I push the door open and let it close heavy behind me. Click. I’m in the hallway now and I can see Noah’s studio door up ahead. I move past the metal door that leads to the rooftop and his door opens and there he is, looking like he always did: tanned and blue-eyed. Except now he’s wearing some old grey tracksuit pants with navy paint down one leg and a big white long-sleeved shirt. He looks drained. Greyscale.

Like a man who’s been questioned by the police over a murder he didn’t commit.

I move towards him. I can smell the muted peppermint of his shampoo.

‘Hey,’ I say, reaching out to touch his chest like I’m all trusting and vulnerable.

‘Don’t pull that cutesy crap with me,’ he says as he pushes the door open and moves aside so I can enter. ‘You lied to me.’

‘And you’ve never lied to me?’ I ask, as I move inside. It smells like oil paint and turpentine and old coffee, and it’s almost too big without all the people. A vast messy space with one of the sofas I saw last time now converted into an unmade bed.

‘Caffeine?’ Noah asks as he closes the door and heads to the kitchen.

A flash of his party. Of him reaching for my wrist and drawing that half a heart. His breath on my ear.

‘Sure,’ I say, my voice thick.

I sit down on the other sofa and wait for him to bring my coffee. There’s a canvas lying on the floor with only a rough outline on it. Noah walks towards me, hands me a cup and sits down.

‘Thanks,’ I say. The warmth between my hands is comforting even though I’m pretty sure if I drink the coffee I may have some sort of heart attack.

‘So,’ he says, his eyes on mine.

‘So,’ I reply. But I am thinking about his message.

‘What did you mean by you knew she’d do something like this?’ I ask. No point skirting around it.

‘You went past the gallery, right? About a week ago.’

‘So? Lots of people go there.’

‘Yeah but you must have done something to make her think that we had a thing. Because she called me, said some girl named “Grace”,’ he inserts air-quotes here so I am guessing he’s still pissed about the name thing, ‘just came past. Wanted to know who you were. If Sabine had ever mentioned you.’

‘Well, what did you say?’ I ask, my mind a whirr as I try to recall our conversation from that day. Whether there was something I said to stir her suspicion.

‘I said no… of course,’ he replies. ‘I know what she’s like. I didn’t want you on her radar. But it looks like I was too late.’