I click my pen, beaming more broadly than ever. ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Step one: floorboards. Step two …’

*

After an exhausting and wonderful day of planning, painting, and directing furniture about the place, I collapse into bed and sleep more deeply than I have in years. When I wake, it strikes me that I didn’t think to thank Letitia for donating all that furniture. It was incredibly generous of her. I am seized by a sudden urge to return the generosity, and I swing my legs out of bed with such alacrity I have to take a moment to recover before getting up.

‘You want to go shopping?’ Letitia says suspiciously when I turn up outside her door with my most comfortable shoes and my largest shopping bag. ‘For what?’

‘New clothes! My treat, to say thank you!’

‘Oh, you mustn’t spend any money on me,’ Letitia says, looking horrified.

I lean in. ‘My ex-husband hasn’t a clue of all the savings I’ve squirrelled away over the years, and I plan on spending them before he notices and tries to get his hands on them. Come on. Give me a hand.’

That gets a grin out of Letitia. ‘I’m not fussed about fashion,’ she says. ‘And where would we shop?’ Her grin fades; she looks slightly nervous. ‘Not Oxford Street or something?’

I have no plans to repeat the experience of visiting Oxford Street. I got stabbed by an umbrella, shouted at by an angry American tourist, and, oddly, followed around Primark by a security guard.

‘No, we’re going to the charity shops,’ I say. ‘There’s five within a ten-minute walk of the building and they’re packed full of the bargains fancy London sorts have thrown out.’

Letitia brightens. I suspected charity shops would be more her cup of tea than those high-street places that only seem to sell clothes for tall people with gigantic bosoms and tiny waists. And even though this part of London seemed a little scary at first – what with all the graffiti, the tattoo parlours, the motorbikes – I much prefer it to the noise and bustle of London’s centre now.

Since Fitz took me out shopping, I have learned all about ‘make-overs’. Fitz had me trying on all sorts of ridiculous things – skirts that showed my knees, shoes that you couldn’t wear stockings with. But I realised afterwards it was all a clever ploy to make me more adventurous. Once I’d tried on a short denim skirt my comfort zone was so severely stretched that it didn’t seem too much of a leap to buy myself the long-sleeved linen dress I’d worn for my third date with Tod, for example, and after forcing my feet into heeled sandals, the lovely leather boots he persuaded me to borrow from Leena seemed quite comfortable.

I try this with Letitia, only I go a bit too far and she almost bolts from Save the Children when I attempt to wrestle her into a fitted pink blouse. I take a new tack and talk to her about her taste, but she stubbornly insists she has no interest in fashion and is perfectly happy in her navy-blue tunic and it doesn’t need washing as often as people think.

At last, just when I’m about to give up, I catch her eyeing an embroidered jacket in Help the Aged. The penny drops. I remember what an extraordinary cove of oddities Letitia’s flat is, and I take a closer look at her.

‘What are you looking at?’ she asks suspiciously.

‘Your earrings,’ I say. ‘They’re beautiful. And the last pair I saw you in were lovely, too.’

‘Oh.’ She looks pleased. ‘Thank you. They’re 1940s – I found them at a flea market and polished them up myself.’

‘What a find!’ I hustle her out of Help the Aged towards the gigantic Oxfam where Fitz found himself three floral shirts. ‘Look,’ I say, as casually as I can, ‘they have a vintage rail. Gosh, look at the curious ivy pattern on this skirt!’

If Letitia were a cat, her ears would be pricking up. She sidles closer and reaches to stroke the fabric.

I need to change how Letitia views clothes. She’s a magpie, she collects beautiful things – so why not decorate herself with them too? If she paid half as much attention to herself as she does to her home, well. She might still look odd, but at least she’d be taking some pride in her appearance.

‘Shall I … try this on?’ Letitia says nervously, holding the ivy-patterned skirt.

‘Why not?’ I ask, already pushing her towards the changing room.

15

Leena

Ant/Dec wakes me, as has become our routine; I am actually becoming quite fond of a furry head in my face first thing. It’s much nicer than an alarm.

As he jumps down from the bed, he knocks Mum’s moonstone from the bedside table. I pick it up slowly, rolling it between my fingers. It’s tinged with blue, kind of alien-looking. I wonder who decided it meant ‘new beginnings’.

Hesitantly, I reach for my phone. There’s a goodnight message from Ethan, sent at one a.m., with four kisses instead of the usual three. He’s had to miss another weekend visit because of work – I’ve been here three weeks now and he’s not visited once. I get it, but it’s still frustrating.

I scroll through my contacts. Mum wakes up even earlier than me – she’s usually up by five.

I hit dial. I’ve sent Mum a text most days, just checking whether she needs anything, but she always says no. I should definitely have called her or dropped around again by now, but …

‘Hello? Leena? Is everything OK?’

The panic in her voice takes me right back there. It’s only because my phone rings so often that I’ve chased away the shadow of that instant, gut-dropping dread I’d feel every time it rang when Carla was dying, that conviction that this time it would be the worst news in the world. Now, as I hear that dread in my mother’s voice, the emotions start boiling in my stomach. I get up from the edge of the bed to pace, sweating, immediately desperate to end the call before I’ve even said a word.

‘Hi, sorry Mum, all fine!’ I say quickly. ‘I was just ringing to say hello – and – it’s bingo tomorrow night, I wondered if you wanted to come? I’ll be driving the van.’

There’s a short pause. ‘Oh, I … Yes, why not? If you want me to come?’

She waits.

‘Yes!’ I say, too shrill, and I press one fist at the point between my ribs where the emotions are roiling. ‘Yeah, totally, come along! Five p.m. OK. Great!’

If I hang up then this feeling of panic will go, but I’ve not said what I wanted to say, not really.

‘Leena, take a deep breath,’ Mum says.

I close my eyes and slow my breathing. The prickling sensation on my chest and face subsides a little, until it feels less like pins-and-needles, more like light rain on the skin.

I open my eyes and take one final deep breath. ‘Mum, Grandma told me you’d been to see the doctor and he’d given you some antidepressants.’

There’s a long pause. ‘Yes,’ she says.

‘I didn’t realise things were … that bad,’ I say. ‘I – I’m sorry.’

‘That’s OK, love.’ Her voice is quieter now.

‘And they’re helping?’

‘They are, actually. Though it’s hard to tell whether it’s the antidepressants or the crystals, really.’