Dan hasn’t been back since the old-man incident. He still washes the sheets and clothes, and if Atticus brings board games home, he makes sure they have all their pieces. He even bags up the outside bits and inside bits of jigsaws, but he never drops them into the shop any more. He doesn’t really like the shop, truth be told. He still can’t understand why Atticus would rather spend time there, among the eighties Charles and Diana wedding plates, when he could be in glass galleries in London. When he could be talking about art. He was so alive that night in the gallery. If asked the right question, he can wax lyrical for hours. ‘And did you know, Dan,’ he’d say, his voice full of admiration, ‘Emin challenges everything. Every norm. People asked her if she got lost in her art and she said, “The kind of work I do, you’re not going to lose yourself. You’re going to be digging yourself up.”’

Dan still didn’t really understand art, but he loved Atticus’s face when he spoke about it. Art ran through his veins, so why was he hiding away from it in a tiny shop in a wonky village, off the map of Brighton?

‘Don’t you want to do more gallery work? Your phone is always ringing with people wanting you to work with them.’

‘I don’t have the same energy for it I used to have. Artists are arrogant. Most good reviews are written by palms that have been crossed with silver.’

‘Hasn’t it always been like that, though?’

‘Yes.’

‘So what’s made you dislike it now?’

‘You. Since I met you, I’ve not found a painting I like better, or an artist worth leaving you for.’

‘You can have both, Atticus, me and your career. You’re so good at it.’

‘I’ve had enough of one, and I’ll never get enough of the other.’ Atticus skirts the question expertly.

‘It’s impossible to get a straight answer out of you. Have you ever thought about becoming a politician?’

‘Often. Now, would the honourable gentleman care for a game of Yahtzee?’

‘Damn you. You know I can’t resist Yahtzee. Will you ever learn how to play it properly?’

‘Probably not, no.’

Lizzie

(I’m ready now)

LIZZIE’S HAND IS STILL sore when she wakes the following day. From the slap, and then the kettle when she got back to the shelter. She holds the hand close to her side now, telling Lenny it’s just a touch of arthritis. ‘I’m fine,’ she tells him, when he looks worried. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘But it’s all red. I don’t want you to get old,’ he says. ‘I don’t want you to die.’

‘I’m not dying!’ she says, trying to laugh. ‘I’m fine, and I’m not going anywhere.’ It’s a lie.