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note to appreciate the nuances of the slow bits and
the fast, the loud and the soft, the percussive and the melodic. I’m not even really listening to that; I’m watching the concentration on his face, the intensity, the feeling.
It’s as if he inhabits another dimension entirely. He’s talented but he’s also connected. To something bigger, something other. I’m going to love watching him play the
guitar, his head bent over the polished body of the instrument, the feeling passing from his soul to his body and his fingers and coming out in those notes. He holds the guitar the way he will hold
women, with such tenderness and rhythm, with an instinctive sense of give and take, of knowing when to hold back and when to give all he’s got. The only person I know who ever had this
instinct before was Seb.
    By the time I go in to him, with a tray of freshly brewed tea, the surface of the river is deep copper, the buildings opposite bathed in sallow light. He looks up as I enter, puts down the
guitar.
    ‘I’ve been banging, trying to call you. Why was the door locked?’ He stands up, his eyes fixed on me and takes a step towards the door. I stay where I am, barring his way. Just
in case.
    ‘I’m sorry, Jez. How stupid of me. It’s force of habit. There’s so much expensive equipment in here, Greg insists on me locking up.’
    ‘I was a bit freaked out. I need to go. It must be late?’
    ‘You’ve plenty of time. Relax. Look I’ve brought you—’
    ‘Did you ask Helen? To tell Alicia to get in touch?’
    ‘Oh, that. Yes. They could have rung. But for some reason,’ I shrug, place the tray down on the bedside table, ‘they haven’t.’
    He stares at me, slightly stupified it seems.
    ‘I’ve still got a stinking headache,’ he says.
    ‘Yes, you will do. I’ve brought you tea. You must hydrate. And later you must have some supper. I’ve got some arancini. They’re from the Italian place on the
market.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Arancini. Rice balls filled with bolognese or mozzarella, delicious. And there’s some white Rioja. You’ll love it. ’
    Mentioning wine is a mistake. He grimaces.
    ‘You might not feel like it now, but you’ll need that hair of the dog later.’
    ‘Thanks. For all this. But I really must be off.’ He starts to pick up his things, which are strewn about the room: his hoodie, a badge that has come off it, a packet of chewing gum.
My heart feels as if it’s being squeezed, I can’t breathe. I know what he’s doing and I can’t bear it.
    ‘Don’t go.’
    ‘I’ve got to. They’ll be wondering where I’ve been for the last twenty-four hours.’
    ‘Let them think what they want,’ I say. ‘Stay.’
    ‘I feel bad. Alicia’ll be wondering what’s happened. I have to explain why I didn’t get the train. My mum will be worried.’
    ‘Jez,’ I say before I can stop myself, and I can hear the plea in my voice. ‘What about how
I
feel?’
    He looks at me, alarm on his face for the first time.
    I’ve broken a basic rule by appearing desperate. I must employ one of my professional techniques. Make my voice serene. Hide the sea of desolation that threatens to engulf me.
    ‘I cancelled an engagement tonight because I believed you wanted to stay. Do, please, have dinner with me. We can have pizza if you prefer, burgers, anything you like. And I’ll look
out my opera friend’s number for you.’
    ‘Thanks, honestly. But I’m going now. I need to get home. You could text me your friend’s details. I’ll get a new phone.’
    I look at him, stare into his eyes, think as loudly as I can: Don’t do this. Don’t make me force you. But he continues to check his pockets, tie his laces.
    ‘You can’t go home with a hangover like that. What will Helen say?’
    ‘I’ll have a quick cup of tea. Then I’m off.’
    I didn’t want it to come to this, but I have no choice. I go to the tea tray, my back to him, and drop one of my mother’s pills into his