I sat on the bed, lay back, opened Jekyll and Hyde – no dedication from Sarah, nice – started reading:

Mr. Utterson the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance that was never lighted by a –

Footsteps.

– by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in –

‘Hey.’ Sarah held up her coffee. ‘Thanks for this.’

Biddy drank long macs – they were less embarrassing to order.

Sarah sat at the end of the bed, smiled, eyebrows arched. ‘Zac’s just texted.’ She looked at her phone. ‘He says he’s feeling really anxious today and wants to know if he can come here, just to sit in the backyard.’

‘For fuck’s sake.’ I slammed the book into the mattress.

‘What, Chris?’

‘He’s not going to sit in the garden like a gnome, is he? We’ll have to invite him in.’

I’d been to his new apartment a few days earlier. Marcus, the owner-occupier, wasn’t there but – at the same time – he was. The kitchen knives were arranged in correct size order on a magnetic strip, equally spaced. The white shag-pile rug was immaculate. Two volumes of The Economist had been arranged on the polished glass dining table at precise angles. Books on evisceration, graphology and euthanasia. Zero clutter, zero dust. It was the home of an out-and-out psychopath.

‘OK,’ Sarah said, ‘why don’t I just tell him it’s not going to work?’

I looked at my hands. ‘Just tell him to come.’

‘It’s not a problem, Chris.’

‘It is a fucking problem, Sarah. He knows I need some time to myself, I’ve been banging on about it for ages.’

‘So, I’ll just tell him we’re busy, it’s fine.’

I looked at her, at the wall. ‘We can’t, Sarah. Not if he’s feeling really anxious. But you’ll have to talk to him when he gets here.’

* * *

Yay. My birthday dinner with Sarah. Yay.

The waitress seemed shocked that I only wanted one taco. ‘They’re only this big,’ she said, making what looked like a smallish human mouth with her fingers.

‘Thanks, that’s fine.’

‘And you don’t want anything else? Side salad? Something off the starter menu?’

‘No thanks.’

‘And to drink?’

‘Just water, thanks.’

She nodded, left us.

‘You’re making me very uncomfortable,’ Sarah said.

I looked at her, nodded – I was uncomfortable too. Sitting in the bedroom all day to avoid having to speak to Zac. Hearing them laughing, watching videos on Sarah’s phone, reading poems to each other. Zac had drunk the Rumi Kool Aid, could now quote him as readily as Sarah. As well as, by the sound of it, some other ye-olde bullshit:

But liars we can never trust,

Even when they say what is true.

And he who does one fault at first

And lies to hide it, makes it two.

Sarah praising Zac, urging him to read her more.