He’s standing too, hanging on to an overhead bar with his other hand. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You shouldn’t leave it where it can trip people up.’

  ‘Difficult to manage in here.’ He smiles. There is a gap between his teeth. He has curly light brown hair, a short beard and blue eyes. His clothes are stylishly scruffy: workman’s jacket, a scarf tied around his neck.

  ‘Bloody hipster,’ Fran mutters under her breath.

  ‘You should join us.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You should come along to one of our demonstrations.’

  ‘Are you in a cult or something?’

  He shakes his head, ‘We were protesting against fur farms today.’

  He looks so righteous that she snaps, ‘And what about people’s rights? Don’t those matter?’

  ‘Of course,’ he says easily. ‘There’s a march for refugees next Saturday. Meeting at Parliament Square at one o’clock, if you’re interested.’

  The train pulls in to Marble Arch station with a screech. ‘I’m not,’ she says, giving him a last glare before turning her back, stepping through the sliding doors.

  There are lots of people in the flat, all strangers to her. Hugo gave her bottom a squeeze when she arrived, but since then he’s ignored her. House music blasts out of the customised sound system. She sits on one of the sofas with three other people. They’re doing coke, taking it in turns to kneel at the glass coffee table. One of the coke-heads – a thin, balding man with an expensive watch on his wrist – turns to her and grins, indicating a line all ready to go. She shrugs and gets onto the floor, bends over, sweeping her hair out of the way, and snorts. The hit is pure. Immediate. A spark igniting behind her eyes. A flood of energy cruising through her blood.

  ‘I fucking love your dress,’ a woman tells her, wiping powder from her nostrils.

  ‘I love yours too,’ Fran says.

  ‘You’re gorgeous,’ the balding man says, putting his hand on Fran’s purple thigh. She looks down at his soft fingers and manicured nails.

  There is dancing. Hours of sweaty, pulsing, frantic dancing. The balding guy grabs her hips and pulls her close. A beautiful creature appears in the crowd. An androgynous angel. ‘Maxime, darling,’ he says into her ear, when she asks his name. ‘I’m Maxime.’ He turns and twists around her for a while, sinuous, gorgeous as liquid smoke. Dark eyes and curling hair and thick, sensuous lips. ‘Your dancing is fucking amazing!’ she calls over the beat. ‘I’m with Rambert,’ he says, scooping shapes out of the air with his arms. Then he’s gone.

  She licks powder off her teeth, wipes it off her chin and sucks her hand. After the dancing, people gather in corners and on the sofas, and there’s talking. Fast, clever, urgent talking, and everything is just really, really fucking funny. She stares into a blur of faces and mouths. A hollowness opens in her belly, a roiling, as if she might be sick. She wants Hugo. He’s the only person here who’s familiar. She searches for him, stumbling from room to room. He reappears in the kitchen with his shirt untucked and lipstick on his cheek; Fran slips her thumbs into his belt loops, relieved. ‘Stay with me,’ she whispers. Her heart is hammering as if she’s run a sprint with Usain Bolt. She puts a hand to her left breast, pressing down the surge of blood, the rapid judder of her pulse. The muscle of her heart wants to leap through her chest, burst out of her skin and escape her body. She can almost see it, a squat purple frog jumping across the carpet, leaving a trail of her blood behind. She can’t die here, in Hugo’s flat, surrounded by wasted strangers.

  ‘Want to make me happy?’ Hugo murmurs, kissing her neck.

  She nods.

  ‘Charlie likes you. He likes you a lot. Could you go and give him a cuddle?’

  Fran is confused. ‘Charlie?’

  Hugo nods. ‘The guy who’s been giving you powder all night. You could pay him back with some affection. How about it?’

  ‘Oh no, I …’

  But then Charlie is there, next to her, and he’s draped his arm around her shoulders and is nuzzling her neck, just where Hugo was a moment ago. Hugo is moving away, looking back, winking. Is he winking at her, or Charlie?

  ‘Ready for another bump, gorgeous?’ Charlie asks.

  The sudden snore wakes her. Like someone choking. She turns her head on the pillow, blinking up at the mountain of a shoulder, and realises it’s a man with his back to her. There’s a concertina of creases at the bottom of his neck, the dome of a head with one ear visible, sticking up. Reddish hair sprouts across his freckled arms and back. He smells of stale alcohol and sweat. She pushes herself away from him across the crumpled sheets, blinking again as if she could change the view.

