‘No, you’re all right,’ said Dan but he smiled at him.

4

Bea walked along the grassy verge feeling very alone. Dew soaked through her canvas shoes. A truck rattled by. Perhaps it was coming back from a market. There was a path to her left, going into the woods, and she took it. Her very first fight with Dan had been on the Victoria line, on the way to meet his cousin Troy. She had resented the way he prepared her for it, like she was Lady Grantham visiting South Side Chicago. The fight started with each of them explaining themselves but by the time they reached Stockwell it was, What, am I a project to you, white girl? and, Fuck you and your cousin Troy! They didn’t fight often. Neither of them liked it. Thick leaves brushed her skirt, and the ground was soft. There were wild flowers and the green smell of shade. She wondered how he was doing with Alex, what the two of them would think of to say. Ahead, the trees were backlit as the path ended and she saw water. She walked out of the woods, to a riverbank.

The river was brown and slow-moving. She heard a distant road and, downriver, saw a stone bridge, its arches holding shadows. She reached for her phone to see if there was another way back and realised she’d left it by the bed.

‘Shit,’ she said, in disproportionate panic.

She felt vulnerable without her phone. And she needed to know what time it was. Usually it was important to know exactly. She guessed it must be after eleven. Mid-morning on a Thursday, and she was on a French riverbank with no plan for her day. There was a fisherman on the opposite bank. She could see the nose of his car poking out of the bushes. She wondered why he was not at work; if she were home she would have been at Stamford Hill Psych for three hours. Today, she hadn’t even been out of bed until her replacement had finished the first session. Her nine fifteen, James. She reached for her phone again before remembering it wasn’t there. Her mind scrolled through the Thursday she was missing. James spent his weekends on Es and GHB, having sex with men he didn’t know, and every Monday made his resolutions. Clean on Monday, scared by Wednesday, and always a trigger before Friday – a call from his ex or something at work – and Saturday, every week, the fall. The forty-eight-hour party. Blackouts. Bruises. Shame. He wanted to feel love. He would lean forward urgently to tell her. Her ten fifteen was Tara, who was twenty-five. She was on a waiting list to see a psychiatrist, and shouldn’t have been living on her own. Tara harmed herself, and had been fired from her internship. Her mother lived in Washington and her father wasn’t speaking to her, and her benefits had been suspended. Her suicidal thoughts frightened her, because she didn’t feel sad, it just made unarguable sense to kill herself. She wasn’t ill enough for inpatient care in an NHS unit, but wasn’t well enough to cope. All Bea could do was offer strategies, she couldn’t keep her safe. Leaving Tara had been very hard, even with two months’ notice. The guilt was sickening. Again, she reached for her phone; ruled by the ingrained habit. Tara needed more help than Bea could give. She needed everything. Every time she thought of her Bea wanted to cry, but she never had the time. Her eleven fifteen might still be going on; if she had her phone, she’d be able to check. They were a mother and daughter who had been having the same conversation for months, blaming one another for their lives. Bea hoped they would move on but hadn’t the heart to stop seeing them. She pictured them tormenting her replacement with their shouting. At half past twelve, notes and a sandwich, then at half past one, safeguarding. At three o’clock a client. Another client. Who? She closed her eyes to remember. Three o’clock on a Thursday. Joel. Joel was a sixteen-year-old boy, who came with his stepmother. He hadn’t grown into his long, thin limbs. He had red hair. He was being bullied for it. At four fifteen, Karen, who was a full-time carer for her father who had dementia. Bea was her one hour’s respite in the week, she called Bea her saviour. At five thirty, Bill, an ex-soldier. Sometimes he would cry, other times he didn’t talk at all. Each day different, each day the same. She didn’t know how long she had been standing there, so deep in London that she felt the city’s air on her skin. She didn’t want Dan to think she wasn’t talking to him, because she couldn’t text. She shouldn’t worry so much about his approval. Stamford Hill Psych, cash-starved as they were, had recently opened a service for digital addiction, and had barely set it up when the appointments flooded in. She didn’t need a phone. She did not want to identify with a floating blue dot. She could easily find her own way back to the hotel. Not wanting to retrace her steps she started to walk along the river, looking for another route.