‘Her name’s Casey.’

‘Your wife?’

‘My daughter. She’s twelve and I hardly know her, but I want to know her better.’

Tegan seems startled by the change of tone, but not as startled as I am.

‘Cute,’ she says. ‘Good for you. But, uh, not doing much to get me in the mood. More of a mood-killer, TBH.’

She’s right: this wasn’t the deal. My dad would be tearing his hair out at the missed opportunity. Tegan has stopped dancing and I lean in, wanting to kiss her, to make it up to her, to get the sexiness back, but she shakes her head.

‘Let’s not bother, eh?’

‘I’m sorry. In a strange place right now. Nothing to do with you. Can I get you an Uber?’

Tegan shakes her head. ‘I’m an independent woman, with an iPhone and a credit card. I’ll get my own.’

After she leaves I can’t quite believe I let her. She was my ideal woman: easy come, easy go, no bull.

So how come I’m thinking instead about the woman from the hospital? Gemma. Her figure. Her eyes. The way she listened and breathed with me and encouraged me to be honest.

I should blame her for what just happened because honesty is doing me no favours.

It’s past midnight: I’m both wide awake and bone-tired. Casey and Angelica are coming back by four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.

No, they’re back today.

So in fifteen or sixteen hours this bloody enormous flat won’t seem so huge. Angelica will be here, shutting out all the danger, reminding me what a failure I am. And Casey will be back too, being herself.

I walk onto the terrace and the night finally feels cool. So how come I feel warm?

That’s weird. It’s because I’m looking forward to seeing them both.

Chapter 11: Casey

Monday 9 July

How come Saturdays take years to arrive, but Mondays come around super-fast?

‘How was your weekend, Casey?’ Fern asks, her voice coming from the control room where she’s protected from the protons being fired into my brain.

‘It was OK.’

The huge gantry moves into the exact position to send bolts of radioactive lightning through my skull to nuke Bob out of existence. My mask fits so tightly that I always end up with waffle marks all over my face when I take it off.

‘Brilliant weather, wasn’t it? What did you get up to?’

‘Went home to Worcestershire. Saw my best friend. Came back again.’

‘Oh, that’s nice. I’ve never been to Worcestershire. Is that where the sauce comes from?’

Would Fern hate me if I asked her to give the small talk a rest? Not like I’m in the hairdresser, is it? I wish I was in the hairdresser. New tufts seem to be sprouting all over my head, even around my scars, while the greyish strands that survived radiotherapy are stringy, like an old man’s comb-over. Molly reckons I’m a double for the duckling – and when I’m wearing my wig I can almost feel the tufts pushing through, like daffodils in spring.