  Her mouth is rancid. Her eyes raw. She gets up as quietly as she can and gathers her clothes from the floor; clutching them to her belly, she opens the door, glancing back at Charlie. His puckered, wet mouth is open; he snores gently, cheeks inflating and deflating with his breath. It would be funny, if she hadn’t slept with him.

  She pads into the hall. The place is hushed, dark because the blinds are still down, stuffy and fetid with the smell of last night. Hugo’s housekeeper can’t have come yet. She slips into the bathroom, splashing her face with water, rubbing at the worst of her smudged eyeliner and mascara, then dresses as quickly as she can. She goes to Hugo’s room and opens the door a crack. He’s in bed, sprawled on his back, naked, his cock a curled creature between his legs. There’s someone with him. She looks at the slender, muscular dancer’s legs, the curve of ribs etched with a tiger tattoo, the dark head resting on Hugo’s chest. He opens one eye, looking right at her, a lazy smile on his lips. Maxime-darling. She blushes, ducking out of the room quickly, as if she’s the one caught out.

  Of course Maxime would be Hugo’s trophy for the night; it’s his habit to collect interesting people – there are always a few artists and eccentrics mixed in with the privileged ex-public-school crowd.

  She slips out of the flat and into the lift, pressing the ground-floor button. She knew Hugo liked men too. It’s not a surprise. He said right at the start that he didn’t do conventional relationships. But she can’t think about it now. She just needs to get home and take a shower, wash away the stink of the night. Wash away Charlie.

  As she leaves the building, squinting into the morning light, she takes out her phone. There are messages from Lesh with pictures from last night. The girls posing for selfies at the bar. Lesh blowing her a kiss. Missing you! It’s like looking through a portal into a different world. Somewhere innocent and far, far away. Fran clears her throat. She’s got several texts from Mum. Shit. Did she tell Cora she wouldn’t be back? She’s pretty sure she remembers texting to say she was staying over with Lesh. She clicks on Cora’s messages, all sent yesterday evening, scrolling to the last one.

  Why didn’t you wait to speak to me? Luke left you a message. I bumped into Jacob earlier this week. He’s coming over Saturday morning to fix my bike. Have a good time with the girls. X

  What the fuck? Fran can’t believe what her mother is saying. She rereads the message several times. He’s coming to fix her bike? Saturday. That’s this morning! She didn’t think her heart was capable of more. This isn’t the drug-induced hammering of last night. This is the alarm of shock. Like a gong, it reverberates through her skeleton. She flushes hot and then cold.

  ‘Shit.’ She dithers on the pavement. She doesn’t know what to do. She tugs at the tangled mess of her hair, presses the creased silk of her dress over her legs. She sniffs her skin, the residue of sex and coke. She half turns as if to go back to Hugo’s. ‘Damn. Fuck.’ She turns again, and begins to stumble towards the Tube. Cora hasn’t said what time he’s arriving.

  Maybe she can make it home before he gets there.

  Shepherd’s Bush

  There are smears of red grease over the bathroom mirror. Lipstick, Cora guesses, as she wipes it off. Jacob is due any minute. She stares at herself in the newly clean glass. Her stomach is in turmoil. She puts her hands either side of her face and stretches the skin upwards and back, giving herself a mini facelift. Helena has Botox in her forehead. Maybe she should get some too. Erase that worry line between her eyebrows that seems to get deeper every day. But Cora doesn’t like the idea of snake venom injected next to her brain. The front door slams, and she drops her hands and runs to the top of the stairs.

  Below, Fran is kicking off her boots, breathing heavily. She’s wearing a dress so short it could be mistaken for a belt, and her purple tights have a ladder running from ankle to thigh.

  ‘Fran.’ Cora starts down the stairs. ‘Did you get my message?’

  Fran stares up at her mother, her hair falling in listless tangles around her pale face. ‘He’s not here yet?’

  Cora shakes her head, surprised by the tension in her daughter’s voice. She must be nervous at the prospect of seeing Jacob. Cora smells the sour stink of alcohol on her, the bitter aftertaste of a wild night.

