‘His mother and sister got out, but now they’re somewhere in Greece. We’ve lost track of them. He worries about them all the time. Bad things happen to women alone in the camps.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Fran mutters again, feeling inadequate.

  ‘I just think we all need to help each other,’ Zac says. ‘If we can.’

  ‘Right,’ Fran says. ‘Thanks for educating me.’

  He grins. ‘Words come out of your mouth. But your eyes say something different.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. You try far too hard to be mean for it to be real.’

  ‘So what are my eyes saying, then?’

  ‘Maybe I’ll tell you one day. But right now, I’ve got to get back to the day job.’

  He waves his megaphone in a goodbye salute and pushes his way through the crowd. She can just make out the top of his head. ‘See you, Fran,’ his voice blares out.

  There’s laughter. ‘See you, Fran!’ a couple of voices echo.

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ she mutters under her breath, ducking her chin.

  Then he’s in her face again. ‘What’s your surname?’ he asks, panting slightly.

  She freezes. ‘Pollen,’ she admits.

  ‘Like flower pollen?’

  She gives a grudging nod.

  And he’s gone. Hurrying ahead, shouting out slogans, the rest of the crowd parroting him. Fran looks up to see the arches of the Ritz on her left, and immediately, Green Park Tube station. ‘Thank Christ,’ she whispers, slipping away down onto the platform, grateful for the normality of Saturday afternoon shoppers clutching bags, people staring at their phones or gazing into space, headphones buzzing at their ears.

  On the train, she slumps onto a seat, more tired than she can remember, her feet sore, lower back aching. That was a waste of time, she thinks, as she changes onto the Central Line at Bond Street. She never did see Jacob in the crowd.

  Shepherd’s Bush

  Sunday morning. True to his word, Jacob arrives early. Standing on the doorstep, he hardly says a thing, his attention all on Luke in the brief seconds he waits for him to shove his feet into trainers. Cora feels awkward. She can’t look him in the face.

  She watches the two of them disappear down the street, then turns back into the house, determined to get on with something useful. She found an old scratched wooden chair on the pavement a few days ago, lugged it home as a project. It’s a good piece of furniture that just needs some love and a lick of paint to give it a new life. Pre-loved. Everything deserves the chance to be loved again.

  She takes the chair into the garden and sets it on some newspaper, surrounds herself with equipment – sanding paper, chalk paint and brushes – and puts her earphones on, finding a comedy podcast to keep her amused. She’s done the hard preparation work, and is engrossed in applying the first coat of paint – a pretty cornflower blue – when she realises that Luke is back, and he’s wheeling a bike.

  She slips off the headphones, ‘You bought it!’

  ‘Jacob says it’s a bargain.’ Luke is holding the handlebars of a silver racer, ‘He’s going to help me sort it out. Get it road-ready.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s a good buy.’

  She startles, realising Jacob’s there. He smiles, nodding. ‘And you’re pretty handy with a paintbrush.’ He’s walking forward to look at the chair. She straightens, and they’re standing next to each other. He touches her forehead. ‘You’ve got some paint …’

  Her skin burns under his finger. She looks down, and is confronted with her tatty trainers, her old black leggings covered in dried paint splodges. She’s a mess. Maybe she should have made an effort, knowing he might come back to the house. She can’t think of anything to say. ‘Coffee?’ she asks finally. ‘Or tea?’

  He asks for coffee, but only if she’s having one too, so she goes into the house to make it for them both.

  ‘Do you mind if I stay for a bit and help Luke get his bike sorted?’

  She jumps. He’s come in behind her.

  ‘Of course not. It’s …’ She was going to say kind of you, but stops herself.

  ‘You’re learning fast,’ he smiles.

  The coffee hisses, spilling onto the stove, and Cora turns off the heat, pouring it into two cups.

  ‘If you live on a boat,’ she says, ‘does that mean you go off along the canal network? Travel the countryside?’

  ‘That’s a nice idea. But I’ve never done it.’

  ‘Do you like it? Living on a boat?’ She glances around her. ‘I’m not sure I could manage in such a small space.’

  He puts his cup down. ‘You should come over sometime – see it for yourself.’

  ‘Sounds … good,’ she manages.

