I really have no choice.
Before the mass of passengers can disperse, I push into the thick of them. But I’m not stupid enough to make for the exit. I thread through to the end of the platform, only a couple of metres away, then drop onto the track behind the train.
A little puff of dust springs up around my feet, and I crouch down into it. I’m careful to avoid the rails, especially the centre rail. And I wait. And people shout, and whistles sound, and wind blows down the tunnel, and I wait. And wait. And wait…
It’s a full half hour. And it may be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life, but at the first sign the train’s about to move again, I climb onto the back step, grab the bars, and hold on for dear life as it shoots me through the tunnel network, wind blasting around me, sparks flying, the screech of the tracks ungodly loud, one slip promising a grisly death.
It almost happens when the train slows suddenly, and I promise to steal myself some new boots so I never lose this life-saving tread. Can’t be too careful, living a life like mine.
A few minutes later, I stumble onto the platform at Islington station. I half collapse, hunched, hands on thighs, catching my breath, trying to shake off my sea legs.
At this point, if he wants to kill me, he can have me. I’m not doing that again.
The platform empties slowly, then finally, I’m alone.
What a day.
Right.
Time to go break up with the man of my dreams.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
BAD AUGUST
SHOT THROUGH THE HEART
Irisked taking the Northern Line a little way before I became too worried and got off. It was a long and unpleasant walk from Camden, past Primrose Hill, back to St. John’s Wood. Too long with too much time to think.
I’ve rehearsed this breakup about a hundred times and different ways now. I just have to go in, tell him I’m leaving, it was nice knowing him, really nice, maybe the loveliest thing ever, then walk out. Leave him better off than when I met him—that’s the goal.
I’m an hour early. I hope he’s home.
I know my assassin must have seen us together, must know I might come here. But with any luck, he got off on the wrong platform, or he’s still looking for me on that train.
I’m careful to scope out the area on approach. I check for him behind leafy trees, up and down every street, beneath all the cars. Looks like we’re good, but I’d best make this quick.
I jog to August’s door, maybe bang on it harder than I really need to, then slink back beneath the stairs. It’s only a few seconds until I hear the lock click, then I bound back out, acting perfectly casual and not at all like I just escaped a crazed gunman.
The door swings open.
August’s beautiful.
His big brown eyes grow a little larger. The flush is fast to heat his cheeks. The smile is immediate but drops to anxious in a second. He looks down at his clothes, as though there could ever be anything disappointing about finding him back in his hoodie and grey track pants. “You’re early.”
“I’m sorry. Can I come in?” I’m already pushing past him with a final check of the street outside to confirm I haven’t been followed.
He closes the door behind me, and a dark warmth descends all around. His orange mushroom lamp is lighting the corner and the wallpaper, throwing a cosy glow over everything. He’s got Poison playing on the turntable, but it’s just at the start of ‘Every Rose Has Its Thorn,’ and it sounds fantastic. A few candles are flickering their gentle light, including a scented one. ‘Petrichor,’ it says on the label. It looks posh and new, and my stomach twists a little. He didn’t buy that just for tonight, did he?
But then I scan the kitchen—the benches clean and bedecked with cooking ingredients. Garlic, yoghurt, pine nuts, fresh lemons, and an enormous pile of… “Zucchini?”
“Yeah.” Hands pushing deep into his pockets, he’s so fucking sweet. “I thought I’d make that thing. Like Mum used to make.”
Just hearing the word ‘mum’ from him makes me want to cry. We don’t say it, either of us. And seeing that pile of half-sliced food, just like I’d see in her kitchen when I was little, and knowing someone is doing this for me… it hits like a tonne of bricks.
I don’t remember the last time someone took care of me. At all. In even the most fleeting way. And certainly not someone who knows the things I didn’t even realise I was craving.
I’d never realised until just now, and it’s like fifty layers of hard plastic crack open all at once, leaving me vulnerable, on display. I don’t want to cry, so I hold myself still, and hope I can swallow this pain in my chest so I can speak again.
