Oh God, any idiot could tell I was making it up as I went along, and Cory was no idiot. My hand rose to cover my throat, but his expression didn’t change.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “Why can’t you just email it from here?”

My pulse fluttered against my fingers like a trapped butterfly.

“I don’t know,” I said. “The line was terrible. I think perhaps he’s worried about me.”

The knife turned and twisted in Cory’s grasp, and I never took my eyes off the shining blade.

Shit. That was all I could think. Shit, shit, shit.

Cory thought about what I’d said for a long time. Eventually he returned the knife to his pocket, along with my phone.

“All right,” he said dubiously. “If that’s how it is . . . I’ll bring you some paper and a pen, and you can write while the party’s winding up. If you need help”—our eyes met and parted—“I’ll come upstairs once everyone’s left.”

I was backed up against the wall with no retreat. Cory’s thumb traced my jaw in the ghost of a tender gesture, but he was just as clammy and shaky as I was, and I don’t know who he thought he was fooling. He even tried to smile, as if his “all right” had meaning; as if there were something left to us worth fixing.

“We’ll catch the London train first thing,” he said, and kissed me on the forehead.

He brought me my beautiful notebook, along with a pen, a blanket, a cushion, a plate of leftovers, and a mug of tea. We didn’t speak to one another and he turned the key in the lock as he left. Once I was sure he’d gone I blew on the hot tea, took a careful sip, and opened the book at a fresh page.

Cory Byrne is a very talented

I crossed out very in the name of self-respect.

Cory Byrne is a talented portrait artist whose debut exhibition opened last Saturday in Bligh . . .

Writing for my life was easy; the platitudes poured from my pen like water from a tap. After a while I stopped worrying about the occasional very. Let him have as many superlatives as he could swallow—they meant nothing, and they upped the word count. My pen skimmed across the paper without pause while my mind wandered. I listened for evidence of the party downstairs—the faintest echo of music or chatter—but I was too far away to catch it, or the rain was too loud, or they had all gone.

The tea was still warm by the time I glided to a halt on the third page—A first-class act, Cory Byrne is most definitely one to watch! —and threw my pen down. Job done. I pushed the pad away and rubbed my eyes.