‘What do you make of Isaac?’

It’s Tuesday lunchtime, and I’m meeting Melissa for a sandwich, midway between Cannon Street and her new café in Clerkenwell, which is undergoing a refit in preparation for opening day. She’s wearing skinny black cords and a black fitted shirt, and even with a faint coating of dust on her shoulders she manages to look stylish. Her hair has been swept out of the way with a large tortoiseshell clip.

‘I liked him. I’m guessing you’re not keen?’

I screw up my face. ‘There’s something about him that puts me on edge.’ I pick at my BLT.

‘You’d say that no matter who Katie was dating.’ She prises open her baguette and peers at the contents. ‘How they can charge £3.50 for this, I don’t know. There can’t be more than a dozen prawns in it.’

‘I wouldn’t.’ Would I? Maybe. I try to think back to the last boyfriend Katie brought home, but there’s been no one serious; only a handful of awkward teens with clammy handshakes. ‘It’s not just him, it’s the whole set-up. The idea of Katie – and the rest of the cast – working for nothing for weeks on end on the vague promise of some sort of profit-share once the ticket money comes in. It’s exploitation, if you ask me.’

‘Or a brilliant business strategy.’

‘Whose side are you on?’

‘No one’s. I’m simply saying that, from his point of view – from Isaac’s – it’s a good strategy. Limited outlay, minimal risk … if I went to my bank manager with that sort of strategy he’d be delighted.’ She grins, but there’s an edge to it that’s almost a grimace, and I think I know why.

‘I take it your bank manager isn’t a fan of your expansion plans?’

‘I’ve got no idea.’

‘What do you mean? You haven’t taken out a business loan?’

She shakes her head and takes another bite of her baguette. When she speaks it’s as though I’m dragging the words out of her. ‘I’ve remortgaged the house.’

‘I bet that went down well with Neil.’ Melissa’s husband is so averse to the idea of debt that he won’t even open a tab for an evening’s drinks. Melissa doesn’t say anything.

‘You have told him, haven’t you?’

There’s a pause, and Melissa’s face changes. The confident, amused look disappears, and for a moment she is anxious and unguarded. The insight is oddly flattering, as though I’ve been allowed into a secret society. In the years we’ve known each other it’s rare that the tables have been reversed; that I’m the one able to comfort her. I wonder how she was able to take out a loan against the house without Neil knowing – I’m assuming they have a joint mortgage – then decide the less I know, the better. There’s no one savvier than Melissa, and if she’s borrowing money to finance a new business, she’s doing it because she knows it’s a sure thing.

‘Things aren’t great between us at the moment,’ she says. ‘Neil lost a major contract earlier this year, and he’s worried about money. The new café will make up for the lost business, but it’ll take six months or so before it pays off.’

‘He’d understand that, surely?’

‘It’s impossible to talk to him at the moment. He’s distant. Bad-tempered.’

‘He seemed on form at lunch on Sunday.’

Melissa gives a humourless laugh. ‘Maybe it’s just me, then.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous – Neil adores you!’

She raises her eyebrows. ‘Not in the way Simon adores you.’ I blush. ‘It’s true. Rubbing your feet, cooking you supper, escorting you to work … that man dotes on you.’

I grin. I can’t help myself.

‘You’re lucky.’

‘We both are,’ I say, then realise how big-headed that sounds. ‘To have a second chance at happiness, I mean. Matt and I were together for so long we hardly noticed each other any more.’ I’m thinking out loud; putting into words what I’ve never really worked through before. ‘He slept with that girl because he was so used to having me around, it seemed unimaginable that anything could ever change it.’

‘It was brave of you to leave. With the kids so young, I mean.’

I shake my head. ‘Stupid. A knee-jerk reaction, fuelled by anger. Matt didn’t love the girl he slept with; I doubt he even liked her that much. It was a mistake. A symptom of a marriage we’d both taken for granted.’

‘You think you should have stayed?’ Melissa asks for the bill, and waves away my attempts to get out my purse. ‘My treat.’

