‘She’s in a band. You’d like her. You should go. Besides, it’s not like you to skip drinks.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘It’s not like Dex stays, if you were worried about that.’

I looked at him. ‘I wasn’t.’

‘Good.’ He met my eyes. ‘But even if you were, you shouldn’t be.’

‘I’m not,’ I said, bundling up the twenties and pulling out a pile of fifties. ‘I’m just tired.’

My fingers tripped over the notes, moving too fast, and I tried to slow them down, determined to keep my place. Nic would be furious if the till was out and he had to redo it after close.

‘Cait …’ he said, in a tone that suggested it wasn’t the first time he’d said it.

‘Yeah?’ I lost count. ‘Shit.’

‘Service.’

‘Oh.’ I looked at him apologetically, putting the fifties back and closing the till. ‘Right.’

I turned, plastering on a smile.

‘Hi,’ Tom said, putting a book down on the bar.

‘Hi.’ I blinked, only a little surprised to see him.

He looked around. ‘Busy tonight.’

‘It was. It’s settled a bit now.’ I glanced at the book. ‘Probably a bit noisy for reading, though.’

He picked it up so I could see the cover. Bold type over a dark picture, something you’d find at a newsagent. ‘I’m not exactly reading Proust.’

I put a napkin down in front of him, a glass on top of it, turned to the whiskies.

‘So,’ I said, pouring a measure and trying to keep my voice casual. ‘Is that a thing? Going to posh restaurants and reading trashy paperbacks on a Friday night?’

He laughed. ‘Sometimes. It seems less miserable than sitting at home by myself and reading trashy paperbacks on a Friday night.’

I added the water and pushed the drink towards him.

‘Thanks.’

‘Have you been working?’

He nodded. ‘Just finished.’

‘Busy?’ I asked. ‘I mean …’

He smiled. ‘Not really—for a Friday night, anyway.’

‘Okay,’ I said, as though that made sense.

‘Nobody died,’ he added. ‘Which is the important bit.’

I hesitated. Nic was at the register, re-counting the cash and pretending to ignore me. ‘That’s good.’

Tom picked up his whisky, took a sip. ‘How are you?’

I looked at him. Still a picture in a magazine. A postcard, waiting for an answer.

For some reason, I wanted to tell him the truth—all of it, about Lina and the wedding, and not sleeping. And more. About the accident and the Morbids and … everything. It was confusing and alien. ‘It’s a long story,’ I said instead, touching the bar.

He went to say something, and then stopped as a docket rolled out of my machine. ‘And you’re working. Maybe later?’

I frowned.

He shrugged, his voice changing. ‘Or not. I’m sorry.’