  ‘Where were you last night?’ she asks. ‘You smell like … like a brothel.’

  Fran gives a humourless laugh. ‘If you’re asking if I had sex, then yeah. But don’t use words like brothel, Mother. It makes you sound like you’re from the Dark Ages.’

  ‘I thought you were staying with …’ Cora knows there’s no time for this. She bites her lip. ‘Oh, never mind. Fran …’ She hears the pleading note in her own voice. She swallows. ‘Let’s not argue.’

  The doorbell rings.

  Fran hisses between her teeth, pushing past to escape upstairs. The house rattles with the force of her door slamming. Cora settles her shoulders, tidies her hair with her fingers and continues down towards the hall, but Luke has got there first.

  She grasps the banister, watching her son open the door. Jacob is on the step, smiling, putting out his hand. They shake. She can’t hear what’s being said, but a burst of easy laughter reaches her, and she releases a breath she didn’t even know she was holding.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, standing at the foot of the stairs, suddenly shy, and aware of Luke watching her. Jacob is taller than she remembered. Open-faced; energy vibrates around him, shines from his skin. She thinks of her flirtation the last time they met and vows to do better – she will be grown-up, casual. Normal.

  ‘I’ve brought my tools.’ He holds up his rucksack. ‘Is it the sad-looking sit-up-and-beg chained to your front railings like a beaten dog?’

  She nods, ‘’Fraid so.’

  ‘That’s no way to treat a bike.’

  She can’t help grinning. ‘I know. But otherwise I have to lug it up the steps and through the house, down the steps into the garden and—’

  He holds out his open palm, ‘If you give me the keys, I’ll bring it through. It’ll be easier to work on it at the back. If that’s okay?’

  She nods again. ‘Don’t you want a coffee or something first?’

  ‘Later would be great, thanks.’ He turns to Luke. ‘Want to help?’

  Luke twitches his mouth. ‘Sure.’ He trails after Jacob.

  Cora watches them through the open front door as they squat to unlock the chain, Jacob checking the tyres and shaking his head. They bring the bike into the hall, Luke clearing objects out of the way, chatting as if they’ve known each other all their lives. They’re talking about football. She stares after them. Luke is actually engaging in a conversation. And she didn’t know he still cared about football. He hasn’t mentioned it for years, not since Andrew died and they moved to London.

  In the back garden, Jacob sets the bike on the paving stones. He asks for a ground sheet or some old newspapers, and she finds him a tarp from the cellar, dank with mildew and alive with spiders. She can’t remember what its original purpose was: something to do with Andrew and his machines – his motorbike, or the sit-on lawnmower needed for the Suffolk lawn. In the kitchen, as she puts out home-made flapjacks and taps freshly ground coffee into the moka pot, she watches them from the window, kneeling next to each other by the upside-down bike, sleeves rolled up, heads close. Luke passing tools to Jacob.

  The sound of the pump whirs through the water pipes. Fran in the shower. The coffee is ready, and Cora is wondering about taking it out to the garden when Jacob and Luke come into the kitchen. They’re laughing, waving oil-stained fingers. Luke has a black smudge on his cheek. It’s good to see him behaving like a normal boy.

  ‘Where should we clean up?’ Jacob asks.

  She points them to the sink and the bar of soap, and fetches a towel from the back of the door.

  ‘Jacob says I’m a natural,’ Luke says, rubbing suds between his hands, looking pleased with himself, glancing at Jacob for approval.

  ‘Yeah, Luke fixed the brakes himself,’ Jacob tells her as he dries his hands. ‘Both sets had gone. We’ve oiled the chain and pumped the tyres, haven’t we, Luke?’

  ‘Now you’ve left me with no excuse for not cycling to work.’

  ‘You need a cover for it too, Mum,’ Luke says. ‘It’s really rusty.’

  ‘Yes.’ She feels a twinge of shame. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t looked after it very well.’

  Jacob sniffs the air. ‘Coffee smells good.’

  Cora pours him a cup. ‘No sugar?’ she asks, remembering how he took his tea. ‘And is oat milk all right?’

  ‘Yes to both questions.’ He takes the cup from her. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’ve got homework,’ Luke says as he pads out of the kitchen with a fistful of flapjacks. ‘See you, Jacob.’

