“Put it down, Blake,” I say.

“Commissions are when you get paid for doing something,” Blake tells me.

I’m sure I can hear the wool stretch, the tension pulling tighter.

“I know what ‘commissions’ mean,” I reply.

“You’ve got a good eye,” Blake says. “Proper talent. I could ask you to … knit … Sherlock Holmes.” He grins.

“Why the hell should I knit Sherlock Holmes?”

Why the hell don’t I just dive at him and grab my knitting back? Or yell at him that he shouldn’t be in my bedroom at all? Because I know that’s what he wants me to do.

“Because I can pay you,” Blake says.

I don’t need his money. I don’t want it.

“Gina’s obsessed with Sherlock,” Blake carries on. Gina’s his girlfriend. “It’s her birthday next month and I promised her something special. Can you knit Benedict Cumberbatch as Sherlock Holmes?”

I’ve just got to agree. Then he’ll put Kandi’s blanket down. He’ll go away.

I say, “Yeah. But you’ll have to buy the wool.”

The doorbell rings. We don’t move.

“I’m not expecting anyone,” Blake says. “Are you?”

I bought some second-hand boots off Depop last week. This could be them at last.

“You better hurry up,” Blake says. “If it’s for you, they’ll leave a note and then it’ll take ages to hunt your stuff down.”

Another doorbell ring – longer this time. Blake raises his eyebrows. He’s still holding my knitting.

My heart’s beating and I’m working so hard now to keep my face blank. I turn around slowly and walk out the bedroom door, then race down the stairs.

I pull the front door open so fast, the delivery man’s almost swept into the hallway. The parcel he’s holding – maybe it could hold bootees but never boots. It’s only slightly too big to fit into the letterbox. And, man, it’s not even for our house – it’s for the Nigerian woman who lives three doors away. The delivery man takes my name and a picture of the parcel in the doorway. I close the front door again and run back upstairs.

Blake’s left the bedroom. He’s left the bedroom and taken my knitting. It’s nowhere to be seen, but Kandi’s letter’s been turned over. I can see the writing facing up now. My heart’s beating so hard, I can feel it in my throat, behind my eyes, even in my fingertips.

“Blake!” I shout.

I storm along the hallway and throw open his door. There’s no Blake, but I see my needles, thrown on the rug by the bed. They’ve fallen in a cross shape like I should find treasure beneath them. Then I see my knitting all separate. But it’s mostly not knitting – it’s a tangle spread across the bed.