I pull open the door and head inside, past the letterboxes on my left, towards the big wooden staircase in front of me. I take the stairs two by two, holding onto the thick, dark wood bannister all the way to the third floor.

I’m out of breath by the time I get to his door. The same door I slammed shut after me, right after I pulled my meet-the-parents stunt. But right now I need to win him over, which means acting extra ‘normal’.

I take a deep breath, flick my hair over to one side and knock.

Tap-tap-tappity-tap.

A cute, seductive knock. The sort you want to answer.

I stand still, listening for sounds inside.

Footsteps.

The brass doorknob turns and the door creaks as it opens. Thomas looks just like he did over a week ago at the grocery store, but his tan has faded now and his caramel hair is the smallest bit longer, flopping over one brown eye.

‘Hi,’ I say. Breathy.

‘Hi,’ he replies, his eyes wide like he’s trying to read me. ‘Do you want to come in?’ Then he moves aside and I nod and move past him. He smells like laundry detergent and cigarettes, and a moment later the door clicks closed behind us.

‘Can I get you something to drink?’ he asks, in typical polite British fashion, like he didn’t just try to get me to sod off.

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Scotch?’

Then I sit down on the brown leather sofa and watch him pull a bottle of Scotch from one cupboard in the kitchen and two glasses from another. Ice clinks and drinks are poured. I look around the large room: the TV is on. Netflix. It’s on mute. His computer, sitting on a desk against the wall, is on. His cigarettes and silver lighter are sitting on the coffee table in front of me beside his scarf – a multicoloured stripe. The bed in the corner is made this time and the candle beside it is unlit. But aside from those small details, everything else is exactly as it was last time I was here.

‘Hot in Herre’ starts playing from my bag and I reach for it: Camilla is calling.

Shit.

I stare down at the phone – I can’t not answer, not after the weekend, she’ll send out a search party – and then back up at Thomas, who is watching me from the kitchen. ‘Sorry,’ I say, screwing up my face a bit, ‘I have to get this, my friend is super anxious.’

His jaw tightens like he’s wishing he never let me in but I answer anyway and say: ‘Hey.’

Maybe seeing me as a caring friend will soften Thomas up.

‘Hey,’ Camilla says, ‘just checking on you. Any news?’