Page 51 of Vigilante Twink and the Cop

"Completely agree," I say.

"There's no way those two cities are that close together."

"Terrible research."

"Mm."

His arm doesn't move.

I look at the television. The same two people are now in what appears to be a different country, which doesn't help the geography problem. A lamp in the corner of the loft is doing something warm to the room. Outside the windows London is being London, orange and scattered and endless, and in here it is very quiet and very small and very enough.

At some point his head tips, just slightly, and rests against the top of mine.

I stop breathing for a second.

Then I start again.

The thought arrives with the particular clarity of things that are true.

This is the best day of my life.

I nearly say it out loud. The words are right there, fully formed, ready to go, and then I hear how they'd land, how small and devastating they'd sound, this is the best day of my life, sitting here watching a film I'm not paying attention to in a flat I bought to disappear into, and I understand why I can't say it. Because it would make him sad. Because it would tell him things I'm not ready for him to know the full shape of, about what my life has been, about how low the bar was set for happiness by the time I was old enough to know what happiness meant.

Because it's true, and the truth of it is the saddest thing I know about myself, and I would like, just for tonight, to keep it.

So I don't say it.

I just watch the film and feel his arm around me and listen to him breathe, and I let this evening be what it is, which is more than I ever expected to have, and I let that be enough.

It's more than enough.

It's everything.

Chapter twenty-four

Lennox

Iam standing in the ready meal aisle of Tesco at half past two on a Tuesday afternoon, which is what my life looks like when nobody is watching it. I have a basket containing four identical chicken tikka masalas, a multipack of soup I will eat cold from the can, and a bag of apples I bought because I was briefly optimistic about being the kind of person who eats apples. The lighting in this aisle is doing nothing for anyone. A woman at the far end is reading the back of a lasagne with the focused attention I usually reserve for case files, and I respect that enormously.

I am trying to decide between another tikka masala and a pasta bake that claims to serve two, which is a claim so optimistic I’m almost offended by it, when my phone goes and it’s Micah’s name on the screen, which means I pick up before the second ring in a way I would find embarrassing if there was anyone around to notice.

“The flowers are beautiful,” he says. “Thank you.” There is a breathless quality to his voice. Happy. Pleased. Almost giddy with it.

I open my mouth.

Close it.

“What flowers?” I say.

A beat of silence on his end. Then, quietly, “You didn’t send flowers?”

“No.”

“There are flowers on my kitchen counter. White roses. I came home from a shoot and they were just there. I thought.” Another pause. “The concierge didn’t call up. Nobody called up.”

Something cold moves through me that has nothing to do with the weather.

“Micah. Is anyone in the flat with you right now?