Suddenly Casey pushed him. Scott stumbled and almost tripped on the step, caught himself, her laughter ringing in his ears as he jogged for the gate. He slammed it shut and ran back down the path, thinking she might’ve closed and locked the door behind him.

But she was too busy: leaning against the wall, hands on her sides, laughing so hard her whole face and neck had turned red.

“You did it. You actually did it. You’re even more pathetic than I thought.”

Scott stood over her. He’d never fantasised so vividly about hitting anybody, especially not a woman. But he did then. He thought about the feeling of her cheekbone against his fist. The way her head would crack against the corner of the heater. The blood pooling.

She saw his look, stopped laughing. “Go on, big man. Show me who you really are.”

Scott turned away and gathered up his clothes.

17

LAUREN

Lauren walked towards the library, wrapping her coat around herself. The wind was whipping along the waterfront that evening. She’d walked this same way so many times over the years, having been born in Bristol, ever since she was a little girl and her dad would take her on day-long sightseeing tours.

His favourite piece of history was always the SS Great Britain; they’d visited it countless times, and Lauren never got bored. It was the passion in her father’s face, his voice. It was his curiosity, always eager to learn any new fact. It had ignited the same in Lauren. He was the reason she’d become so obsessed with history.

She was curious about everything, though, not just history; she read as much as she could and often watched documentaries. Mostly, she was fascinated by people. Scott’s predicament was the most fascinating. She wouldn’t phrase it that way to him. He was getting worse every day, the bags under his eyes getting deeper, darker.

But she was keen to get involved. There was no denying it. Scott had said most people would run away from a problem like this. Lauren didn’t care what most people did.

Scott had given her the details for the book club. As luck would have it, their next meeting was that week. Lauren had speed-read their thriller, finding it quite absorbing and interesting. But she wasn’t attending to talk about the book.

Entering the library, she spotted the other women in the corner, sitting around a large table. Lauren recognised them from the Facebook discussion group.

The self-appointed queen bee was Izzy, an older woman with dyed pink hair and a staggering number of piercings, colourful tattoos covering her arms. Then there was Olivia, who looked every bit the librarian she was, with her mousy ponytail and her overbite and her big brown glasses.

Finally there was Fiona, the closest to Lauren’s age. She had recently gone through a divorce; her Facebook wall was plastered with memes and statuses about it. She wore a chic poncho, her hair recently styled, as though she was screaming, Screw you, world, I don’t need a husband.