Page 12 of Before You Say Goodbye

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She must have been dozing because suddenly her alarm was screaming at her. She’d last looked at her clock less than two hours before. Autumn loved sleep, but she didn’t feel tired today. She was thrilled to find Bowie beside her and as excited to see her as she was to see him.

Still, she hurried their fourth tryst along. There was nothing for it. She really had to make it to her morning meeting and it was important that she looked presentable when she did. On no sleep, that was going to take some effort, and as an irregular user of public transport she still hadn’t completely worked out how to navigate the complicated New York subway system, so she needed plenty of time to get there. Six months in this city had taught her she could not rely on online time estimations to accurately predict how long a journey would take. Anything could happen: a burst water pipe, a public emergency, a flash mob, a parade or protest. She thought Bowie understood, but he followed her into the shower and she realised his earlier passion had been prompted by his own lust rather than an understanding that she was in a rush.

Bowie was insatiable. Less than half an hour later, as she sat at her dressing table trying to put on her underwear, he knelt pointedly before her, running his hands up her smooth legs and eyeing her suggestively. She sighed. Oh, God, how she pined. Still, she pushed him playfully away.

“I have to get ready.”

“I’m helping.” He grinned, rolling her knickers vaguely in the right direction.

“You are not helping.” She pushed him again, reluctantly raising her shoulders to stop him from nuzzling into her neck. He sighed and stood up, throwing himself dramatically onto her sofa.

“Love-hoarder,” he mumbled sulkily. She laughed and cocked her head, desperate to lock away a memory of him until she could see him again. It was no good — she would forget what he looked like the moment he left. She was imaginative, but he was perfect to her now, like the sunset or a budding rose, and she knew her mind’s eye could never do him justice. He was unimaginable — a dream — and he’d be nothing except a jumbled mess of frustratingly pretty features whenever she thought of him. She wondered if he was on social media. Bluebell was not as she didn’t like it, and Autumn knew, somehow, that Bowie would feel the same.

“What’s your last name?” she asked. Bowie blinked at her.

“Your best friend is my sister and you don’t know our second name?”

“It never came up.”

“It’s Whittle,” he said. “But don’t try to find me on Facebook. I’m not on it.”

“There’s still Google,” she said. He laughed a little nervously.

“What’s yours?”

“You’ve read my book and you don’t know my second name?” She mimicked him and he laughed. “Are you going to google me?” she asked.

“Maybe.”

“It’s Black.”

“Any middle names?”

She didn’t want to tell him. The reaction was always the same.

“Rain.”

He laughed.

“Your name is Bowie and your sister is called Bluebell — you’re in no position to laugh about names.”

“That’swhyI get to laugh,” he said.

“Don’t you have a job to get to too?” she said teasingly. “Bills to pay? Bread to put on tables?”

He scrunched up his face. “You really don’t know anything about our family, huh?”

She felt her mood deflate. No, she didn’t. Both Bluebell and Bowie had managed to make her feel as though she had known them for ever without really telling her anything about themselves at all. He sensed her apprehension.

“I do have a job, but I don’t need to get to it.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a songwriter and musical director. I’m in the theatre.”

She smiled, turning back to her mirror.

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