They fell over each other in laughter then, and the swell of nerves I was nursing on arrival started to soften. It felt more like relief again; more like cookie dough, with extra love.

Chapter 41

Rowan and I still hadn’t spoken. But the girls and I were in near-constant communication. There were three separate occasions when I’d even been moved to mute the group chat; something I’d never done before and would never admit to having done if any of them asked. The days stretched out, though, and while everything felt brittle around the edges, everything somehow felt a bit more normal as well. Rowan and I had spent so little time together in the weeks before the break-up talk, not seeing him for a full week after didn’t feel that strange. What did feel strange, though, was the need to avoid Fred. She’d been texting intermittently, too, but not to check up on me, or to check in with me. Worse, she was texting to share her excitement.

The gallery space for her upcoming show was piecing together before her eyes, and she was thrilled. Deservedly so, too, because, from the pictures she’d sent, the place looked beautiful. The walls, instead of the typical gallery white, were blocked black instead. Fred explained that they wouldn’t let her paint them, so she’d roped artist friends in to help her construct screens that would lean against the walls themselves. Here’s hoping no one is pissed enough to fall into one xx, she said, then sent another message immediately afterwards: Balls. I hope I haven’t just jinxed it.

Whenever she asked how things were – What’s going on your end? xx – I did my best to skirt around the bright pink elephant in the room – Fine! Nothing quite as exciting here xx. She never pushed for more, although she did text once – late at night, and I wondered whether a glass (or two) of wine had been the prelude – Edi, I know we don’t know-know each other. But I hope you know we can talk. xx night xx. I’d brushed it off with a polite thank you and said I’d catch her soon. Instead of sleeping after, though, I spent a full hour staring at the ceiling, thinking about how strange it was to hear ‘I know we don’t know each other’ from someone I’d slept with upwards of twenty times.

‘You know it’s weird that you’ve kept track, right?’ Faith answered when I relayed the same worries to her. ‘I know each of those twenty-plus times has probably been genuinely mind-blowing but still, it’s weird. Don’t be a boy.’

I laughed. ‘Boys keep tallies?’ No sooner had I said it and the stab of a memory hit …