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though he knew in his heart it wasn’t possible. He picked up his own cards and rubbed his chest with the heel of his hand as the pain of reality subsided.

7
     
    24th January – Friday
     
    Why hadn’t she answered? He needed to hear her voice. Exhaustion had become his constant companion but it seemed to prolong the thrill in a way he couldn’t have imagined.
    He used the steering wheel as leverage, arched his back and stretched his legs out into the footwell. His muscles felt tight, unyielding. He groaned, looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was 8 a.m. He pulled his coat around him and turned up the collar. It had dropped to minus three during the night but just being this close to her seemed to warm his blood. He was dying to tell her, for her to experience it through him. But she was ignoring him. He felt like her puppet: she pulled his strings and he danced to her manipulative tune. It had been months since she had deigned to speak to him. All he had to sustain him were overheard snippets of conversations she had with her neighbours. As he leaned forward to ease the ache in his spine he rubbed his hands together. The joints on his fingers were red and swollen, his knuckles covered in scratches.
    Surrey Road was quiet. The rustle of the ice-covered litter in the gutters and the wind whistling through the branches of the trees kept him company. Most of the Victorian terraces were split into flats. Hers was on the first floor: 10A. From his vantage point, sitting in his car, he could just see into her lounge, when the blinds were open. Her television was mounted on the wall next to the window. If she sat in just the right place he could see a perfect reflected image of her, curled up on a red sofa with a glass of wine and a book. But that hadn’t happened in a while. Now, when she came home, she put down her blinds immediately. He was left with mere glimpses: her shadow behind a veil of maroon silk.
    He pushed away his frustration, closed his eyes and imagined walking her home after one of her photo shoots, cooking for her and then sitting on her raggedy old sofa, just the two of them. Her long blonde hair would be pulled over one shoulder and she would be wearing her leggings, slippers and hooded jumper. She would probably rest her legs in his lap as she read. His trousers tightened around his crotch as his interest grew. He could almost feel her hands on him. The sound of a bicycle bell brought him back to the car and out of his fantasy. The warmth of her touch vanished.
    She had known the effect she had on him the moment they met, all those months ago. It had been obvious. He had seen it in her eyes as she licked her lips when she talked to him, blowing on her coffee, her perfect lips pursed, as if waiting for a kiss. She was different from the others. As the cyclist disappeared around the corner, lights began to come on in some of the flats. Their warm glow bathed the dark street in little pools of gold. Her lights had been on all night. He knew she was home because he had watched her walk up the street yesterday evening, unlock her front door (she had two Chubb locks now) and go inside. So why was she ignoring his calls? ‘Selfish . . . bitch,’ he whispered, his breath fogging the window. He opened it a bit further so he had an uninterrupted view.
    As his anger subsided, cooled by an icy breeze, he heard a shout. His heart raced. Had it come from her flat? It was impossible to tell. He waited, straining his ears for another sound. He looked around at the deserted street. Nothing about it had changed but something felt different. Something was wrong. Condensation dripped down the windscreen. All his tiredness was gone. His eyes were fixed on her front door. ‘Please,’ he said, touching his cold hands to his hot face. He looked at the clock. It was almost 8.30. If she had a photo shoot she would leave her flat at 9 a.m. It wasn’t fair; leaving him to sit here unacknowledged was cruel.
    He watched as