  Luke’s voice comes from the garden, calling for Jacob.

  ‘Think I’m needed,’ he grins.

  Cora joins them. Hours pass in the garden. Fran hasn’t appeared. She must be sleeping in as usual. The three of them are engrossed in their separate projects, exchanging idle conversation as they work, calling out across the grass to each other with comments about what they’re doing, and in Luke’s case, plying Jacob with questions about his work, about the London Underground. He’s a boy who collects facts.

  ‘Yes,’ Jacob is saying. ‘Underground stations were used as air-raid shelters in the Second World War, but what lots of people don’t know is that the Central Line was converted into a fighter aircraft factory that stretched for two miles. It was an official secret until the eighties.’

  Luke gives an impressed whistle. ‘And I’ve heard stories that the tunnels twist about so much because they’re avoiding old plague pits?’ he says hopefully.

  Cora sits back on her heels, listening.

  ‘Bones have been dug up while tunnels are being built, but no, the main reason for the twists is that the tracks often follow public roads.’

  ‘Why is that?’ Cora can’t help asking.

  ‘It’s cheaper,’ Jacob laughs. ‘If the Underground want to excavate under private property, it will cost them.’

  There’s a sudden squawking and a flutter of wings from the trees at the end of the garden. Three magpies fly out in a dazzle of black and white. Cora shakes her head. ‘Up to no good again.’

  ‘I think they get a bad rap,’ Jacob says.

  Cora says, ‘Isn’t the collective noun for them a mischief?’

  Jacob gives a half-smile and goes back to the puzzle of the bike.

  Cora has finished her chair. She stands up, knees aching. It looks good. Now she needs to leave it to dry. She goes across to Luke and Jacob, both hunched over the dismantled bike, the chain lying on newspaper, wheels unbolted. ‘I’m going to go in – get cleaned up,’ she says.

  ‘Cool,’ Luke says, without looking up.

  Jacob glances at the chalky-blue chair. ‘You’re full of surprises. I didn’t have you down as a handywoman. That’s a professional job.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she laughs. ‘I like rescuing things. It was a shame to see it abandoned on the pavement.’

  It feels natural, she thinks, having Jacob here. But the idea that something romantic could happen between them seems ridiculous. The fact that he suggested she visit the boat was something he could as easily have offered to Fran or Luke, or both of them – probably already has. She thinks of the exact words he used: You should come over sometime. Casual. Vague. A throwaway invitation.

  In the bathroom, Cora catches a glimpse of her reflection above the sink and shakes her head. ‘Just stop this now,’ she mutters as she strips off. ‘You’re behaving like a schoolgirl.’ In the shower, she lets the spray hit her upturned face, scrubbing off daubs of blue paint. But as she steps out, grabbing a towel to wrap around her, she remembers the softening of his gaze as he touched her forehead earlier. She begins to hum as she hurries into a clean pair of jeans and T-shirt and goes downstairs.

  When she reaches the kitchen and looks out of the window, she sees that her daughter has joined Jacob and Luke in the garden. She’s wearing an old kimono and a pair of wellingtons. It’s an eccentric outfit, but one that looks amazing on her – as if she’s an artist, or a model in Vogue, rocking something that no normal woman would ever think of wearing. Her long hair falls down her back like a flame. Sometimes Cora’s breath is stilled in her chest by her daughter’s beauty. She starts to unload the dishwasher. She can hear the other three outside, their laughter, their easy conversation, and it makes her feel old.

  She straightens, watching them through the glass. Fran leans towards Jacob and puts her hand on his arm. It’s an intimate gesture. Cora’s stomach contracts. Fran seems nearer in age to him than Cora is. Their skin has the shine of youth; their limbs are supple. She closes her eyes. How could she have been so deluded as to think Jacob would be interested in a middle-aged woman, greying at the temples, who needs spectacles to read a text message? She stays in the kitchen, avoiding looking out of the window.

  She hears movement in the hall and realises that Jacob is leaving. He comes into the kitchen. ‘Hello,’ he says. ‘I’ve told Luke I’ll swing by next Sunday. The friend I told you about – the one who runs the cycle club – says they’ve got an open morning in Hyde Park.’ He reaches an arm into the sleeve of his jacket, and his T-shirt lifts, showing a glimpse of firm, tanned skin. Cora looks away. ‘It’s a great opportunity for Luke to meet some of the riders,’ he’s saying. ‘And try his bike in the safety of the park.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Her lips stretch, aiming for a smile.

