‘I meant to say this to you, before. After Starbucks. Do you get what I’m saying?’ He sounds emphatic. ‘Gran’s not twenty-five, and you’re not . . . whatever all that bad stuff in your head was telling you. You’re not that.’

And suddenly I see what he’s doing, what he’s trying to do.

‘Right,’ I say again. ‘Yes. I know.’

And I do know. Although it’s easier to know when the bad thoughts aren’t rushing through your head like a river.

‘Thanks,’ I add. ‘Thanks for . . . you know. Understanding. Getting it.’

‘I don’t really get it. But . . .’

‘You do, more than most people. Really.’

‘Well.’ He sounds awkward. ‘Anyway. So, are you feeling better now?’

‘Loads better.’ I smile in his direction. ‘Loads and loads better.’

The ladies on QVC have moved on to a vegetable chopper, and for a while we watch it demolishing carrots and cabbages. Then Linus says, ‘How’s the shoe contact coming along?’

At the word contact I stiffen inside. Contact. Not just on paper, for real.

Don’t think I haven’t thought about it.

‘Haven’t tried it again.’ I’m trying hard to sound casual.

‘Do you want to?’

‘OK.’

I shift my shoe over till it’s touching his. Shoe to shoe, like we did before. I’m poised for a meltdown, for a freakout, for some totally embarrassing reaction. But the strange thing is . . . it doesn’t happen. My body hasn’t squirmed away. My breathing is even. My lizard brain is, like, all Zen and relaxed. What’s going on?

‘It’s the darkness,’ I say out loud, before I can stop myself. ‘It’s the darkness.’ I feel almost heady with relief.

‘What is?’

‘I can relax when it’s dark. It’s like the world is a different place.’ I spread my arms out in the dark, feeling it against my skin like a soft, enveloping cushion. ‘I think I could do anything if the whole world was dark the whole time. You know. I’d be fine.’

‘Then you should be a potholer,’ suggests Linus. ‘Or a caver.’

‘Or a bat.’

‘A vampire.’

‘Oh my God, I should so be a vampire.’

‘Except the whole eating-people thing.’

‘Yerk.’ I nod, agreeing.

‘Doesn’t it get monotonous? People’s blood every night? Don’t they ever want a plate of chips?’

‘I don’t know.’ I feel a giggle rise. ‘Next time I see a vampire I’ll ask him.’

We watch the vegetable chopper make way for a steam cooker which has sold 145 units already, this hour.

‘So, bearing in mind it’s dark and all,’ says Linus, casually, ‘what about . . . thumb contact? Just to see if you can do it. Like an experiment.’

‘Right.’ I nod, feeling a little flip in my stomach. ‘Um. OK. Why not?’

I feel his hand make its way towards mine. Our thumbs find each other and his skin is dry and warm and kind of how I expected it to be. His thumbnail circles mine and I playfully dodge his, and he laughs.

‘So you’re OK with thumb contact.’

‘Thumb contact is good.’ I nod.

He doesn’t say anything more, but I can feel him extending his thumb down into the palm of my hand. We’re into finger-to-hand contact. And then palm-to-palm contact. His hand clasps mine and I squeeze back.

Now he’s shifting closer and with more intent. I can feel the warmth of him, through the air, against my arm, against my leg. And now I’m a little keyed up, but not like I was in Starbucks. There’s nothing crazy running through my head. In fact, I’m not sure anything’s running through my head at all except Is this happening for real? And Yes it is.

‘Jeans contact OK?’ he murmurs as his leg twines round mine.

‘Yes, jeans contact is good,’ I manage.

We’ve reached arm-round-shoulders contact. Hair-to-hair contact. Cheek-to-cheek contact. His face feels gently rough as he slides it along mine.

Mouth contact.

He doesn’t say anything about it or ask if it’s OK. I don’t say anything either. But it is OK. It’s more than OK.

When we’ve kissed, like, for ever, he shuffles up and sits me on his knee, and I curl into him. He feels warm and solid. His arms feel strong around me. And his hair smells nice. And it’s pretty hard to concentrate on the benefits of a food processor with four unique attachments, on special exclusive offer today for only £69.99.

Here’s the really embarrassing thing: I fell asleep. I don’t know if it was a post-adrenalin crash or just the Clonazepam I’d taken at lunch time – but I did. When I woke, I was spread-eagled on the floor and Mum was calling me from the hall, and the ladies on QVC were talking about a magic chip-fryer that halves the calories. And next to me there was a note.

I’ll see you soon. XXX




I’ve gone up a level. That’s the only way I can describe it.

If I was a hero in LOC I’d have, like, enhanced attributes, or some extra kick-ass weapon or something. I’m stronger. I feel taller. I bounce back quicker. It’s been a week since Linus and I watched QVC, and yes, I’ve had one bad episode, but I didn’t sink quite as low. Things weren’t quite as dark.

Linus has come over a few times, and we always watch QVC and just chat or whatever, and it’s just . . . Well. It’s good. Now it’s Friday afternoon, and even though I’m not at school, I’ve got that end-of-week feeling. The air’s warm and I can hear children playing in their gardens. From the kitchen window I watch Felix running around the lawn with no clothes on, a watering can in his fist.

I hear the tinkle of an ice-cream van, and I’m about to call out to Mum that we should get Felix an ice lolly when she comes into the kitchen. Staggers, more like. Her face is so pale it’s, like mauve. And she actually holds onto the kitchen island as though otherwise she might fall over.

‘Mum?’ I eye her in alarm. ‘Are you OK?’ At once I realize this is a stupid question. She’s not OK, she’s poorly. ‘I think you should go to bed.’

‘I’m fine.’ She gives me a weak smile.

‘You’re not! You’ve got a bug. You need rest and fluids. Have you got a temperature?’ I’m trying to remember all the things she says to us when we’re ill. ‘Would you like a Lemsip?’

‘Oh, a Lemsip.’ She breathes out, looking like a wraith. ‘Yes, that would be nice.’

‘I’ll look after Felix,’ I say firmly. ‘You go to bed. I’ll bring the Lemsip up.’

I flip on the kettle and am rooting around in the cupboards for the Lemsip packet when Frank arrives home. I can tell this from the almighty crash that comes from the hall. That’ll be his school bag, a sports bag, his cricket bat and whatever other junk he’s got, all being dumped from a great height onto the tiles. He comes into the kitchen, singing some tuneless song and peeling off his tie.

‘All right!’ He punches the air, singing, ‘It’s the weeeeeekend . . . What’s for supper?’

‘Mum’s ill,’ I tell him. ‘She’s got, like, flu or something. I told her to go to bed. You should go out and buy her . . .’ I think for a moment. ‘Grapes.’

‘I’ve only just got home.’ Frank looks unenthusiastic. ‘And I’m starving.’

‘Well, have a sandwich and then get her some grapes.’

‘What good do grapes do?’

‘Dunno,’ I say impatiently. ‘It’s what you have when you’re ill.’

I’ve made the Lemsip and found a couple of biscuits, and I put them all on a tray.

‘Get Ribena too,’ I say. ‘And whatsit. Nurofen. Write it down.’ I turn to make sure Frank is listening – but he’s not writing anything down. He’s just standing there, giving me this weird, very un-Frank look. His head is tilted and he looks sort of fascinated, or curious, or something. ‘What?’ I say defensively. ‘Look, I know it’s Friday, but Mum’s ill.’

‘I know,’ says Frank. ‘It’s not that. It’s . . .’ He hesitates. ‘D’you know something, Aud? You wouldn’t have done this when you first came back from hospital. You’ve changed.’