Marshmallows for Breakfast

by Dorothy Koomson

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

When Kendra Tamale returns to England from Australia she rents a room from Kyle, a divorced father of two, and begins a new job. She's looking forward to a fresh start and simple life.

Kyle's five-year-old twins, Summer and Jaxon, have other ideas and quickly adopt Kendra as their new mother—mainly because she lets them eat marshmallows for breakfast. Kendra eventually becomes a part of their lives, even though she's hiding a painful secret that makes her keep everyone—especially children—at arm's length.

Then Kendra bumps into the man who shares her awful secret, and things fall apart: she can't sleep, she can't eat, she's suspended from work, and the kids are taken away by their mother. The only way to fix things is to confess to the terrible mistake she made all those years ago. But that's something she swore never to do . . .

Release date: January 27, 2009

Publisher: Delta

Print pages: 480

Sample

Prologue

This is like the moment between heartbeats. The space where nothing happens. Where the blood slows in your veins, your breath catches and your mind spins out into that huge blank space of unreality.

I’m talking to him on the phone.

It’s him. It’s really him.

‘We need to talk about our baby,’ he says.

I would throw down the phone if I could move. If his voice hadn’t snaked its way through my body and caused all my muscles to petrify.

‘Kendra?’ he asks. ‘Can you hear me?’

The line crackles slightly because he’s calling from a mobile, a phone is ringing somewhere across my otherwise empty office but I can hear him. Of course I can hear him. Every word is clear and precise, his low voice as deep and smooth as a vat of warm syrup. I can hear him and the memory of him flashes through my mind.

His large, muscular hand reaches out to stop me from stumbling; his steel-like grip encases my throat. His mouth smiles as he says he’ll do anything for me; his breath is against my ear as he promises to kill me.

‘Kendra, can you hear me?’ he repeats to my silence.

‘Yes.’ I push out the words. ‘Yes, I can hear you.’

‘We need to talk about our child . . . You need to tell me about him or her.’ He pauses, sucks in a breath. ‘I don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl. That’s not fair. I have a right to know. I have a right . . . Kendra, you have to talk to me. You owe me that much at least.’

I say nothing.

‘I’ll meet you,’ he says. ‘After you’ve finished work. I’m outside your building now but I’ll wait. What time do you finish?’

Like a nest of disturbed bats, panic rises up inside and becomes a blanket of thick, black leathery wings, dampening all other sensations. He’s outside? He’s outside – now?

‘I’m busy tonight,’ I reply, trying to sound normal. Trying not to let my voice expose my fear.

‘I don’t care if you’re busy,’ he hisses. ‘Nothing is more important than this. We have to talk.’

‘I, um, I, erm . . .’ I falter. I have to take back control of this situation. He can’t do this to me.

‘I know where you work, how long do you think it’ll be before I find out where you live? I’ll show up at your house. I’ll come to your work every day and then go to your home. I won’t leave you alone until you talk to me. You can avoid all that if you meet me now.’

He means it. I know he means it. I know what he does when he doesn’t get what he wants.

‘I’ll meet you outside at quarter to five,’ I say. ‘I can give you half an hour.’

‘Good girl,’ he purrs, his tone soft, reasonable and calm. ‘I knew you’d do the right thing. I can’t wait—’

‘Bye,’ I blurt out and cut the line, almost throwing the white handset back into its cradle.

Five minutes ago I never thought he’d find me. Five minutes ago it never occurred to me he was looking for me. Five minutes ago the most pressing thing on my mind was about which supermarket to visit for the shopping.

And now this.

His hand crushes my throat; his honey voice crawls in my ear.

He’s really going to kill me this time, isn’t he?

Erm, excuse me . . .

Publicly expressing gratitude is one of the best things about being a writer. Please indulge me, I love doing this, so here goes . . .

My fantastically fabulous family: Samuel, Agnes, Sameer, Kathy, David, Maryam, Dawood, Maraam, Muneerah, Yusuf, Ahmad, Muhammad, Ameerah, Liah, Skye, Aysah, Habiba, David, Jade. All of you are so special to me, not least of all for your support.

My astounding agents: Antony Harwood (aka GAM), ‘above and beyond the call of duty’ should be your middle name – thank you for EVERYTHING. James Macdonald Lockhart, you’re, like, the calmest man alive and I adore you for it.

My perfect publisher peeps: Jo Dickinson (aka MGE), every writer should be as lucky to have you as their editor – thank you, especially for staying in touch during your maternity leave. Louise Davies, bless you for being so patient and understanding. Jennifer Richards – really do love ya work. Kirsteen Astor – love ya work, too. Plus Kerry Chapple and Emma Stonex – thanks for keeping me in gossip and books.