  ‘See you,’ Jacob calls after him. ‘Don’t forget. We’re going to thrash you this weekend.’

  ‘Never,’ shouts Luke happily.

  Cora raises her eyebrows.

  ‘It’s a football thing.’ Jacob takes a sip. ‘Bright boy,’ he says. ‘He said he wants to study physics at UEA?’

  She nods. ‘He’s got the brains in this family.’ She wants to tell Jacob that Luke has missed time with his dad, that messing about with bikes and talking about football has brought colour to her son’s cheeks, a new light to his eyes. But that would imply all sorts of things she couldn’t possibly voice. She glances at the helmet dangling from his rucksack, says instead, ‘My husband bought my bike for me when we lived in the country. I never really used it there either. The narrow lanes terrified me. You never knew when a tractor would be coming at you – or a car driving on the wrong side of the road.’

  He clears his throat and puts his cup on the table. ‘Cora,’ he begins. ‘I wondered if—’ His mobile starts to ring. He grimaces and fishes it out of his pocket. His expression darkens when he looks at the screen. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘I have to take this.’

  He walks out of the kitchen into the garden. She watches him talking earnestly as he paces back and forth. Then he puts the phone back in his pocket and turns towards the house. Cora starts guiltily, and moves towards the table. He comes back into the room and sits down, picking up his cup. ‘Sorry about that. Thought for a moment I might have to go and sort something out, but it’s okay.’ He smiles over the rim as he raises it to his lips and sips, puts it down and says, ‘Now, where were we? I was going to ask you—’

  ‘Jacob?’

  Cora startles at the sound of Fran’s voice. She’s in the doorway, a fall of freshly washed hair loose over her shoulders. She looks like a Pre-Raphaelite painting come to life. Nobody would know she’s the same girl who stormed in wearing ripped tights and the stench of an all-nighter. She’s got her boyfriend jeans on, the waistband loose on her slim hips, legs rolled past the ankles. There’s a glimpse of naked skin between her jeans and her plain black T-shirt; her feet are bare.

  ‘There’s coffee in the pot,’ Cora tells her.

  Fran pours herself a cup and settles at the table, flicking back her hair with a practised toss. She gives no sign of the hangover that must be crashing through her head.

  ‘I hear Mum’s dragged you here to fix her rusty old bike?’ she says, crossing her legs. She wiggles the toes of her dangling foot. She’s inherited Andrew’s long, narrow feet, Cora’s high arches.

  ‘It was the other way round,’ Jacob says. ‘Once I knew a bike was in distress, I had to insist on saving it.’

  Fran laughs. She takes a sip of her drink. ‘Ouch! Hot!’ She licks her lips, and touches her mouth with delicate taps of her fingertips. A sudden tension hums between the three of them. ‘By the way, Mum … Luke said he needed to talk to you,’ she says.

  ‘Now?’ Cora glances towards the door.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Excuse me a minute,’ Cora says to Jacob.

  She goes upstairs and puts her head inside Luke’s room. He’s not at his desk. Across the landing, the bathroom door is closed. She steps towards it and gives a quiet knock. ‘Luke? Are you okay?’

  There’s no answer. She waits on the landing, folding some sheets in the airing cupboard for something to do; the quiet murmur of Jacob and Fran’s voices rises from the kitchen. A chain flushes and Luke comes out of the bathroom. He looks surprised. ‘Mum? What are you doing?’

  ‘Oh, just hanging around the airing cupboard for fun,’ she says brightly.

  ‘Are you joking? Or have you finally gone senile?’

  ‘Fran said you needed me.’

  He looks blank. Then puzzled. ‘Oh. Has … has Jacob asked you, then?’ he says hesitantly.

  ‘Asked me what?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He sighs, looking disappointed.

  ‘Hang on.’ Cora frowns, confused. ‘What are you talking about? Luke? Asked me what?’

  ‘Just say yes,’ Luke mutters. ‘When he asks. Please.’ He yanks his jeans up higher on his narrow hips and lopes into his bedroom, shutting the door.

  Cora makes to follow, questions on her lips, but Fran is shouting from the hallway, ‘Mum! Mum, Jacob’s going now!’