A phone rings. I glance around. My phone is flashing and beeping, shaking itself toward the edge of the counter.

Let me go, I say, pushing at his chest.

This time he does let me go and I snatch up the phone. Yes?

Emma, it’s Edward. I just wanted to check that you managed to resolve the contractual issues we spoke about. Edward Monkford’s voice is formal and polite.

Yes, thanks. Simon’s actually here right now, about to sign the paperwork.

I can’t help adding: At least, I hope he is.

There’s a short silence. Put him on, will you? Edward says.

I watch Simon’s face darken as Edward speaks to him. The conversation lasts about a minute and in all that time Simon barely says a word, just the occasional uh-huh and mmmn.

Here, he says sulkily, handing the phone back to me.

Simon’s going to sign the papers now, Emma, Edward’s voice says, and then he’s going to leave. I’m coming around to check that he’s really gone, but also because I want to take you to bed. Don’t tell Simon that, of course.

He hangs up. I look at the phone, gobsmacked. Did I really just hear that? But I know I did.

What did he say to you? I ask Simon.

I wouldn’t have hurt you, he says sadly, not answering my question. I would never hurt you. Not deliberately. I can’t help loving you, Em. And I will win you back. You’ll see.

—

How long will Edward Monkford be? Do I even have time for a shower? I look at the interior of One Folgate Street and realize there are about a dozen rule violations in full view. Stuff on the floor, things on the counters, a copy of the Metro on the stone table, the recycling bin overflowing onto the floor. Not to mention that the bedroom looks like a bomb’s hit it and I never scrubbed away all the wine stains after the party. I do a speedy shower then hastily tidy up, selecting clothes as I go, a simple skirt and shirt. I hesitate over perfume but decide that’s a bit much. A part of me still thinks Edward might be joking or that I misheard him.

Though I hope I didn’t.

My phone buzzes again. It’s Housekeeper, telling me someone’s at the door. I press for video and it shows Edward. He’s holding flowers and a bottle of wine.

So I wasn’t mistaken. I press “Accept” to let him in.

By the time I get to the stairs he’s already at the bottom, watching me hungrily. You can’t hurry down that staircase: It forces you to step carefully, formally, one foot at a time. Even before I reach him I’m dizzy with anticipation.

Hello, I say nervously.

He reaches out and tucks a stray lock of hair behind my left ear. It’s still wet from the shower and it feels cold against my neck. His fingers brush my earlobe and I jump.

It’s all right, he says quietly. It’s all right.

His fingers travel under my chin and gently tilt my head up.

Emma, he says. I can’t stop thinking about you. But if it’s too soon, just say so and I’ll go away.

He undoes the top two buttons of my shirt. I’m not wearing a bra.

You’re shaking, he says.

I was raped.

I hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that. I just want him to understand that this means something to me, that he’s special.

Instantly his face clouds. By Simon? he says furiously.

No. He’d never…By one of the burglars. The ones I told you about.

Then this is too soon, he says.

He slides his hand out from my shirt and does it up again. I feel like a child being dressed for school.

I just wanted you to know. In case…We can still go to bed if you like, I say timidly.

No we can’t, he says. Not today. Today you’re coming with me.

5a) You have a choice between saving Michelangelo’s statue of David or a starving street child. Which do you choose?

? The statue

? The child

NOW: JANE

“Stop here,” Edward says to the cabdriver. We’re in the middle of the City. On every side, dramatic, modern constructions of glass and steel tower over us, with the tops of the Shard and the Cheese Grater just visible above them. Edward sees me looking up at them as he pays the cabbie. “Trophy buildings,” he says dismissively. “We’re going in here.”

He steers me toward a church; just a small, plain parish church I’d hardly noticed, tucked away among all these strutting, modernist behemoths. The interior is lovely: quite plain, almost square, but flooded with light from huge windows high in the walls. The walls are the same pale cream as One Folgate Street. The sun throws a lattice across the floor from the lead in the clear glass. Apart from the two of us, it’s deserted.

“This is my favorite building in London,” he says softly. “Look.”

I follow his gaze upward, and my breath is taken away. Over our heads is a vast dome. Its pale void dominates the tiny church, floating on the slimmest of pillars over the entire central section. The altar, or what I assume must be the altar, is directly underneath: a massive, circular slab of stone five feet across, positioned in the very center of the church.

“Before the Great Fire of London there were two sorts of churches.” He doesn’t whisper, I notice. “Dark, gloomy Gothic ones that had been built the same way since England was Catholic, crammed with arches and ornaments and stained glass, and the plain, undecorated meetinghouses of the Puritans. After the fire, the men who rebuilt London saw an opportunity to create a new kind of architecture: places where everyone could worship, no matter what their religious affiliation. So they deliberately adopted this stripped-back, uncluttered style. But they knew they had to replace the Gothic gloom with something.”