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not this one, is it?’ She sniffed the old cotton. ‘It smells like it’s brand new.’
    ‘It is.’ Gina stared at the T-shirt. It had felt right to pass it on last night when she’d put it into the bag, but now, seeing it in Naomi’s hands, she felt as if part of her past was slipping under the waters, vanishing as it left her home. She caught herself. This stuff had to go, and it was better that it went to someone who’d understand why she’d treasured it. ‘I bought two, in case one shrank in the wash, or Mum found out where we’d been and I never got to go to a gig again. That’s the spare.’
    ‘But where’s yours?’
    ‘I think I gave it to Kit.’
    Naomi looked up, and her eyes were sad. ‘Oh, Gee. I can’t take this, then.’
    ‘No, I want you to.’ Gina hadn’t talked about Kit in a long time. Naomi was the only person she could talk to about him. ‘Keep it for Willow. I couldn’t wear it now – it’s way too small for me. It’d just go back in a drawer, and I need to be ruthless.’
    She glanced away. The logo had hooked up a memory that had been stuffed at the back of her mind, hidden away like the T-shirt: Kit sprawled across an unmade single bed, sleeping off a late night in his blue-checked boxers and her T-shirt, his long arms thrown over his head, pulling the T-shirt up his flat stomach with its gentle curves and hollows. Gina had told herself to remember how perfect he looked.
    It felt like a very long time ago, and her heart contracted at the freshness of the T-shirt print in Naomi’s hands.
    ‘No, listen, I’ll happily take the mags, but not this,’ said Naomi, seeing the change in Gina’s face. ‘I want you to keep it and give it to Willow when she’s old enough to appreciate what a cool godmother she’s lucky enough to have.’
    Gina forced a smile, but the image wouldn’t go away. She wasn’t in it. That morning had happened to her , she’d been there, but now, even with this T-shirt as evidence, it was as if she was remembering a film she’d seen ages ago. Those mornings with Kit had felt like the beginning of something, the first steps along a long road they’d look back over together, and yet it had stopped, and now it was as if it had never actually happened. It would be the same with Stuart. All those expectations and assumptions, months and years, experiences and memories . . . gone.
    Her stomach flipped as if she’d got too close to a sharp drop.
    ‘Where have the last few years gone, Naomi?’ she blurted out. ‘How are we suddenly this old?’
    ‘We’re not old, you daft cow,’ said Naomi. ‘We’re just getting started. Life isn’t meant to begin till forty, and that’s years off.’
    ‘But I feel old. I feel time’s going so fast and I don’t even know what I—’
    ‘We’re just getting started,’ Naomi repeated, more firmly. She reached across and took her hand, her eyes locking on Gina’s, full of concern and support and an unspoken understanding of all the things that made Gina feel suddenly exhausted whenever she forgot to concentrate on her fresh start. ‘There’s lots more time than you think. Promise.’
    Gina managed a watery smile, and squeezed Naomi’s hand.
    She didn’t need things to remind her of her past. Not when she had Naomi. Honest, sympathetic, practical Naomi.
     
    When Naomi had left, Gina tidied up the cups and plates and, out of habit, went to put the beautiful scented candle in a cupboard somewhere, to keep for later. For best. For visitors.
    She stopped, the box in her hand. She had no cupboards or visitors. She was the only person here, so why save the candle for someone else when it had been given to her ?
    Before she could think too hard about it, Gina slid the glass jar out of the box and put it on the windowsill, the only clear flat space in the flat. Then she lit it. After a moment or two, the pale blue scent of hyacinths began to fill the room: the spicy-crisp smell of the chilly winter months before