  ‘And what about you – when are you going to come and see the boat?’ he says. ‘How about next week? I owe you two coffees. And I like to pay my debts.’

  ‘Oh!’ She’s undone by surprise, buoyant with pleasure. She can’t stop a real smile spreading across her face. But she has to check. ‘Have you … Are the … um … Fran and Luke … are they coming too?’

  He looks puzzled. ‘They’re welcome, of course. But I was thinking it would be … nice if you came over – just you.’

  She doesn’t trust her voice. She clears her throat. ‘I’d like that,’ she says carefully. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Good.’ He leans forwards and kisses her cheek. She inhales the scent of his skin, the tang of oil and rubber, the fresh, earthy smells of her garden.

  Marble Arch

  Fran can’t believe she overslept. She was shattered from the day before: hips and feet sore from all that walking. As soon as she opened her eyes and realised the time, she threw on her kimono and rushed downstairs, afraid she’d already missed him, only to find him in the garden with Luke, messing about with bits of bike spread out on the ground. Maybe he’d taken it apart as a delaying tactic, so he could wait for her.

  She told him the story of Zac’s refugee friend. She wanted him to know she’d been on the march, that she’s got principles, like him. She’s made it pretty obvious that she’s into him. Why hasn’t he made a move yet? She bites her nail. Maybe he’s worried she’s too young. But she’s ready to be with an older man – a real grown-up. She needs to end it with Hugo. Their relationship is a lie. He’s vain. He never asks about her or seems interested in anything but sex. Sometimes she feels a bit scared of him. She’s going to dump him right now; she’ll do it by text. He won’t care. He’s probably seeing other people anyway.

  She takes out her phone: I’m not going to come round again. Sorry. It’s not working.

  She sighs with relief. Her whole body feels lighter.

  Her phone pings. 8 p.m. My place.

  She sits for a moment, wondering if their texts crossed. She feels a flush of embarrassment. Then she taps: I meant it. It’s over.

  Another ping. Why is Hugo sending her pictures? She opens the photo. Some porno trash of a naked girl giving a blow job. Her breath catches in her chest. It’s her, caught in a circle of flash. Coked out of her head. There’s enough of her face to recognise, her long red hair flopping all over Hugo’s legs, the rose tattoo on her shoulder.

  Pretty picture, isn’t it? See you at 8.

  Her throat constricts. Bile rising. She feels sick. He’s got others on his phone. He was always into all that shit – taking photos of them together in bed, asking her to send him pictures of naked body parts. It seemed funny at the time, even flattering. Now she realises how stupid she’s been. How careless.

  She’s dressed in jeans and sweatshirt, face bare of make-up. She refuses to give him the satisfaction of thinking she’s made an effort to appear sexy. Hugo opens the door and looks her up and down. One eyebrow rises scornfully, before he jerks his head, turning on his heel for her to follow him.

  In the kitchen, she stands apart from him behind the central island, as if it could act as a shield, and grips the cold marble edges of the counter.

  ‘No kiss? No small talk?’ He takes down a bottle of vodka and pours it into two glasses, sliding one over to her. ‘That’s not polite.’ He downs a shot and pours another.

  ‘What do you want, Hugo?’

  ‘Thing is, Fran, you’ve got it all wrong.’ He leans against the sleek contours of the cabinet behind him, ankles crossed. ‘You’re not the one to tell me when this ends.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She frowns. ‘You can’t force me into seeing you.’

  ‘I have such a lovely array of pictures of you. If I put one of those on the web and tagged you in it, I think the whole world would come calling. Not that they’d be offering you Chekov or Shakespeare. But work’s work. Right?’

  She pushes her glass away untouched. Her mouth is sour, dry. She can’t understand why he’s doing this. She knows he doesn’t love her. She’s not stupid. But she thought he liked her. They were in a relationship.

  ‘Why are you being so … so cruel? I’m …’ she looks at her feet, ‘I’m supposed to be your girlfriend.’

