In Life According to Lowry, everything was always someone else’s fault. He’d shown real talent—‘rare talent’ according to himself—as a photographer, but his parents wouldn’t pay for the expensive school in New York. ‘So instead of producing actual art, I take cheesy shots of weddings. It’s the main reason I’m depressed.’

‘But who’s stopping you from producing art?’ Trassa asked. ‘Do you have to be in the artist’s trade union or something?’

Under his breath, but loud enough to be heard, Lowry muttered, ‘Fuck’s sake.’

‘I’m not trying to be a smart alec,’ Trassa said gently. ‘I honestly don’t know.’

‘No one is stopping me. As such,’ Lowry said. ‘But—okay! Let’s be real here—the money for the weddings is good. I got used to it, I like it. So shoot me.’

Dennis and Chalkie exchanged a look and Dennis sniggered.

‘What?’ Lowry asked. ‘I’m meant to be ashamed of earning a living?’

‘Keep reading,’ I said.

Sienna had broken up with him because she ‘couldn’t accept me as I am’.

‘How are you “as you are”?’ Bronte dripped contempt.

‘Too much of a free spirit.’

‘Hah!’ Chalkie was scornful and delighted. ‘Which translates as “can’t keep your lad in your jocks”. Amirite?’

‘Hey, smackhead.’ Lowry stood up.

‘Sit. Down,’ I ordered. Jesus Christ, fisticuffs were the last thing we needed. Lowry was a lot taller than Chalkie but my money would have been on the little guy.

Lowry made a show of reluctantly sitting back down again, while Chalkie lounged in his chair, eyeballing him. ‘You’re a joke,’ Chalkie informed him. ‘A fucking joke.’

‘We can’t all come from central-casting deprivation. Okay, so my mum didn’t die of a heroin overdose but my feelings are as worthy as yours.’

‘Lowry, you crossed a line. Apologize to Chalkie.’

‘Jesus, Rachel, I don’t need his meaningless, middle-class apology.’

‘But Lowry needs to do it.’

When group ended, I powered on my phone. Still nothing from Quin. Feeling sick, I rang him and once again it went to message. ‘Quin? Please can we talk? I can come over later.’

Because I didn’t know what else to do, I typed up my daily notes, said goodnight to everyone and ran down the steps, out into the evening light.

Then—surprising me—Quin rang. ‘I’m out tonight. Pints with Golden, some of the others. Planning to climb Denali in May.’

This was the first I’d heard of any of it—pints, climbs—but I was being punished and this was how Quin wanted to do it.

‘Could we see each other afterwards?’ I asked.

‘Nah. Could be a late one.’

‘Tomorrow night?’

‘…Don’t think so.’

‘Quin, please—’

‘Maybe later in the week. Depends.’ And he was gone.

74

Nola sat me in her conservatory, draped me in a soft, silky shawl, made me tea and insisted I eat a scone.