“Like I say,” says Iona to Hannah, “parenting is a breeze, as long as you go with the flow, you know? Don’t stress. And you don’t need to buy a crib or any of that crap. I sleep with Blade and his two older brothers, all in the same bed. It’s the natural way.”

“What about your … partner?” says Tim, taken aback.

“Yeah, he has to put up with it,” says Iona with a laugh.

“I see,” says Hannah, equally taken aback. “So in terms of sleeping …”

“Sleeping?” Iona laughs again. “That doesn’t happen! My God, sleeping! We don’t remember what that is, do we, monster? Nighttime is playtime! I mean, he still feeds, like, ten times a night? But he’s only seven months, so.” She shrugs. “Early days.”

“Wow,” says Hannah, looking unnerved. “OK. The thing is, I was talking to my doctor once, and he was saying that sleep is really important for—”

“Your doctor,” Iona interrupts. “Like an NHS doctor? A mainstream doctor?”

“Well … yes,” says Hannah, sounding puzzled. “Of course.”

“I’m not even registered with a mainstream doctor.” Iona gives her a pitying look. “My biggest piece of advice: Don’t trust mainstream doctors. They have an agenda, you know? They want to get you on their system. The minute you get pregnant, if you do,” she adds to Hannah, “go to my nutritionist. I’ll give you the number. She specializes in baby health. She’s like, ‘What are people doing, putting drugs into babies?’ ”

I can’t help glancing at Hannah and Tim. They both seem frozen.

“But what if the baby’s ill?” says Tim at last. “What if the baby needs medication?”

“ ‘Ill,’ ” says Iona, making quote marks in the air. “You know how many babies are addicted to drugs because the doctors want them to be?”

I have to bite my lip. Tim looks like he wants to erupt, and I’ve never seen Hannah’s eyes so goggly.

“Right!” says Tim. “Well. It was great to spend the afternoon with you, Iona. Thank you so much for sparing the time.”

“No worries,” says Iona easily. She fist-bumps him, then kisses Hannah. “And remember—there are no rules.”

“Except the rules of science,” says Tim under his breath, and I stifle a giggle.

We all watch in silence as Iona saunters out, whereupon Tim and Hannah explode simultaneously.

“Oh my God.”

“Jesus, what a nutter.”

“We are never doing it like that. Never. Never.”

“I couldn’t live like that.”

“Did you see that kitchen? The mess!”

They’re speaking with a common passion, a fervor, a united spirit. It’s actually really touching.

“Hannah, your to-do lists are a work of art,” says Tim suddenly. He takes her by the shoulders and gazes at her as though he’s fallen in love with her all over again. “They’re stupendous. I’ll do everything on them. Just please don’t make me sleep in a bed with six children and ignore medical research.”

“Never!” says Hannah, laughing. “Although I could lighten up a little. I guess I am a bit of a … What did Iona call me? Controllagirl. All I did was wash up a couple of mugs for her,” she adds to me. “There was literally not one clean mug in her kitchen.”

“I love you, Controllagirl,” says Tim, kissing her, and I see Hannah’s face turn a happy, rosy pink.

“Right back at you, Controllaguy.”

“OK now, garlic press,” says Tim, abruptly changing gear. “We mustn’t forget. I’ll go and get one.”

He strides off in his determined way and I beam at Hannah.

“So! Everything’s OK again? Tim’s not freaked out anymore?”

“I’ll tell you what really freaked him out,” she responds. “The idea that someone could name their children Journey, Wisdom, and Blade.”

She catches my eye and starts giggling, and that sets me off, and soon the pair of us are in total fits. And I wasn’t planning to tell her, but as we’re both calming down I find myself saying, “So guess what? I’m seeing that guy later. The one who gave Ryan the job. Who had the accident. He wants to give me a present to say thank you.”

“Oh, him,” says Hannah, and I feel her eyes zoom in on me. “That’s nice.”

“Yes,” I say, trying to sound casual. “That’s what I thought. He didn’t need to.”

“But it’s not—” She hesitates. “He’s attached, right?”

“Oh, totally!” I say quickly. “Totally.”

I can tell Hannah’s slightly intrigued but isn’t going to push it. “Where are you meeting him?” she asks, and I give a wry laugh, because this is funny.

“Well. You’ll never guess.”


Seventeen

I have no idea why Seb has chosen Somerset House skating rink for our meeting. His ankle is injured. He can’t skate, surely. But that’s what he said, so that’s where I am. And I’ve got here early because … Well. Just to watch and enjoy.

