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no mood for getting heavy, for discussing what couldn’t be resolved. It was pointless, just scribbling with words.
    ‘Don’t be pissed off,’ I said, stopping his trailing hand with my own. ‘You’ll spoil the afternoon.’
    His head bobbed up in a snort of ironic laughter. ‘Yeah, right,’ he said, snatching his hand back like he’d been stung by a viper. ‘The afternoon. Lost my sense of proportion there for a while.’
    I cursed under my breath and rolled on to my back, away from him. I closed my eyes.
    A bitter silence stretched between us. There was nothing to say: he knew my position; I knew his. But I hate sourness and I thought maybe an apology was in order. So I tried it: ‘Sorry.’
    I heard coins clink as Martin reached for his trousers. Glancing up at him, I watched him wrench the strap of his belt and stuff it in the buckle.
    ‘What for?’ he sniped, his face darkened with anger and hurt. ‘For being so free with your fucks?’
    ‘Yes,’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘You said you could handle it and you can’t. So, sorry. Sorry for being an insensitive, selfish, frivolous little bitch.’
    Martin drew on his hooded top and sat on the armchair, lacing up his trainers. ‘You forgot stubborn,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘And callous and unscrupulous and thoughtlessly hedonis –’
    ‘All right, all right,’ I cut in, relieved to see a vague grin flickering on his lips. ‘I want forgiveness, not a demolition job.’ I reached for my clothes, feeling violently naked before his fully dressed state.
    ‘Forgiven,’ he said flatly. ‘It wasn’t all your fault anyway. More like six of one and two dozen of the other.’
    We exchanged half-smiles, accepting blame and offering forgiveness. I smoothed down my vest top.
    We were both dressed, no longer touching. We’d entered that awkward no-man’s land of ours: not lovers and not ‘just friends’. We were forced to tread gingerly.
    ‘D’you fancy an afternoon pint or something?’ I suggested uncertainly.
    Martin shook his head. ‘Best if I was off,’ he said.
    ‘You sure?’ I asked, hoping he was.
    He was. I showed him to the flat door, where we stood, not knowing how to broach the subject – in a casual, non-lovers way – of ‘When shall we see each other again?’
    ‘You going to The Geese on Friday?’ ventured Martin.
    ‘Dunno,’ I said. ‘Not my end of town any more. You?’
    ‘Dunno.’ He shrugged, toeing the carpet. ‘I might go . . . Beth?’
    He looked at me. I looked at him.
    ‘Beth,’ he went on. ‘I think we should cool it a bit. Maybe, you know, not see each other for a while.’
    I was taken aback. Martin and I have never, ever not seen each other for a while. Oh, we’ve been apart, for months on end, but that’s always been because we’ve had other things going on in our lives. We’ve never actually decided to be apart. Even in the messy end stage of our affair we still managed to be sociable. Anyway, in Brighton, it was impossible not to see each other.
    ‘Tricky,’ I said, ‘when we go out with the same bunch of people. Or different bunches of people in the same places.’
    ‘Yeah,’ he answered quietly. ‘But maybe we should avoid each other. I might . . . go and stay at my brother’s for a couple of weeks or something.’
    ‘Oh,’ I said. Martin never went to stay at his brother’s. This was serious.
    ‘It’s just . . .’ He stared at me, his face all twisted with pain. ‘It fucking hurts, Beth. It fucking hurts when I see you. Especially when . . . like today . . . you suggest . . . You gave me hope, Beth.
Hope.
I’d rather have despair. At least you know where you are with despair.’
    I nodded, deeply ashamed. ‘Sorry,’ I whispered, my eyes stinging.
    He hitched his rucksack higher on his shoulder. ‘I’ll give you a ring when I get back,’ he said, and turned on his heels.
    ‘Don’t I get a goodbye peck?’ I asked, my voice cracking.
    At the top of the stairs, Martin