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crisps and peanuts. No wonder Ruby is rolling.
    ‘I couldn’t do it,’ she says, hanging on his arm.
    ‘Do what?’ he asks. He puts his hand in his pocket so his arm becomes a loop for her to hold onto.
    ‘Set up on my own. Don’t think I’m brave enough.’
    ‘Well, it’s not for everyone,’ he says.
    ‘What are you saying? You think it’s beyond me? Good for nothing ’cept serving sandwiches?’ Black spidery flicks of mascara have smudged onto her cheekbones, among the brown freckles.
    ‘Course not. What would you do – if you left the café?’ he says.
    ‘Dunno. Cooking.’
    ‘You’re good at that.’
    They walk on, Bartholomew setting the pace. She’s a dead weight on his arm, uncomfortable and tiring. They reach Theobald Road.
    ‘Give us your key,’ he says and she feels about in her bag for what seems like minutes. She has her feet apart to steady her, but her body sways. She gives him the key and they walk further up Theobald Road.
    ‘So that’s what the café idea was all about,’ he says.
    ‘Eh?’
    ‘A café at my place – for you to run?’
    ‘I didn’t think of that,’ she says. ‘You want to go into business w’ me cos I’m so clever!’ She puts her arms around his neck while he tries to open her front door with her key.
    ‘I don’t think so,’ he says, low and stern. ‘I’m not going into business with anyone. I’m on me own. That’s how I like it.’
    ‘Jeeeeez, alright,’ says Ruby and they fall in, tumbling into her dark hallway.
    In the echo of the hall as they clatter up the communal stairs to her flat, he says, ‘Watch yourself, Rube.’
    She stops on the stairs, looking at her shoes, with one arm on the banister. He is behind her.
    ‘Why are you so paranoid?’ she says, suddenly sober and angry. ‘You always think I want something from ye, like I’ll be sticking a pin in the condoms next. You’re not that much of a catch Bartholomew.’
    She takes her key off him roughly and opens the front door to her flat, leaving it open for him to follow.
    Her place is dark, except for the fairy lights which she never turns off. In the gloom, the purples, pinks and oranges from the cushions and rugs glow, as if they’ve stumbled into some over-stuffed grotto. She throws her bag down on the sofa and takes her coat off. She is shambling towards the bedroom, prising off her shoes as she goes. He steadies her and leads her to the bed. She sits, then lies her head on the pillow and he lifts her stockinged legs. Her eyes are shut. He hears a snore ring out.
    Bartholomew wants to go home but doesn’t feel he can leave her just yet. He’s been experiencing this more and more lately – a gap between what he should do and what he wants to do – and he wonders if this is how love ought to feel. He goes to sit in the wicker chair in the corner of the room, beside the window where net curtains are filtering the orange of a street lamp, its massive bulb just beyond the glass. He watches Ruby sleep, one hand to his chin, the other on his knee. He sees her turn over with all her body, hip up, face down, and as she does so, she farts.
    He’d met Ruby a year ago, at the tea room on Market Street where she works as a waitress. He’d begun to stop there on his way home from the garden centre in a bid to avoid his cold empty flat.
    Bartholomew had sat at a table in the darkest corner and watched her as she served the other customers.
    Everything about her was rounded: her little belly; the soft slopes of her arms; the milky skin on her chest which rose high with her breath. He was magnetised by the fullness of her. When she came to his table and said – in a gentle Leeds accent which he hadn’t been expecting – ‘What can I get ye?’ he’d said, involuntarily, ‘Can I take you out?’
    She had laughed, her apple face creasing up with kindness and delight. ‘Let’s just deal with your lunch order first, shall we?’
    ‘Where do you live?’ she’d asked later, when