‘He’s gone.’
The smiley face at the end of the text did nothing to warm me. Hours I’d been out in the cold, and my limbs were stiff from it.
I was slow to gather my things and scoop Tofu into my arm, and even slower to hike the staircases.
It might have been summer, but the cold of the outside at night had eaten through me to the bone.
I had one thought in my head—a bath.
And coffee.
Ok, two thoughts.
Relief hit me as I pushed open the front door. The heating was on, flooding the flat, and a vinyl was turning on the record player.
Billy Joel’sVienna.
I let the song roll over me as I kicked the door shut.
Bee’s face was startled—and aimed at me from the kitchen.
Caught her in the middle of wiping down a mess on the counters. A white powder was spilled over the benchtop from a little velvet pouch.
“Coffee?” she asked, her voice a little pitched, and she took my silence as a yes, apparently, because she grabbed the kettle and filled it up.
As she set it down and flicked the switch on, her gaze flickered back to me, to the cat I held to my middle.
She blinked.
Smudges of last night’s mascara sprinkled off her lashes. “What is that?”
The face I made at her was unkind. I put him down on the scratched armchair. “A cat—and his name is Tofu.”
Bee swept the white powder into the pouch. Too thick and clumpy to be coke. Looked more like icing powder. “You’re back soon. Did you sleep on the stairs?”
She meant it as a joke, but she wasn’t far off. “I was already here when I got your text. I just hung out in the garden.”
“Why didn’t you go to Paul’s?” Her mouth flattened into a grim line at the mention of his name—even though she was the one to bring him up. “He’s just a couple of streets away.”
I sighed so hard my cheeks puffed out.
I let my bags drop to the coffee table before sprawling out on the couch.
Tofu jumped back up onto my lap and started to knead.
“We can’t keep that.” Bee’s annoying words reached me over the whistling of the kettle. “I’ll be the one looking after it, feeding it, changing its litter—"
I cut her off before she could irritate me any more, “It’s the old guy’s cat.”
“The grumpy one?”
I hummed my answer and stared up at the ceiling, listening to the clatter of mugs coming from the kitchen.
“So,” Bee said, “Why didn’t you stay at Paul’s?”
“He’s…” I sighed, my mood soured now. “He’s getting on my nerves. You know he wants to come on our holiday?”
“To Canada?” Her voice hiked up an octave. “On the girls’ trip?”