I’m careful with my response, not wanting to give her the wrong idea. ‘I don’t think that now; I love Simon, and he loves me. I count my blessings every single day. But I threw away a good thing the day I left Matt, and I know the kids think the same.’

‘Katie and Simon get on well though. They were thick as thieves over Sunday lunch, talking about Twelfth Night.’

‘Katie, yes, but as for Justin—’ I stop, realising I’m monopolising the conversation. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve made this all about me. Have you tried talking to Neil about how you feel?’ But the vulnerability I saw on Melissa’s face has vanished.

‘Oh, it’s nothing. He’ll get over it. Midlife crisis, probably.’ She grins. ‘Don’t worry about Justin. It’s completely natural; I loathed my stepfather for no other reason than he wasn’t my dad.’

‘I guess so.’

‘And don’t worry about Katie, either, with this Isaac chap. She’s got her head screwed on, your daughter. Brains and beauty, that one.’

‘Brains, yes. So why can’t she see that it would make sense to get a proper job? It’s not as though I’m telling her to give up on her dream; I just want her to have some insurance.’

‘Because she’s nineteen, Zoe.’

I acknowledge her point with a wry smile. ‘I suggested to Simon he might be able to get her some work experience at his newspaper, doing theatre reviews, but he wouldn’t even entertain the idea. Apparently they only take graduates.’ That had stung; that Katie’s clutch of hard-won GCSEs wasn’t enough even to work for free. ‘Can’t you pull some strings?’ I asked Simon, but he’d been immovable.

‘She’s an adult, Zoe,’ Melissa says. ‘Let her make her own decisions – she’ll soon learn which ones were right.’ She holds open the door for me and we walk towards the Tube. ‘I might not have brought up a teenager, but I’ve employed enough of them to know that if you want to make them do something, you have to make them think it’s their idea. They’re a bit like men, in that respect.’

I laugh. ‘Speaking of which, how’s Justin getting on?’

‘Best manager I’ve ever had.’ She sees the doubt in my face and loops her arm through mine. ‘And I’m not just saying that because you’re my friend. He turns up on time, hasn’t got his fingers in the till, and the customers seem to like him. That’s good enough for me.’

She gives me a hug before heading off on the Metropolitan line back to the café, and I feel so buoyed up by our lunch that the afternoon passes in no time at all, and even Graham Hallow’s pomposity doesn’t take the edge off my feelings of positivity.

‘Hello again.’

It’s twenty to six; the Underground packed with people who would rather be anywhere but here. I can smell sweat; garlic; rain.

And I know that voice.

I recognise the confidence in it; the rich tones of someone used to being the centre of attention.

Luke Friedland.

The man who saved me from falling on to the tracks.

Falling.

Did I fall?

I have a fleeting, half-formed memory; the sensation of pressure between my shoulder blades. It all seems like a blur, and longer – far longer – than twenty-four hours ago.

Luke Friedland.

Yesterday I practically accused him of stalking me; today I’m the one stepping on to a train in which he’s already standing. You see? I tell myself. He can’t have been following you.

Despite my embarrassment, the back of my neck is prickling so badly I feel as though everyone must be able to see the hairs standing up. I run a hand across the nape of my neck.

‘Bad day?’ he says, perhaps mistaking my gesture for stress.

‘No, good day, actually.’

‘That’s great! I’m glad you’re feeling better.’ He has the over-cheery tone of someone who works with children, or in a hospital, and I remember his suggestion yesterday that I might want to speak to the Samaritans. He thinks I’m suicidal. He thinks I tipped myself towards that train on purpose; as a cry for help, perhaps, or a genuine attempt to end my life.

‘I didn’t jump,’ I said. I’m speaking quietly – I don’t want the whole carriage to hear – so he manoeuvres his way past the woman in front, to stand next to me. My heart rate quickens. He puts his hand up to hold the rail above our heads and I feel the faint brush of tiny hairs, like an electric charge between us.

‘It’s okay,’ he says, and the disbelief in his voice makes me doubt my own story. What if I did jump? What if my subconscious propelled me towards the track, even as my brain sent messages saying the opposite to my body? I shiver.