My brilliant British-side buddies: Richard Atkinson (thanks for being the first to read the ‘new Dorothy Koomson’); Emily Partridge; Andy Baker (thanks for being the only one to visit me in Oz); Rhian Clugston; Sharon Wright and David Jacobson and Luc; Marian, Gordon, Jonathan and Rachel Ndumbe; Stella Eleftheriades; Jean Jollands; Emma Hibbs; Bibi Lynch; Adam Gold; Rob Haynes; Janet Cost-Chretien; Tasha Harrison; Denise Ryan; Sarah Ball; Martin, Sachiko and Connor O’Neill; Tanya Smale (thanks for being my Kamryn); Colette Harris; Nuala Farrell; Maria Owen; Sharon Percival.

My amazing Aussie-side amigos: Lucy and Olivia Tumanow-West; Lindsay Curtis; Rebecca Buttrose; Rebecca Carman; Jen, Danny, Dylan, Isabella, Sunny, Jolie, Gemma and Violet (aka The Adcocks); Erin Kisby.

And, to all the people who were so gracious in telling me their stories that went into this book, a deep, heart-felt thank you for your honesty and bravery.

chapter one

‘You’re black.’

Surprisingly, I didn’t scream, yelp or collapse into a quivering heap when I was confronted by an intruder in my home. I reeled back as my heart lurched to a stop; I stared at her with wide, shocked eyes, but I didn’t scream.

It was early on a Saturday morning, I’d just stepped out of the shower and had been about to dash across my flat to the bedroom to get dressed when I’d found the intruder – intruders, actually – standing in the area outside the bathroom, staring at me. The intruder who spoke to me was about two-foot tall, six years old with green eyes that were as dark and glossy as eucalyptus leaves, and shoulder-length black hair – one side bunched with a red elastic band, the other falling in waves to her shoulder. Beside her stood her male mirror image – he had shorter dark hair but was the same height, the same age and had the same green eyes.

The pair of them weren’t dressed so much as ‘ensembled’. Her pink skirt with ruffles at the bottom she wore over striped blue and white tights, and with a white, long-sleeved T-shirt under a faded orange vest. She had yellow socks bunched like legwarmers around her ankles, while red shoes with big yellow flowers on the front adorned her feet. He wore long blue trousers, one leg of which was tucked into one of his green socks. His white T-shirt was decorated with an avant-garde artwork of felt-tip pen marks and grubby fingerprint streaks, one collar of his blue fleece zip-up jacket was folded inwards, hugging his shoulder.

Both of them wore clothes that were crumpled and creased, as though they’d slept in them.

As well as the dishevelled clothes, the twins also shared grey-white complexions with dark, blue-purple circles smoothed like smudges of dirt under their eyes. They looked like a pair of street urchins, battered and worn by the February cold, who’d wandered into the warmth of my flat. But they weren’t street kids, I was pretty certain of that. They were my landlord’s children. I’d only just moved into this flat and had yet to meet my landlord and his family because they’d been away overseas when I’d arrived from Australia. Obviously they were back.

The children openly explored me with their eyes, took in the clear plastic shower cap that covered my black hair, my cleansed and moisturised face, my damp neck and shoulders, the towel I’d wrapped around my torso and was currently clutching closed in a death grip, my knees peeking out from beneath my towel, and my water-spotted calves. Their gazes lingered on my feet, probably fascinated by my fluffy white slippers.

‘You’re black,’ the girl stated again, her voice clear and firm; she spoke with the honesty of a child and the confidence of an adult. She knew how to address people no matter how old they were. In her arms she carried a blue, floppy toy rabbit.

‘So I’m told,’ I replied.

‘I’m Summer,’ she said, confirming she was my landlord’s daughter. She jerked a thumb at the boy. ‘He’s Jaxon. We’re twins.’ She looked me over again – from my shower cap to my feet – then whipped her eyes up to mine. Our gazes locked. She had me hypnotised, had my undivided attention for as long as she wanted. Her face, framed in that unusual way by her hair, was innocent and open, yet wise and private. A million insignificant and profound thoughts went on behind that face.

Summer shrugged her small, bony shoulders, breaking eye contact as she gave a slight nod of her head. ‘You’re quite pretty,’ she said.

‘Erm . . . Thank you, I think,’ I said.

Jaxon leant across to Summer, cupped his hand around his mouth and began whispering in her ear. He talked for a few seconds and when he stopped, she nodded. Jaxon straightened up. ‘You’re not as pretty as my mumma,’ Summer informed me.

Guessing this was his contribution, I glanced at Jaxon. He stared defiantly back at me, daring me to argue. He obviously wasn’t much of a talker, but he knew how to get his point across. ‘Oh, OK,’ I said.

‘Summer! Jaxon!’ a male adult voice shouted from the bottom of the stairs, near the front door of my flat, causing my heart to lurch again.

