He straightens and wanders off. “I’m fucking dying to get that redhead in the communal room,” he calls over his shoulder, and my head falls back against the headrest. I’m imagining Ava’s reaction to The Manor. It’s not good. I’m imagining her reaction to her friend partaking in some play with Sam. It’s not good.

“Hey, Sam,” I yell, leaning out of the window. He stops at the top of the steps, looking back. “I bought Kate a van,” I declare proudly.

“What?” The poor bloke looks as confused as he should be. “Why?”

“Have you seen that old jalopy she chugs round in?”

“Yeah. It’s cute.”

“It’s also a death trap.”

His jaw tightens. It makes me smile. “Are you saying I don’t know how to look after a woman?”

I slowly lift my eyebrows. That redhead. “Do you want to look after a woman?”

“I want to fuck her black and blue. That’s what I want to do.”

Now that’s more like the Sam I know. I flash him my signature, dashing smile and slip my shades on, razzing off down the driveway.

I shower and change at Lusso, kill more time tidying up around my apartment, all the time wishing Cathy back soon.

Finally at five, I'm calling Ava to advise her that I’m on my way and to be ready. Except she doesn’t answer. Not the first time, and not the eighth fucking time, by which point I’m pulling into her street. “Answer the fucking phone. Is it too much to ask?” I park up and jog across the road, feeling that god-awful dread creeping up on me. I knock the door gently. It takes everything out of me. Nothing. “God damn you, woman,” I mutter, dropping my forehead to the wood, hoping to God we’re not back at square one again. I walk down the path, turn, walk back, turn, walk back, dialing her again.

“Hello?” she says, sounding perfectly unruffled and calm. Unlike me. This woman is the beginning and end of my stress.

“Where the hell are you?” I snap, unable to hold back the anxiety.

“Where are you?”

Surely this apprehension is not unreasonable. She promised she’d pick up when I called. No, it’s not unreasonable. Every fear, dread, and worry I have is perfectly reasonable. “I’m outside Kate’s, kicking the door down.” I march to the front door, set on actually kicking it down. “Is it too much to ask that you answer your phone the first time I call you?”

“I was in the shower.”

“Take your phone with you,” I bark, flopping against the wall in relief. She was in the shower. She wasn’t avoiding me. She answered the phone. Finally. We need to have a serious conversation about her phone etiquette.