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But it hurts so much that I don’t know what to do with myself.’
    ‘There’s probably nothing, really,’ said Nancy. ‘No way round except through.’
    ‘I do wish you weren’t so far away,’ said Gaby. ‘You’re the only one I could possibly say this to without feeling an utter fool, and you don’t try to cheer me up by saying things like “Time heals everything.”’
    ‘Which it kind of does.’
    ‘And “There are plenty more …” ’
    ‘There are.’
    ‘Don’t spoil it.’
    ‘Are you feeling really down?’
    ‘I guess I am. Down and blue. I know it’s stupid.’
    ‘I tell you what, shall I come and visit? I could, you know. How about tomorrow?’
    ‘No, don’t even think of it.’
    ‘I’ve already thought of it.
    ‘I know it will pass.’
    ‘But I’d like to come. I miss you. I can get there by early evening, is that OK?’
    ‘What would I do without you?’
    ‘You’d do the same for me.’
    ‘Any time.’
    Ten days after the crash, Connor stood outside 22 Jerome Street. He had been there since eight o’clock in the morning and it was now nearly eleven. The sky was low and grey; there was a persistent drizzle that had soaked through his clothes and made his hair stick to his skull. He was damp and hungry and hugely embarrassed by himself. He kept thinking that he should go, then giving himself ten more minutes, then another ten. At half past nine a young man had slouched out of the house, long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. At just gone ten a woman of about Gaby’s age, but tall and slim, with hair cut short and wearing ripped black jeans and a leather jacket, had emerged. No sign of Gaby. Upstairs, all the curtains remained closed. He paced up the street, then back again. If someone was looking at him, they’d think he was casing the joint. No, they’d think he was a stalker – and he was a kind of stalker, a risible figure, skulking in this narrow street, waiting for someone who’d probably not given him a moment’s thought since they’d parted in the darkness, on the outskirts of the city, as the first faint band of light appeared on the horizon. He shifted irritably from foot to foot, feeling trickles of water escape down his neck. Of course, he should simply knock at the door and ask for her. But he couldn’t bear the thought of being ushered into the house like a guest, to her pitying surprise, or being turned away politely with the news that she wasn’t there or, worse, was still in bedwith whoever she had chosen to go to bed with the night before.
    He’d give himself till a quarter past. Then he’d forget about her. End of story.
    He’d give himself till half past. Not a minute after.
    At twenty to twelve the door of 22 Jerome Street opened and Gaby stepped into the street. He’d been tormented by her image, day and night, and there she was – a bit smaller than he remembered, her face a little thinner, her hair the colour of golden syrup, her eyes dark. She was stuffing a croissant into her mouth and laughing, while little flakes of pastry scattered round her. There was a man behind her, tall and broad and – Fuck him, thought Connor. Fuck him and fuck everyone who looked like that, so easy and happy and nice, inheriting the earth and not even noticing, while he, Connor, was skinny and serious and gripped with such cramps of longing for Gaby that he thought he’d die of it. For a second, as he stood there, he understood that while he had spent the past week and a half rearranging his entire life, Gaby had gone about her business as usual, scarcely casting a backward glance at the night in which they’d met. Of course she hadn’t, because there she was in front of him, in a calf-length purple dress with dozens of tiny buttons, and black wellington boots, her hair tamed into plaits and a cloth cap on her head and, following her, a man. She was smiling over her shoulder at him, teasing him. There! She’d put her arm through his proprietorially as they