A headlight flashes across the front of the house in a lazy arc like a searchlight, and a motorbike slowly mounts the pavement, pulling up by the wrought-iron railings. The rider dismounts and chains his bike to the bars. I assume it’s Pip as I heard from Jake that he’d got a new mode of transport. He tugs his helmet off and heads towards the door—and me.

‘Hi,’ I say and Pip nearly jumps out of his leathers.

‘Good grief,’ he says. ‘Lyssa! What are you doing here? You’re soaked through. How long have you been waiting?’

The truth is I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here. Long enough to have made my legs go numb and for the rain to have gone straight through my coat. Why hadn’t I noticed that before?

‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s get you inside.’

‘You’ll have to give me a tug.’ Pip takes my hand in his big, hard leather gauntlet and heaves me up. My knees creak into action.

Pip tuts at me. ‘You’ll catch your death of cold,’ he says and I have to smile because he sounds like someone’s mum. My mum, if I’m not mistaken.

He fiddles about with the key in the lock and then ushers me inside. I follow him through to the kitchen and he throws me a small hand-towel as he starts to peel off his gear. I rub the towel over my hair, which is plastered firmly to my head despite Tigger’s best efforts.

The inside of Pip’s flat is much more spruce than the outside. It has a black slate floor in all of the rooms and streamlined leather furniture in lollipop colours. There are original movie posters on the walls—Casablanca, Brief Encounter, From Here to Eternity. All the ones that make you cry. The kitchen is all steel and boysy.

Pip tugs off his boots and socks and pads round in his bare feet, keeping busy doing nothing. Eventually, he looks back at me. ‘Better?’

‘Yeah.’ I give up with the towel.

He eyes his pile of wet clothes making a nice dark pool on the kitchen floor. ‘It’s not the night to be riding a bike,’ he admits. ‘Or to be squatting on someone’s doorstep.’

‘I’m waiting for Jake,’ I say, and can’t believe how lame I sound.

‘Jake?’ Pip’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

I sink onto one of the kitchen chairs. ‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’

‘Er…’

‘I’ve tried calling him, but he never answers his phone.’ My voice sounds so tired and old and weary. ‘Any idea where he is?’

I stop rubbing with the towel and look up at Pip. He’s taken off his wet jacket and is looking vaguely stricken.

‘Er…’ he says again.