Page 18 of Cuckoo

I chew my lip. ‘He’s not though. I mean, right now he’s behaving like an arsehole, yes. But usually, he isn’t. I think there’s something deeper going on. Something weird.’

Sukhi looks incredulous but holds her tongue, opting to pour herself a small glass of the grape juice she’s brought over instead. ‘Was too hungover this morning to do it all again,’ she’d explained. And as promised over earlier texts, she also turned up with two large oven pizzas, which we’ve been picking at all night.

‘And he hasn’t called or made any contact since?’ she asks.

I shake my head, chewing pensively on a slice of cold pizza.

‘You’re handling all this very well,’ she observes.

I shrug. ‘It’s keep calm and carry on, or break down, cry, scream and fall into a pit of depression. Plus I did already tear my flat apart.’ I give her a small smile. ‘Honestly, though, I feel like while there are still so many unanswered questions, it’s too early to fall into acceptance that we’re really over.’

Sukhi nods. ‘Spoken like a wise woman.’

‘I don’t know if I’m wise or stupid, clinging on to the hope that there’s a viable explanation for all of this.’

‘I think it’s better to cling on to hope than to assume the worst and shut yourself off to any explanation before he’s had a chance to say his piece,’ she says. ‘What’s the next part of your plan?’

I sigh, putting my pizza slice down. ‘I really don’t know. I could wait for him to reach out to me, but I don’t think he deserves the luxury of time while I’m going crazy over here, wondering what’s happening. But after what happened today, I feel like I can’t go back to his workplace. I guess I’ll keep internet stalking and hope for a breakthrough?’

‘That is a shitty plan,’ Sukhi tells me.

‘I know.’

‘Here, pass my laptop over, let’s see if we can find out anything else,’ she says. I watch as she scrolls down his profile page. His most recent post was something banal, about the football, but she goes through the people who ‘Liked’ his status diligently.

‘This guy just looks like an arsehole,’ she comments, as we peruse the page of Jeremy Miller, a red-haired sleaze whose profile photo is him with two Hooters girls in a holiday shot.

‘What about that girl? Who’s she?’ I ask, pointing to an Isabel Clarence who has liked Noah’s status.

Sukhi duly heads to her profile and I relax when I see that Isabel is at least sixty, her page littered with updates about her grandchildren.

‘Keep looking,’ I say, urging Sukhi back to Noah’s page.

‘What about this guy? You know him?’ she asks, clicking onto a Blake Argent.

I frown. ‘I think I recognise the name…’

His profile photo pops up. He’s a little chubby, with stubble and rather nice green eyes, but he isn’t ringing any bells. ‘I don’t think I recognise him,’ I admit.

She’s about to click off his page when I grab her arm. ‘Stop! There! Scroll down!’

Sukhi scrolls down to Blake’s most recent post, shared at 9 p.m. today. He tagged himself at a bar in West London, alongside four other names. One is Noah Coors.

First stop of the night? Completed it, mate. Second stop? Ballards. En route!

‘Oh my God,’ Sukhi breathes.

I glance at the clock. It’s 9.27 p.m.

‘I’m going,’ I say, snapping the laptop shut. ‘I’m going to Ballards.’

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ she asks, looking worried. ‘Right now?’

‘I’m fine. And I’m going. If I leave now, I can be there inside an hour. I am going to confront my lying fiancé about his double life.’ My voice is coming out certain and strong, and Sukhi may mistake it for bravery, but I recognise it forwhat it is. A desperate need for answers. Hurt, confusion and a desire to understand what I’ve done to push Noah away like this. And between the cracks of all these emotions there’s a slow, dangerous fury growing. I will not let him throw us away. Wewillfix this.

I have my trench coat on, my handbag already resting on my arm.

‘I’m coming with you,’ Sukhi tells me.

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