  He laughs and shakes his head. ‘You’re not my girlfriend. But you do belong to me, until I say you don’t.’

  There’s a buzzing inside her head. The room shrinks and folds towards her. She holds one of her wrists and squeezes. How could she not have twigged before that he’s a psycho, a control freak? He collects people like other people collect stamps. She’s seen the way he plays a room, using his so-called guests like pawns, manipulating them. She let him do it with her, making her sleep with Charlie. It’s a game to him.

  He steps closer. ‘You’re not going to cry, are you?’ he says with curiosity.

  ‘What if I go to the police?’ she asks when she can manage to speak.

  ‘It’s your word against mine. And the images aren’t on my phone any more. You’re not going to risk them going public. Can you imagine what your mother would think? Your friends?’ He grins. ‘You know my dad is a high court judge. I’m untouchable, Fran.’

  ‘But when will it end?’ She can hardly breathe.

  He shrugs. ‘Let’s just see when I get tired of you, shall we?’

  ‘You bastard.’ She feels sick. ‘Doesn’t it bother you that I don’t want to sleep with you? You’re … you’re forcing me.’

  Hugo smiles. ‘I’ll message you when I need you. And this time, come when I call. Unless you want the photos going viral.’

  Outside his flat, her knees give way and she sinks to her haunches, panting, her hands clasped over her head, as if warding off a blow. People walk past without stopping. She only sees their legs. They probably think she’s drunk. She’s always known deep down that being with Hugo was a kind of self-punishment – he was all she felt she deserved. He was cruel and controlling. Meeting Jacob was the reason she’d decided enough was enough; that maybe she was worth more than Hugo. But now she sees that it’s too late. He’ll never let her go.

  The moment Mum came back from the consultant, Fran knew. She opened her mouth, sounds gargling out of her. Moon faces turning towards them. Strangers gaping in the quiet of the hospital waiting room. She wanted to scream: why are you alive when he’s going to die?

  Dad. Her dad. She was the reason he was lying in a bed, a tangle of wires attaching him to machines.

  A nurse was at her elbow. They were being led down a corridor, she and Luke and Mum. Then they were shown into a different room – Fran knew it was a special one, for bad news. The nurse closed the door softly.

  ‘I’m sorry, my loves,’ Mum said, her skin blotchy red from crying. ‘I’m sorry … I’ve had to … to agree …’

  Luke couldn’t speak he was crying so much.

  ‘No.’ Fran’s voice was harsh. It ripped at her throat. ‘You can’t. You can’t. He might wake up. He … he’s strong …’

  Mum shook her head, and her hands trembled as they reached out to try and hold them both. ‘His brain is … too damaged … He’s never going to be … He can’t breathe … can’t eat …’

  She ducked away from Mum’s fingers. Her chest was tight. ‘I hate you,’ she whispered. ‘You’re a murderer.’

  She rammed her fists into her eye sockets. She’d killed Dad. It was her. But she couldn’t stop shouting at Mum, the same word, over and over.

  Murderer.

  At home, she stares at herself in the mirror. ‘Stupid,’ she whispers. ‘Stupid, stupid girl. You deserve this. You’re nothing. Nothing.’

  She slaps herself once, hard. The stinging shock of her fingers against her cheek feels like a relief. She does it again.

  It’s as if the world has shut its door on her. She’s tumbling into a void, and she can’t see the bottom. Dad, her career, and now this. She thinks of Jacob. At least he doesn’t know what a failure she is, how weak and thoughtless and frivolous. Then a thought hits her, and it hurts more than her hand against her skin. Maybe he does. Maybe he could read it in her face, or smell it on her, like cigarette smoke. That’s why he’s not interested.

  Bethnal Green

  Cora follows Jacob’s directions. She leaves Bethnal Green Tube station, making her way down the traffic-clogged old Roman Road, heady with fumes, turning off down a confusion of side streets in the direction of, she hopes, the canal. There’s an abandoned shopping trolley on its side, and a burnt-out scooter smelling of ash and oil. But once she’s on the towpath, she walks under branches of oaks into a different world: a countryside tangle of cow parsley, nettles and dandelions, the froth of early hawthorn. The surface of the canal gleams in the early-evening light.