‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘Honestly, I’m flattered, it’s just that …’

How do you explain to someone that you’re still in love with a ghost, or that you don’t want to cheat on a memory? He was trying to work out how to explain it, or even whether it was worth explaining at all, when he was saved by the sweeping headlights as a taxi pulled into the rank. He was surprised how quick they had gotten here, until he remembered that he’d never actually made the call.

‘Ladies first,’ he said.

‘Nah, you take it. I’m going to head back in for one more,’ she said, dropping her cigarette to the floor and grinding it with her heel. ‘Unless you’re going to take me in for littering?’

They both smiled, out of relief at the easing of tension as much as anything.

‘We still on for a catch-up on Monday morning, then?’ she said.

Porter nodded, and made a dash for the cab. He didn’t look back at the doorway to the bar until he was safely in the car, but she had already retreated back inside. The only shapes he could make out beyond the rain-smeared window were both over six feet tall, the dark, unmoving golems that were the bouncers.

He gave the driver his address and slumped back into the seat, running his fingers through his damp hair. He exhaled loudly.

Jesus, didn’t see that one coming.

‘Rough night?’ asked the cabbie, a hint of Jamaican lilt in his voice.

Porter nodded. ‘You could say that.’

‘Woman trouble?’

‘Kind of,’ he said; then added, ‘It’s complicated.’

Part of him dreaded any uncomfortable tension he knew there must surely be when he saw her on Monday, but who was he kidding? There were far worse ways to end an evening. It might well have complicated things, but those complications were his to wrestle with. His issues, not hers.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Porter had sat across from murderers, thieves and gangsters and not batted an eyelid. He felt out of sorts and out of place today, though, as he watched the dozen or so turf wars amongst the five- and six-year-olds for supremacy of the soft-play kingdom. He guessed at best that he’d had four hours’ sleep last night, and his hangover was lurking dangerously close to the surface. Kat looked down at him from behind a curtain of rope netting on the second storey of the soft-play. She waved him up to join them, but he shook his head, pointing to his coffee – a poor excuse, but it was all he had to cling to.

Harriet came back from the toilet just as he was making his excuses, and tutted loudly as she sat down.

‘Go on,’ she urged. ‘Get yourself in there for a few minutes at least. It’ll do you good.’