‘Well, this is my stop.’

‘Oh.’ We’re at Crystal Palace. ‘Me too.’ There’s no shaving cut, today, and the blue striped tie has been replaced by one in pale pink, standing out against the grey shirt and suit.

‘You’re not following me, are you?’ he says, then apologises when he sees my horrified face. ‘It was just a joke.’ We fall into step together, heading towards the escalators. It’s hard to move away from someone walking in the same direction as you. At the ticket barrier he stands aside to let me tap my Oyster first. I thank him, then say goodbye, but we both turn the same way out of the station. He laughs.

‘It’s like at the supermarket,’ he says, ‘when you say hello to someone in the veg section then end up saying hello to them again in every single aisle.’

‘Do you live around here, then?’ I’ve never seen him, although that’s ridiculous; there are dozens of people in my street alone who I’ve never seen. I throw ten pence in Megan’s guitar case and smile a hello as we pass.

‘Just visiting a friend.’ He stops walking, and automatically I do the same. ‘I’m making you feel uncomfortable, aren’t I? You go ahead.’

‘No no, really, you’re not,’ I say, although my chest feels as though someone’s squeezing it.

‘I’ll cross the road, then you won’t feel obliged to talk to me.’ He grins. He has a nice face; warm and open. I don’t know why I feel so uneasy.

‘There’s no need, honestly.’

‘I need some cigarettes anyway.’ We stand still as people weave their way around us.

‘Well, goodbye, then.’

‘Bye.’ He opens his mouth to say something, then stops. I turn to walk away. ‘Um, would it be terribly forward of me to ask you to have dinner with me one evening?’ The question is delivered in one breath, rushed as though he feels embarrassed asking, although his face still wears the same confident expression. It crosses my mind that the delivery is deliberate. Practised, even.

‘I can’t, I’m sorry.’ I don’t know why I’m apologising.

‘Or a drink? I mean, I don’t want to play the “I saved your life” card, but …’ He holds up his hands in mock surrender, then lets them fall and assumes a more serious expression. ‘It’s an odd way to meet, I know, but I’d really like to see you again.’

‘I’m seeing someone,’ I blurt out, like a sixteen-year-old. ‘We live together.’

‘Oh!’ Confusion crosses his face, before he composes himself. ‘Of course you’re with someone. Foolish of me; I should have expected that.’ He takes a step away from me.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say again.

We say goodbye and when I glance back he is crossing the road towards the newsagents. To buy his cigarettes, I suppose.

I call Simon’s mobile, not wanting to walk along Anerley Road without company, even if it’s at the end of a phone. It rings, but goes to voicemail. This morning he reminded me he was having dinner at his sister’s tonight. I’d planned to watch a film; perhaps persuade Justin and Katie to join me. Just the three of us; like old times. But my encounter with Luke Friedland has left me unsettled, and I wonder if Simon would postpone his trip to see his sister; if he’d come home instead.

If I call now I might catch him before he leaves work. I used to have a direct line for him, but the paper moved to hot-desking a few months ago and now he never knows where he’s going to be from one day to the next.

I Google the switchboard number. ‘Could you put me through to Simon Thornton, please?’

‘I’ll just put you on hold.’

I listen to classical music until the line connects again. I look at the Christmas lights on the lamp-posts lining Anerley Road, and see they’re already coated with grime. The music stops. I expect to hear Simon’s voice, but it’s the girl from the switchboard.

‘Could you give me the name again, please?’

‘Simon Thornton. He’s an editor. Mostly features, but sometimes he’s on the news desk.’ I repeat the words I’ve heard Simon use, without knowing whether these two roles are in the same place or miles apart. Without knowing if they’re in the same building, even.

‘I’m sorry, I’ve got no one here of that name. Is he freelance? I wouldn’t have him listed if he was freelance.’

‘No, he’s on the payroll. He’s been there for years. Could you check again? Simon Thornton.’

‘He’s not on my system,’ she repeats. ‘There’s no Simon Thornton working here.’