For the briefest moment Lily is going to tell her everything. Tell her all about the letter that arrived yesterday morning. The letter that is currently tucked under the lining in the drawer of the bureau where she knows Edna never looks. She could blurt it all out in one go. It would be so easy, and then Edna would take control of the matter and she’d sort everything out. Again.

But then a car passes by outside, and the headlights cause a garden shadow to slide across the ceiling above them like a threatening cloud, and all at once Lily cannot speak.

She says nothing more, just listens for Edna’s breathing in the dark. If her breath is shallow or broken, she will force herself to stay awake in case Edna needs something. But tonight Edna breathes deeply and is soon fast asleep.

Lily, however, lies awake in the darkness.

day one

Tyler wakes to a set of Venetian blinds that filter the sun into strips that threaten to griddle his eyelids. He gets up and moves to the window to look out at the view. Last night comes back in snatches, a series of sensations: the warm evening air on his face as they left the pub; the eyes of the taxi driver watching them interestedly in his rearview mirror; the chime on the lift doors that closed in slow motion; the scratch of stubble and the faint transferred taste of tobacco and red wine; the cold bite of steel on his exposed back where his T-shirt had ridden up. And then, later, in the bedroom, the twisting of hard, muscular limbs; the tang of fresh sweat; the heat of two bodies pressed together as one.

He turns from the window and watches the man still sleeping. His soft breathing conjures images of fireside cats that dissipate when he notices the prominent Adam’s apple pulsing under the translucent skin of the man’s throat. It looks as though it’s trying to break out and makes Tyler think of the face-hugger from Alien.

The man groans and turns onto his side, light feathers of hair falling across that perfectly chiseled face. A delicately proportioned nose, square jaw, thick lips. A calculated length of fine stubble to set it all off. Too perfect. Perfect never works.

The man shifts, reaching up to the pillow with his right arm and causing the duvet to slide off his chest to expose a sculpted washboard stomach and two hard pink nipples. His left arm, bent at the elbow so the wrist disappears under the duvet, is sleeved in an intricate swirl of Celtic tattoos. Like a bush of thorns, or dancing black flames.

He opens his eyes and looks straight at Tyler, the irises bright green in the morning sunlight. He looks almost reptilian.

“Hey,” he says, yawning and sitting up.

Tyler moves away from the window and begins to gather his discarded clothing.