She hadn’t expected to sleep. She had imagined that she’d be tossing and turning and pacing the floor of her tiny flat all night long in despair. Instead, she had fallen into an almost coma-like sleep the moment her head had touched the pillow and had woken up to the voices of the peppy broadcasters on BBC Breakfast; she must have left the TV on all night. As the events of the previous day came back to her, Nory was overwhelmed by a sudden urge to turn over and go right back to sleep. Apparently, heartbreak was soporific. But sleeping all day wasn’t an option. She had a shop to run and a grumpy cat to reinstate.

Andrew knocked on her door at 8:15 a.m. He was red-faced and panting and holding a scowling Mugwort in a cat basket.

“I hate those stairs,” he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “How are you, my little heartbroken shopkeeper? I would have brought coffee, but your cat weighs a ton; he was a two-handed job most of the way here. I got some very strange looks on the tube.”

“Thanks, Andrew, you’re a star.”

“Yes, I am.”

Nory was glad he wasn’t being overly tender, even though it was absolutely in his nature to be so. She was still very much in danger of bursting into tears at the first sign of sympathy.

Mugwort slinked out of his basket and shook himself. He gave the corners of the sofa and the chair legs a good sniff and then, as though satisfied that everything was in order, he jumped up onto the sofa and began to snore almost instantly.

“Let’s get a coffee before work,” said Andrew, pulling her into a hug. “And don’t you dare weep on my shoulder. This jacket is suede, and everyone knows salt stains are a nightmare.”

Thirty-six

The Christmas rush in the shop continued, as did the radio silence from Isaac. Nory had tried to call him, but it went straight to voice mail, which Ameerah agreed most likely meant he had blocked her. Nevertheless, she persevered with two more WhatsApp messages in the following days, which remained “delivered” but not “read.”

She felt as though she was living in her own peculiar montage, faking happy for her customers during the working days and throwing herself into paperwork in the evenings, with takeaway meals from Pepe’s and too much wine before falling gratefully into sleep: a blissful respite from thinking about Isaac and lamenting what might have been.

“If you keep being this efficient, I will be out of a job,” Andrew commented, having gone to check the stock and finding it completely up to date. “I think I preferred you when you were hopeful and haphazard rather than crestfallen but competent.”

“I’m sorry my shattered love life is making you feel redundant.”

“What are you wearing to our Christmas do?”

“I’m not sure yet.”