‘Fuck, how would I know? I didn’t lie, I was out with her that Monday night. And I meant what I said about Jonathan. He was a nice guy. From what I saw of him. Sweet. Normal.’

Robin suddenly feels knackered. This whole case, this whole situation. It’s ridiculous. They have nothing to prove Amy Miller killed her husband. And he’s got himself into a whole load of trouble as a result.

He slumps down at the table opposite her. ‘Give me one of those,’ he mutters, pointing to the pack of Marlboro Gold. She offers the box.

He hasn’t smoked since university, but he needs the relief. The tobacco grates at the back of his throat, the nicotine making him feel dizzy, but he relishes the feeling. She watches him through the haze and takes a sip from her tea.

‘I’m sorry for drugging you.’ She smiles weakly. ‘You looked sweet,’ she adds. ‘Asleep on your sofa.’

‘Sorry for bashing your door down,’ he offers in response. ‘Did I wake you?’

‘Trying to have a nap. Late one last night from Frankie. Had to go straight from there to the memorial.’

‘You should give it up.’ He puts the cigarette against his lips, takes another long drag in.

‘I should. But it’s good money. Most of the guys.’ She waves her hand dismissively. ‘They’re harmless enough. Take the man last night. Late fifties, single. Just wanted someone to take to a work event.’

‘Who did he say you were?’ Robin asks, curious.

‘Old family friend. But I’m sure they knew. Sad, really. I think he was just lonely.’

Aren’t we all, Robin thinks with a sting as he stubs out the cigarette. ‘So it was just the work event?’

‘Nah, had to fuck him as well.’ She laughs, bitterly. ‘Paid extra for me to call him Daddy.’ She takes another cigarette out of the packet and puts it in her mouth. ‘And I wonder why I have such a warped view of men,’ she mumbles as she clicks her lighter into flame.

36

He’s gone. More subdued than when he arrived, but most likely never to return.

Liv sits in her kitchen, herbal tea in front of her, and miserably watches the rain pepper the window. Her body is weary. She aches, and shifts position to alleviate the pressure on the parts of her she knows shouldn’t hurt.

This is no way to live her life, she thinks. She’s proud of the things she’s overcome – the alcohol, the drugs that previously dictated her life – but this? The men? Handing fifty per cent of her earnings to Frankie while she is the one being fucked and bruised and held down and fisted? She told Frankie last night she won’t go out with that guy again.

‘Next time,’ Frankie said, pulling her dressing gown around herself and lighting a fag. ‘We’ll charge him double.’