It’s got to be the most Christmassy bit of London, this ice rink, surrounded by the grand, elegant façade of Somerset House. A spectacular Christmas tree is towering over everything and music is pounding through the air and people are laughing and calling to each other.

I’m sipping a hot chocolate, shivering slightly in the wintry breeze, mesmerized by the ice. I’m remembering what it felt like to sweep out on the rink to start a competition routine, all alone, chin up, heart pounding, and the smell of hairspray in my nostrils. (Mum always overdid the hairspray.) I mean, it’s madness when you think about it, trying to dance and jump on two perilous knife-edges. But when it goes right, when you land a big jump safely … it’s the most exhilarating feeling in the world.

A group of people are making their way onto the ice, laughing and pushing each other and taking selfies, and after a moment I realize that one of them is Briony. Which means Seb must be here. I swivel my head, looking all around, and suddenly spot him, wrapped up in a dark coat and checked scarf, sitting on a chair and watching the skaters with a pair of crutches at his side. I walk swiftly toward him and wave to attract his attention.

“Hi!” I say, and his face creases into a delighted smile.

“Hi!” he says, and starts struggling to his feet.

“Don’t be silly,” I say, gesturing at him to stay and crouching down beside him. “How are you? Your face looks a lot better,” I add, eyeing his cheeks and temple. The swelling has gone right down and he practically looks normal.

“Fun, this,” he says, nodding at the rink. “You ever do it?”

“I have done,” I say after a pause.

“Well, thanks for coming. I thought it would be a nice Christmassy place to meet.”

“Definitely!” I nod.

“You’re doing great!” Seb calls out to his friends, and they all wave back. For a few moments I watch Briony on the rink. She’s wearing a short white twirly skirt and a fur hat and she looks amazing, but her skating is abysmal. It’s actually worse than average, I decide, after watching her critically for a few minutes. She needs to slow down and stop flailing her arms, for a start.

Do her boots not fit? Or is she simply showing off too much? As soon as I’ve had this thought, I realize I’ve got it. She isn’t even thinking about what she’s doing; she’s posing in front of her friends, most of whom are guys, I notice. They’re all well dressed and calling out names like “Archie!” to each other. Jake would love them.

“So, I wanted somewhere nice to give you this,” says Seb, interrupting my thoughts. He hesitates, then reaches into a Tesco canvas bag and pulls out a parcel. It’s medium-sized, quite light, quite nondescript. No branding or gift bag or anything like that—just plain brown paper. I have no idea what it is.

“Open it!” says Seb. “Just my little thank-you,” he adds casually.

“Well, you didn’t need to,” I say, smiling with mock disapproval as I tear open the wrapping paper. “There was really no need. But I’m very—”

My words dry up on my lips as the paper comes off. I’m staring at the object in my hands, my head spinning in disbelief.

“My hairbrush?” I manage at last.

“Safe and sound,” says Seb, looking satisfied. “Restored to its rightful owner.”

I turn it over in my hands, my throat tight. I’m flashing back to the day Mum and Dad gave it to me, on my sixteenth birthday. The way it looked in its presentation box, all smart and new.

“I thought I’d never see this again,” I say dazedly. “I thought I’d— Wait.” A new thought grips me. “How? How did you get this?”

“Good vigilantes never tell,” says Seb in mysterious tones. “This will go with me to the grave.”

“No. No.” I shake my head vigorously. “You can’t turn up with this, with this”—I brandish the hairbrush at him—“and not tell.”

“OK.” Seb capitulates at once. “Actually, I’m longing to tell. Our story begins when you let slip the name of your hairbrush’s abductor,” he says in dramatic tones. “Sarah Bates-Wilson. At once I knew I could track this villain down. She still lives in a ground-floor flat,” he adds more conversationally. “Which was handy.”

“Did you break-and-enter?” I stare at him, aghast. “Oh my God.” My gaze drops to his foot. “But you couldn’t have!”

“I knew my injury would hamper me,” Seb continues in his dramatic voice. “I therefore enlisted an accomplice: my faithful sidekick Andy. We hatched a plot in which I would distract Sarah B-W at the door, asking her questions about her political views, while he crept round the back. Her bedroom window was open; the hairbrush was on the chest of drawers. It was a matter of mere seconds for him to reach in and pinch it,” he ends with a flourish.

I’m silent for a moment, digesting this.

“What if the window hadn’t been open?”