Page 139 of For Real

“Why’s it always me?” he had asked me.

I hadn’t realised at the time, but it cut both ways. Now I wanted to be the one who acted, not the one who waited. But I didn’t know how.

Detach. Think. Stay calm. Assess the situation.

If not here, if not me, where would Toby go? To a friend’s place, perhaps? If so, I had no way of finding him. But he was vulnerable and upset, and he’d want to go somewhere he felt safe. From what he’d said, I wasn’t sure he had many close friends at the moment. Home, then? To his mother’s? That seemed most likely.

I checked my watch. It was late. Probably too late.

But fuck it. I wanted Toby, and I wanted him to know how much. He’d sat on my doorstep enough. Now it was my turn. My turn to fight for him. To show him he could depend on that. Depend on me. To show him he was loved.

And that we weren’t done.

That we were only just beginning.

I was sure he’d told me where his mother lived. Not specifically, but there’d been enough passing mentions for me to work it out. If I could only remember.

Detach. Think.

A loft? In a converted factory.

A tobacco factory? In Shoreditch.

Tabernacle Street?

I nearly cried again, but this time it was pure relief. I turned on my computer and fired up Google Maps, squinting at satellite images until I managed to locate what I thought was likely to be the place.

I called a cab. Stuck a note for him on my front door just in case. Toby, my darling, I have gone to find you in a city with eight million inhabitants. If you’re reading this, please call me. I’m sorry.

The taxi driver wanted to know where in Tabernacle Street I was going and eyed me a little dubiously in the mirror when I said he could just drop me anywhere. That was when I realised I’d left the house without a coat, and it was cold. My reflection in the window stared back at me with hollow eyes.

This was such a bad idea.

Nevertheless, I tipped the man apologetically and scrambled out onto a narrow, poorly lit road, lined by an architectural miscellany of offices and warehouses.

I hurried up the street, looking for something I recognised from the map, hoping inanely that Toby would be walking the other way or looking out of his window, and we’d rush in slow motion into each other’s arms, and everything would be fine again.

My footsteps echoed in the silence. Some of the more modern buildings had mirrored windows that reflected a haze of moonlight. There was no sign of him.

I passed a corner pub, offices to let, a pizza place, everything already closed and locked up tight. And then I found it. An old tobacco factory that had been converted into trendy flats.

This had seemed a lot more romantic and a lot less awkward in my kitchen. For long minutes, I did absolutely nothing. I just waited in an empty street, trying to find the courage to do something stupid. Then I stepped up to the door, found the buzzer for the top floor, and pressed it.

Sweat prickled on my spine. My heart pounded.

“Hello?” came a voice that certainly wasn’t Toby’s.

“I…I’m looking for…Toby. Toby Finch.” Oh God. It sounded bad, on the wrong side of midnight, stripped of all context. Had our positions been reversed, I might have seriously thought about calling the police.

But after a moment, the answer came: “You’ve just missed him. I think he’s probably gone to his boyfriend’s.”

Which meant this husky, East London voice belonged to Toby’s mother. Fuck. “Um, I am his boyfriend.”

There was a crackly pause. Then, “You’d better come up.”

It was a long climb, but I took the stairs two at time, and arrived—hot and aching—at the loft in a matter of minutes. The door was ajar, but I knocked anyway, not wanting to barge in on Toby’s mother when she was at home by herself.

“It’s open.”

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