Now he is threatening Black, but for some reason Stephen isn’t fighting back. As I allow my eyes to open, a blurred picture unfolds. Jeff, gripping the collar of Stephen’s jacket and pushing him out of the room. Jeff, with something in his hand.

I think it’s a gun.

When the door slams, I slide down the wall, pulling my robe over me. My body has never shaken like this before. I can see it – my hands, legs, feet – but I can’t feel it. Every part of me is numb. I don’t cry, there’s no point, tears can’t express how I feel now. I’m not sad. I’m broken.

Jeff slides down the wall and rests his body beside me. He places his hand on mine but doesn’t speak, just sits by my side, squeezing my hand every now and then, letting me know he is there. Gradually the fear holding my body hostage starts to evaporate. Heat is the first sensation I get back. It travels into my hand from Jeff’s grip.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The smell of garlic is making me sick. Clouds of steam surround Jeff as he stirs something on the hob, making him look like he has appeared as the result of a magic trick.

I have to eat. It’s Jeff’s answer to everything.

I’m trying not to think about what would have happened if Jeff hadn’t been going past my apartment. If he hadn’t rushed back to his own apartment and grabbed the guitar tuner, which held in a certain way resembles a gun.

‘Spaghetti or linguini?’ he says, opening one of the cupboards.

‘Is there a difference?’

‘Of course there’s a difference,’

‘Well…’ I’m not about to ask what the difference is because Jeff can go on for hours about food and wine and tastes and textures. ‘Whatever you think,’

He looks up to the heavens. Maybe he’s right, maybe I’m not his type.

Letting the room darken around us, we sit and eat the spaghetti – or linguini, I’m not sure. It’s been two days since Stephen Black assaulted me and I haven’t been outside the door. No one has called, no one has missed me. Everyone is caught up in their own shit. I thought Turner might call, that she might have found out something, but no, nothing.

‘Do you think everyone has forgotten I exist, Jeff?’

‘What?’ Jeff laughs. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Well, no one has bothered ringing me to ask me how I am.’

‘Did you tell anyone what happened?’

‘No, but…’

‘Becca,’ he says, turning to face me. He has that expression, the one he seldom calls on. The one he wears when he’s about to say something serious. ‘Becca,’ he says again, placing his hand on my leg. ‘It’s time.’

‘Time for what?’