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‘Heather. Jesus, you’re so fucking highly strung. What’s happened to you? Why don’t we head out, go back to that pub – can you throw a sickie and join us?’

‘I can’t throw a sickie! They need me!’

He scoffs and I prickle.They DO need me.

‘What’s got into you?’ Tim says, and I am stunned to hear that he sounds vaguely hurt. ‘I thought I’d surprise you. I thought you’d think it was a right laugh.’

‘I have to work,’ I say in a heavy whisper as I arrive at reception. Bill is standing there grinning, and I give him a little salute.

‘To pour fucking wine? Fuck, Birdy, I kinda wish I hadn’t come now. I thought we were going to get on it and, you know, I’d sneak into the ol’ staff lodgings and we’d make a night of it. It’s been over two months.’

I die a little bit more inside. I’m not going to be able to get rid of him without a scene. I can see that now. I’m going to have to work with this, get Tim in and out with minimal disruption.

‘Tim. It’s a small place. Everyone is going to know you’re here.’

‘Fine. Fine. I wouldn’t have come, if I’d known you’d be so fucking uptight about it.’

As I rush back through the kitchen, I’m invaded by images of James kissing me in here. So vivid I can feel an impression on my neck where he pressed his lips. The knot in my stomach tightens. What the hell is James going to say now?

I have to think. Tim is here. There is nothing I can do about that. How can I fix this? ‘Look. Stay there, I’ll come up. What room are you in?’

‘Damo, what room number is it?’

‘Six,’ he says after a moment.

‘Okay, wait there. WAIT. THERE,’ I repeat, like I’m talking to a dog.

‘All right,’ he replies. ‘But there is one other thing.’

‘What?’

‘We were kinda hoping you could get us a deal on the room.’

‘How much of a deal,’ I sigh.

‘The best deal you can think of?’ Tim laughs, and Damo shoutsfreein the background, and I’m suddenly angry as hell.

34.

‘Call you Heather – we get it,’ says Tim, who looks completely ridiculous in his T-shirt and velvet blazer, perched on the edge of the dove-blue crushed-linen duvet covers. He couldn’t look more out of place. Damo is wearing a Millwall T-shirt and his boxer shorts, his thick dark thighs bulging as he leans on the windowsill to smoke a cigarette out the window.

I decide not to pick that battle.

‘It’s particularly important in front of Bill, Irene or Roxy …’ I continue. They are unlikely to run into anyone from the kitchen.

‘Roxy – that’s the young girl with the big boobs,’ says Damo, and I try not to throw the blown-glass vase filled with powder-pink roses at his head. ‘What?’ he says, like he doesn’t know I’m appalled.

‘Don’t say that.’

‘That’s howyoudescribed her!’ he says accusingly.

‘Please, Tim,’ I say turning my head, and pleading with him to take this seriously.

‘I’ll give you a snog and make sure I call you Heather,’ he says, grinning.

‘Don’t snog me,’ I say, trying very hard not to think of James and how he would feel if he saw that. ‘It’s inappropriate at work. Please, as I said, make sure you call me “Heather” in front of her. Please. All I ask is that you leave here without blowing my cover and making too much of a scene.’

‘Okay,’ says Tim, already looking bored with the plan. ‘You look sunburnt.’