‘It’s on afternoons like this when I actually do love the winter,’ I said, as I reached for Jacob’s hand.

‘Me too. I mean, winter can be nice when you have someone to share the cold nights with,’ he said, smiling at me.

‘We’re lucky, aren’t we?’ I said. ‘To have each other.’

‘Ol, there’s something I need to tell you, that I can’t believe I haven’t already said.’ Jacob looked serious for a moment.

‘Oh?’ I said, trying to ignore the worry in my gut.

‘I …’ He paused for a few seconds, ‘love you,’ he said, smiling widely, staring into the black centres of my eyes.

I almost choked on my red wine with relief.

‘I love you, too.’ We leant over the table and kissed, our noses scrunched up against each other. If I had been a stranger looking over at our table, I would probably have been sick. But to us, it was the best feeling in the world, and we were in our own little bubble.

I suppose if I knew back then all the pain that was to come, perhaps I would never have set foot in that bookshop at all.

22

2019

I go through my work emails next door to the .dot office in a new co-working space on a big squidgy sofa and drink a latte from a paper cup, which is kind of gross but it’s sustainable and blah-blah. I love the flexibility of my job. Today I’m planning next month’s editorial pieces for the website and commissioning some of our favourite freelance writers to put together articles about polyamory. I’ve arranged to go over to Bea’s this evening, so as soon as it hits 5.30 I leg it across London to get to Waterloo and then nip into Foyles and buy an interesting book that’s advertised in the shop window – a new novel about a luxury surrogacy farm. I sit down on the creaky train to Surrey and pop the ‘Baby on Board’ badge on again as I can’t bear anyone bothering or bumping into me – I feel a twinge of guilt as it’s become a bad habit, but I’m not too worried about it yet.

I realize I’m still wearing my badge as I ring Bea’s doorbell and quickly scramble to remove it. She answers the door dressed in art overalls.

‘Hello gorgeous!’ Bea says chirpily as she answers the door.

I hand her a bunch of flowers, a belated birthday gift. ‘Happy birthday for the other day. Sorry it’s late,’ I say, wiping my shoes on her doormat.

‘Ohh, thank you, they’re gorgeous.’ Bea is covered in paint, her hands are dry and coarse from the many years of using them to cook from scratch, rolling pastry, sculpting pottery, painting, using needles and threads. Her hands look ten years older than she is, but they’re still beautiful. Her hair is balanced haphazardly in a bun on top of her head, with stray hairs everywhere.