We shared a smile, tentative but real. The years since we were both eleven didn’t melt away exactly, but they didn’t sit quite as awkwardly between us.

‘Troy, your dad dying the way he did,’ Libby began. ‘How long did it take you to get over it?’

I knew what she was asking. ‘I didn’t get over it,’ I admitted. ‘I just stopped living with grief and instead let grief live with me.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It’s like an unwanted visitor that I’ll never be rid of. Sometimes it comes into my head and outstays its welcome, but there are days when it … fades, and I can think of my dad and smile without feeling like someone is throwing darts at my chest.’

‘How long did that take?’

Pause. ‘It’s a work-in-progress.’

Libby nodded. ‘Fair enough.’

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BREAKING NEWS. Nought workers at Albion Isle Bank earn a quarter less than their Cross colleagues

Albion Isle Bank’s recent survey of its 30,000 employees has revealed that its Nought employees on average earn 25 per cent less than their Cross colleagues on the same grade.

Colbi Obi-Reacher, CEO of Albion Isle Bank, told the Daily Shouter, ‘Yes, the discrepancy figures are disappointing, but we have been taking active steps over the last few years to rectify this anomaly. This survey will ensure we redouble our efforts to ensure no such gap exists within five years.’

A Nought bank employee who did not wish to be named stated, ‘The bank has known about this for decades. The survey was just concrete proof of what we Nought employees already knew: we are not being treated equitably and too many of us have permanent head scars from bouncing off the glass ceiling. In five years’ time, it wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if we’re having this same conversation.’

twenty-nine. Callie

I stared out of the rain-splattered window as Sol and I sat in the back of a white cab on our way back to chambers. Droplets wove meandering patterns down the window and the sky above was a sombre misery-grey. The late-morning London traffic was appalling. The journey was more stop than start with the taxi driver trying to spark up a conversation when it was obvious that neither Sol nor I were in a particularly chatty mood. Or, more accurately, I was seething and ready to decapitate someone and Sol was trying to keep out of the line of fire by saying as little as possible.

‘Sol, who was it who had me arrested? Was it Gabriel?’ I asked quietly when I could trust myself to speak.

‘I don’t know for sure yet, but that’s where I’d put my money,’ said Sol. ‘That man is such a loser.’

My lips tightened. ‘If it was him, then I’m going to rip his balls off.’