Page 24 of The Key to My Heart

‘I know he was a soppy sod sometimes, Nat—’

‘He was.’

‘But … you know. Something like that.’ He moves his plate across the table and leans, lacing his fingers together on the surface. ‘What I mean is, I don’t think he expected to …leave us.So I wonder if he’d have even thought to plan anything.’

I say nothing, and I nod, just twice. Max is right. The injustice was that weeks after Russ was thrown off his bike, weeks of an induced coma, waiting and waiting for scary test results to point to hope – he was gettingbetter.He was recovering. His vision even improved quickly – something doctors said may never happen. He was seeing everything in twos at first, the result of a head trauma – ‘there’s two of you, one Natalie on top of the other,’ he’d smile, ‘I can deal with it, but not sure the world could’ – and then it migrated into slight blurred vision. He was recovering fast. Then: an infection. That was fast too, how it took him. It was all too fast. The split second it took for that car to mount the kerb, to drive away. The loss of our life as we knew it, the loss of his.

‘Look, if it is him, Nat,’ says Maxwell gently, ‘he didn’t ask me.’

‘Right,’ I say, tracing a finger along the stem of the cocktail glass. ‘Okay. Sorry for wasting your time or for sounding …mad—’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Maxwell replies, but his eyes slide to the salad and then he looks at his phone and I know he’s trying to work out in his head how much longer he’ll have to stay here. He’s uncomfortable. He wishes he wasn’t here. But, nevertheless, he reaches a nervous hand overthe table and puts it on mine. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t have … better news.’

‘Sorry I bit your head off.’

‘You didn’t. And sorry for the basil.’

I smile. ‘You should be,’ I reply, and Maxwell laughs with relief, retracting his hot, clammy hand.

‘So, tell me about work,’ he says, and I do, just to heal it over, this shared little open wound, and just so the last thing he remembers me saying isn’t ‘I hate basil.’ And then he wipes his mouth with a crisp, white napkin and tosses it down onto the tablecloth. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Nat, but I’ve got to run. I have a massive meeting about this new lettings venture we’re launching and it’s—’

‘No, no, of course.’

‘But listen, I dunno what your plans are for the cottage, but your little village –massivelysought after at the minute.’

‘Really?’

‘Yup. You know where I am if you want it valued, or if you just want some advice.’

He stands, puts down three twenty-pound notes, which I know is far too much for two £8.95 salads. ‘Order something you do like. On me.’

‘Max, don’t be stupid—’

‘Seriously.’ He smiles, then he leans to kiss me on the cheek. His aftershave really is too strong, but I’m sure he’ll find a woman with a pedicure who’ll love it. He’s so vanilla. So straight-laced. As if he’d have ever pulled it off – this piano thing. It’s far too cool for him. (No offence to him, of course.)

‘Take care,’ he says, and when he leaves, I call over the kind, grinning waiter and order a cocktail (not a mock), plus the largest portion they have of tagliatelle and a side of salty French fries.

On the way home, I put a big X on my notes app, under Suspects, next to Maxwell’s name.

Chapter Ten

‘They just offered me chips or a jacket potato.To have with ourbreakfast,’ Lucy says, slotting herself behind the wooden café table.

‘So?’

‘I ordered scrambled eggs on toast, Priya. You two ordered granola. The woman at the counter acted like it was the most normal thing in the world. I’ll be mentioning this in my review.’

Priya laughs. ‘Well, Luce, you do have a habit of choosing weird places. See: Avocado Clash, for example. I pooed for days after that meal. I thought I’d never stop.’

People whisk by outside on the narrow streets of Soho, and for a day in May, it’s as gloomy as early winter. The sky one big blank sheet of off-white, the rain lazy and mist-like. It’s not often I get to see Priya and Lucy together these days – of course, I see Priya at work, but it’s not like it used to be. Regular lunches and cinema dates and drinks with Edie, Priya, Lucy, and her big sister Roxanne, punctuated most weeks. But after Russ – and after Edie – it all changed. Abruptly, really. Plus, Roxanne and Lucy’s schedules are packed out. Lucy’s especially. Bullet-journalled to death, with highlighterpens and stickers and motivational quotes from Mother Teresa and Ronan Keating. Today, though, despite Roxanne being away with work, and Priya’s day off for her second pregnancy scan, Lucy insisted we make it work. Roxanne, or no Roxanne. ‘Non-negotiable,’ Lucy had said.

Because it’s my birthday. Age thirty-three. Today, I am thirty-three.

‘Instagram said this place was nice,’ says Lucy, with a little shrug, buttoning up her baby-pink vegan leather purse. ‘Quirky was the word they used. That Instagrammer I follow. Sarah-May-Be-Baeby.’

‘Oh, I like her,’ coos Priya, stirring her tea.

‘Quirky,’ I say, patting lip balm onto my lips. ‘AKA, weird or shit, and saying it’s good only because she’s beenpaidto.’

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