placed her in a heat box, naked on her tummy, a blindfold around her eyes. Cora watched her inside that Perspex container. It looked like a tiny coffin.

  When she could hold Fran at last and they placed her in her arms, Cora sat stiffly, balancing the heavy head with its thumbprint pulse. Fran stared up, her no-colour pupils sliding in opposite directions, eye muscles too weak to focus.

  ‘It’ll be lovely to have her at home with you,’ the nurses cooed, but Cora felt only terror at the thought.

  Cora just has time to shower and change before work. As she pulls on her clothes, she thinks how presumptuous she’s been to think of Jacob in that way. Poor man. Falling prey to the overactive imagination of a middle-aged woman. She gives herself a stern look in the mirror. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Cora Pollen.

  Fran is in bed. Cora thinks she should warn her about Jacob coming over on Saturday. She might still be embarrassed about meeting him. She knocks and puts her head into the room, ‘Fran? Darling? I need to talk to you …’

  Fran remains unmoving, insensible under the covers. The room smells stale. Piles of dirty clothes litter the floor. ‘Fran?’ Cora waits for a second, sighs, and closes the door.

  Luke’s at the kitchen table eating his cornflakes with a physics book propped up in front of him. He pushes at the bridge of his glasses.

  ‘How’s the revision going?’

  He shrugs. ‘Good.’

  ‘Darling, can you tell Fran I need to talk to her this evening? Tell her it’s important. Okay?’

  Luke grunts and turns a page.

  ‘Luke? Okay?’

  He sighs. ‘Okay. I heard you.’

  She drops a kiss on his hair. There’s no time for breakfast. She’ll pick something up on her way in.

  The rain has cleared and the sky is a milky blue. Early pink and white blossom shines through sunlight. Cora is tired. She didn’t sleep well last night, excited about Jacob coming over and worried about Fran. She takes a last gulp of loveliness before going down into the Underground.

  On the train, she wonders what to do about Fran. Everything she said to Helena is true. Her daughter seems to be stuck. But how can she help her when Fran avoids being in the same room? Cora’s tried to explain that success doesn’t usually come easily – that it’s not just about talent, it takes perseverance and self-belief and luck. But in her heart, she knows Fran is on the wrong career path. She’s afraid her daughter doesn’t have enough acting ability to make it. But how can she tell that to someone who’s spent her whole life planning to be a star?

  Uxorious. A man who loves his wife too much. Is there a word for a father who loves his daughter too much? By being a doting father, Andrew unwittingly set Fran up for a fall. And now he’s not here to catch her.

  Marble Arch

  With Cora at work, and Luke at school, Fran is alone during the day. She wanders the echoing rooms, grateful for the lack of expectation, the privacy of the empty house. Luke has left his breakfast bowl in the sink, a mush of leftover cornflakes gloopy in the bottom. Weird how he’s so anal about his room, but in the rest of the house he’s a slob. Fran grabs a carton of orange juice from the fridge and swigs a gulp. She wipes a dribble off her chin. There’s a note on the table in Luke’s neat writing: Mum wants to talk to you tonight. She says it’s urgent. He’s underlined the word urgent.

  Fran crumples the paper into a ball and drops it in the bin.

  She opens the kitchen window a crack and lights up a rollie. She takes a drag and blows the smoke towards the dazzle of blossom beyond the glass.

  Her phone beeps. It’s Alesha. See you tonight! Shall we meet in Zuzu’s Bar by the station at 8.30?

  Fran takes another drag. She can’t bail too soon. Lesh will be suspicious. She sends: Yes! Can’t wait.

  Her phone pings again. Hugo on WhatsApp. My place. Tonight.

  An order, not a question. Fran shuts the window, stubs out the disintegrating remains of the cigarette. At least she’ll be out of the house. Going to Hugo’s doesn’t cost money. She might even be able to stay over. He sometimes lets her.

  She runs a bath, washes her hair and soaks until there’s no more hot water in the cistern. She tugs a comb through the tangles, blasts it with Cora’s hairdryer and chooses a red silk mini dress with a Chinese collar, purple tights and her DMs. She draws on dark eyeliner and red lipstick. In the mirror, she sees that she is transformed. She remembers that she’s attractive. Fanciable. She wishes Jacob could see her like this.

  She judges that she can dip out of her plans with Lesh now. Sorry, babe. I’m PMS-ing. Feeling awful. Going to bed with hot water bottle. Have a good one!

  Alesha sends back a concerned, disappointed message and lots of tiny hugging emojis and hearts. Fran thinks she should feel worse about lying to her best friend. But it’s hard to feel anything at the moment. Her emotions are blanketed with something dense and woolly and suffocating. The only thing that’s got through the fuzz is him – the only feelings she has are the ones for him. She asked the cards about him, and the answer she got was pretty clear: the Lovers and the Two of Cups: the union of two people, the joining of one with another. But where is he? How is she going to find him in this sprawling city? Can she really rely on fate to deliver him to her again? She writes his name on the bathroom mirror, using her lipstick, and then scrubs it out with her palm, leaving magenta smears across the glass.

  Luke puts his head round her bedroom door. She’s in the middle of spritzing herself with perfume. He holds his nose. ‘What happened to the mirror?’ he asks without real curiosity. ‘Mum will go apeshit. She wants to talk to you.’

  ‘I know, dummy. You wrote it in your note.’

  He wrinkles his forehead, looking weary. ‘Nobody can say I didn’t pass the message on.’

  Friday-night rush hour. The Underground is busy. She squeezes onto the first train that arrives and pushes her way inside. At each stop, passengers cram in behind her, and she’s forced to shuffle further into the carriage. Something sharp catches her calf. She lets out a gasp and glances down to find a home-made placard resting on her leg. Gingerly she stretches her hand down past her knee, pushing the object away. The corner is splintered. She feels a tiny opening in the fabric of her tights; her finger touches skin. She huffs, straightening and glaring at the boy holding the pole attached to the placard. ‘Your sign just ripped my tights.’