‘What are you doing up there?’ the voice continued as footsteps began up the stairs. This was probably my landlord, Kyle Gadsborough, running up to join his children as they watched me with no clothes on. Before I could plan an escape, could work out if I’d be able to fling myself back into the bathroom, Mr Gadsborough appeared.

He took up the area at the top of the stairs because he was a tall man, over six foot at a guess. He was slightly older than me, thirty-six, maybe thirty-seven, with a solid but trim body. He was dressed in loose, navy-blue jeans and a creased white T-shirt under a gun-metal grey jacket. His black hair was cropped close to his head; his eyes were as large as his children’s but brown. He had a shadow of stubble on his face and, like his children, he was the kind of pale that looked like he was fighting off sleep.

My landlord came to a halt at the top of the stairs, heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes at his children. ‘I told you,’ he said, ‘she’s not here – probably out shopping or something.’ When they didn’t respond to him and instead continued to stare at me, he obviously wondered what they were looking at and glanced in the direction they were focused on. He gave me a brief ‘hello’ nod before turning back to the kids. He stopped. I saw the moment his brain registered that he’d seen a person in that quick glance to his right. He turned back towards me, surprise and confusion on his face. ‘Oh, you are here,’ he said. ‘Sorry, we—’ His voice halted as he realised he was in the presence of a virtually naked woman. One who wasn’t his wife. His grey-white, sleep-deprived face exploded with colour and two bright stripes of red burnt a scarlet trail across his face.

‘Oh-h-h,’ he stammered. ‘Oh, um, I, um . . .’ He started to back away, forgot he was standing at the top of the stairs, missed the top step, and slip-tripped backwards. For a moment, a fraction of a second, Mr Gadsborough seemed to hover mid-air, then his body began its fall down the wooden staircase. My already racing heart went to my throat as I watched him, waited for him to tumble out of sight, but at the last moment his hand snapped out and caught hold of the white banister railing and managed to keep himself upright. Once steady on his feet, he ran down a few more steps until all we could see from where we stood were the soft bristles that sat in uneven swirls on the top of his head. He faced the wall so he wasn’t even vaguely looking in my direction.

‘Come on, kids, we’ve got to go,’ he said to the wall. ‘Now. NOW!’ And his footsteps pelted down the rest of the stairs and out the door as though the devil was on his heels.

Summer, who, like Jaxon and I, had been watching Mr Gadsborough, turned back to me. ‘We’ve got to go,’ she said seriously, her tone adding, But we’ll be back.

‘OK,’ I replied to both the spoken and unspoken statements.

Summer started down the stairs first; through the gaps in the banisters I saw her move carefully down each step until she disappeared from view. Jaxon started down after her, but before putting his foot onto the second step, he stopped, turned and threw a look at me. You don’t fool me, that look said. I can see right through you.

I drew back a little at its intensity.

Only one other person had looked at me like that in all my life. And that was an age ago. The look had unsettled me then, but now it almost knocked me over. How could a six-year-old boy look at me as if I was an open book?

I blinked at him, wondering if he was going to say something. But no. His work done, his look thrown, Jaxon turned and trouped down the stairs after his sister and father.

OK, I thought, as the door clicked shut behind Jaxon, I have to get out of here. Right now.

chapter two

Before I did anything else, I propped a dining chair under the handle of the bedroom door.

I was taking no risks with this: if I was going to take my towel off to get dressed, then I wanted a several-minute warning in the event of anyone from the Gadsborough family showing up again.

Double-checking the chair was secure before I dropped the towel, I picked up the bottle of body lotion sitting on the bedside table and squeezed a large, creamy-white dollop into the palm of my hand. I moisturised my body in record time – thirty seconds, tops – then grabbed my black bra from the bed and fastened it on. I shoved my legs into my knickers and pulled them on, then I tugged on my white, long-sleeved T-shirt and buttoned on my jeans. It took me less than two minutes to get dressed, and as I did so, I kept my eyes fixed on the doorway, just in case.

Seven days ago I was in Australia.

That still spun me out a little, made me look around checking my surroundings like a mole seeing the light above ground for the first time. I’d be constantly reminding myself that the bare trees, the cool temperature, the fresh bracing air meant I was in Britain. I was back in the land of my birth. Back home. Seven days ago I was living a very different life in Sydney. I had an apartment near the city centre, and I was communications officer for a large media company.

Five days ago, cramped, exhausted and buzzing slightly from the sugar high, a twenty-four-hour sweets binge, I’d wandered out of immigration and customs at Heathrow airport and into the arrivals area. Ignoring the people who ran into each other’s arms, reunited and happy, returned and being collected, I’d made my way out to the taxi queue. No one was meeting me because few people knew I was back. My parents lived in Ghana, my sister lived in Italy and my two brothers lived in Spain and Canada. My family were scattered across the world and I couldn’t impose on any friends to come pick me up.

