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‘Mmm. Not sure I can help much with that one. I’ve always been the dumpee,’ Adam said.

I laughed. ‘Me too.’

‘I reckon you make it quick and leave. He talks you round a lot – he’ll talk you out of breaking up with him, and he’ll definitely talk you out of travelling. Just rip off the bandaid.’

I hung my head. ‘It makes me feel so guilty.’

He slipped his arm around me and pulled me close, his body warm in the cold air. ‘I know. But go and live, Hols. Tom’s a grown man and we’re here for Mum.’

That conversation was four hours ago and it’s all I’ve thought about since. Out of the shower and dressed in flannelette pyjamas, I grab my laptop and crawl into bed, then rummage in my bedside table for a photo. A wave of longing washes over me as I look at it. It’s one of the photos I took of Casey and me on the last night we spent together. There’s an intensity to the image, a contrast of buttery yellow light and grey shadows. We’re facing each other, our heads on the pillow. She’s gazing at me, her eyes tender with what looks like love. But art is subjective and that’s what I want to see.

I touch my fingertip to her face. ‘What happened to you?’ I whisper.

The date on my phone reads 18 August. I drum my fingers on the laptop as an idea germinates. If I’m going to do this, then I want to be there on 23 August – the day. Before I lose my nerve, I flip up the screen, fire up a travel website and within fifteen minutes, I’ve booked a flight to Berlin.

Chapter 11

Casey, London

Sunday afternoon, back in Notting Hill, I walk up the concrete steps of the Victorian terrace that houses our flat. I slip my key in the lock and pause, my hand on the brass doorknob, as a flutter of nerves burst in my stomach. It’s just a conversation. Open your mouth and say what’s on your mind. I give myself an encouraging nod, head into the foyer of the building and open the door of the flat.

‘Hello?’ I call out, pulling off my trainers and socks. I throw my keys on the sideboard, duck my head into the sitting room to find it empty, then head along the short hallway to the kitchen. Eva’s at the dining table staring at her laptop, leg bent and heel up on the chair, resting her arm on her knee.

‘You didn’t hear me come in?’

‘I heard,’ she sniffs.

‘You couldn’t say hello back?’

She purses her lips.

I pour myself a glass of water. ‘Don’t, Eva. I’m allowed to spend the night with my family.’

Her jaw tightens. ‘I didn’t say you weren’t.’

‘Then why so frosty?’

She gives a snarky one-shoulder shrug.

‘Fine. Be like that.’

I move to the sitting room and flick on the telly to drown out the uncomfortable silence. This conversation won’t go well if she’s in a mood. I drop onto the sofa, sinking into its velvety softness, and glance at my precious artwork above the mantel. It’s a painting that was part of my first exhibition at the gallery. Eva wanted to hang it in the bedroom, but the neutral tones with splashes of plum and fuchsia blended better with this room. It’s of two women in bed, legs tangled, one with her head on the other’s chest, gazing up at her partner. I imagine the gentle thud of a heartbeat in her ear, and it triggers that old memory of me telling Holly our hearts beat to the same rhythm. The other reason I didn’t want the painting in our bedroom.

I shake my head, disappointed in myself. What am I doing, thinking about Holly – someone who would’ve forgotten me long ago. My focus needs to be on my current relationship and whether or not I want to be in it. But now I’m home, I’m reminded that I’m in a flat I’d never be able to afford on my own, or even with a partner who earned the same as me, and I do all right. Suddenly the ‘I’m not sure about this’ conversation sticks in my throat. I lie back on the sofa, thinking about what Chandice said last night before we drifted off to sleep.

She’d rolled onto her side and faced me. ‘Do you think that maybe – and don’t have a go, right – but do you think part of you is staying with Eva because of what she gives you?’

‘How do you mean?’ I said, deluding myself that I didn’t know what she was talking about.

Her dark eyes were gentle and probing in the low lamplight. ‘Your lifestyle, the flat. Money to do things.’

Her voice was loving, unaccusing, but it prodded at something underlying – that knowledge I carry around but never want to admit, that I’ve become used to how Eva and I live, and how her privilege extends to me – but I was still quick to defend. ‘That’s not why I fell for her. I still love her. It just feels different now.’

‘I know you love her, but sometimes people get used to things, don’t they? Especially in relationships. They put up with stuff because it’s easier than the alternative, and you love that flat.’

‘I do love the flat,’ I said. ‘I like having sex regularly, too.’

She gave me a playful kick under the duvet. ‘I don’t need to hear about your sex life, thanks. Besides, I know what you and Jaz are like when you’re out. It’s not like you can’t pick up whenever you want.’