For a moment, she let her mind wander, imagining what Beverly would be like if she’d had their chequered relationship history – the heartbreak, the mishaps, the highs and lows. Between the two of them, that would certainly give Beverly a past colourful enough to satiate Eve’s desire for romantic tension. But would Simi and Meagan even let her use their stories? Perhaps if the details were far enough removed from the truth, they wouldn’t even need to know… But then Jemima remembered Troy. She’d been on the same comedy course where the girls had first met. Their bourgeoning friendship with her had faltered, however, once they discovered she was spinning their private conversations into comedy gold. Not only that but she was performing her newly nicked material on the open mic circuit – for the public! She hadn’t even had the decency to change their names. Meagan had been so livid she’d wanted to eject Troy from the group quicker than a protester at a parliamentary committee meeting. Yes, they were all mining their lives for material but they were using their own stories and only sharing them in the safety of the course room not to a braying audience. After that, Troy remained, at best, a satellite friend but they never discussed anything classified in front of her ever again. Jemima speculated on what was worse, being ostracised by Meagan and Simi or demoted to acquaintance?

Her fingers froze over her keyboard as a text alert chimed.

She glanced at the screen. Miles. Again.

I miss you. Are you in London? Mx

God, he was like ants. She wished there was a powder she could put down to permanently get rid of him. She didn’t hate him. She didn’t even dislike him. It was just that every text took her back there, to the pain, the hurt. She snapped her laptop closed and grabbed her coat. She needed a break and knew exactly where to go – Nostromo. Jemima loved its shabby chic decor. She loved the old, mismatched wooden tables and cosy chairs. She especially loved the recovered airplane seats that had been transformed into a comfy two-seater sofa, quickly becoming the must-have spot. Even the light that flooded through its huge windows was cleansing and restorative. But what Jemima adored the most were the owners, Azi and Rania, a young Egyptian couple, who’d made it their mission to create a sanctuary for artists in need of inspiration. They treated every customer like a friend they were yet to make, another reason Jemima loved them and their shop. She had spent so many hours there, poring over her novels, that it had become her second home.

‘You’re back!’ Azi and Rania said as Jemima walked through the door.