I had all my carry-able worldly goods in a backpack and two suitcases. My papers I’d posted to myself the day before I left so they’d arrive at some point. I’d queued up for a taxi at the airport and asked for an address in Brockingham on the Kent–London borders.

As the taxi cruised along the motorway, heading for the knot of traffic that was London, I knew the Gadsboroughs, my new landlords, wouldn’t be there. Kyle Gadsborough had told me that his family needed to go to New York, and whilst it wasn’t ideal that they wouldn’t be there to greet me, there was nothing either of us could do – they needed to be in America, I needed to be in England.

To pick up the keys I had to go to the next door neighbour’s house. She’d opened the door to me and I’d drawn back a little. She had hair that sat like a brown meringue on her head, violently plucked eyebrows and a mouth so wrinkled with fault lines it looked as though it was on the verge of caving in on itself.

She hadn’t wanted to hand over the keys. She’d asked to see my passport and a copy of the rental agreement. Once I’d complied she’d asked to see another form of ID. I’d shown her my British credit card. Knowing she couldn’t delay any longer, she’d said she’d put her shoes on and come over with me. That’d been it for me. After twenty-four hours on a flight and spending £150 on a taxi, my patience, which had already been stretched, was now paper thin. I’d held out my hand for the keys. Reluctantly she’d dropped them into my palm.

The entrance to my flat, Mr Gadsborough had told me, was on the right of the house behind high, ornate iron gates. After unlocking the gate, I’d wheeled my luggage along the stone path and the side of the white house. The back opened up to a large, grass courtyard surrounded by large slate-grey flagstones. Opposite the main house stood my flat.

Mr Gadsborough was an architect and had designed and rebuilt the flat that sat above a former garage as a self-contained studio for his wife. It was white on the outside, with a row of six large picture windows that looked over the courtyard and three skylights embedded in the slanted roof. At the centre of the building, where the entrance to the garage had been, was the blue front door.

As I’d approached it, it had felt like my flat even though I’d only seen the pictures that Mr Gadsborough had emailed me. It felt like the place where I could start again. Leaving Sydney had been a decision made in haste. I had no idea where I was going to live, no family in England I could impose upon, so I’d spent hours trawling the Net until I’d seen the ad for this place. After a few conversations with the owner, when we’d gone through the process of couriering contracts back and forth, and transferring money, it was mine. All mine. I’d felt a calmness flow through me when Mr Gadsborough told me I could rent the flat. I had somewhere to live, somewhere to hide.

I’d wheeled my metal-grey suitcases around the grey flagstone path to my flat. The navy-blue front door had a brass knocker. Behind the door would be stairs that led up to what would become my space.

The chill of the place had come rushing down the stairs to greet me as I’d swung open the door. It was cool outside, but colder inside – the absence of someone in the house had left its mark.

I’d stared up at the wooden stairs with a gentle turn at the top – there was no way I’d make it up in one go. Leaving my suitcases on the doorstep, I’d climbed the stairs.

I’d shed my rucksack and bag, then pelted back down and bumped one of my suitcases up the stairs, pelted back and bumped up the other one. After shutting the door behind me I’d stopped. It seemed to be the first time in weeks I’d done that, stopped. I’d stopped and allowed the stillness that came from a place that hadn’t been inhabited for a while to descend upon me. I’d closed my eyes, inhaled the sensation of motionlessness deep into my lungs, then exhaled it. Pushed it out to join the quiet around me. This was what tranquillity felt like. This was what I wanted when I’d boarded the plane for home.

I’d opened my eyes and for the first time properly took in the room. The entire flat was about forty foot long, most of it open plan. To my right was the living area with a sofa, the television and a coffee table. Beside the sofa was the doorway that led to the bedroom. To my left was the small and round dining table with three chairs. Beyond that, at the far end was the kitchen with a whole wall of glass that let light flood in. Beside it, the door that led to the bathroom. The entire flat, apart from the bathroom, had stripped wood floorboards, topped with brightly coloured rugs that sat like islands at equally spaced points along the floor.

On the dining table stood a box of chocolates tied up in a pink bow, a piece of white card propped up against it. I’d picked up the note.

Welcome to your new home, Kendra. From The Gadsborough family.

A sweet and unexpected gesture that told me they were good people. Normal, kind. I’d felt that everytime I’d spoken to Mr Gadsborough. They were decent and friendly.

Friendly. That had caused a trickle of anxiety to run through me. Their potential friendliness could be a problem, I’d thought, as I’d put down the note and stared at the chocolates. I needed to be left alone for a while. I felt like a fugitive, running away from Australia, and I needed solitude now I was home. A place where I could spend time on my own, licking the wounds that had made me leave Sydney; get myself together. Get stronger as I eased myself back into being around people again.

My biggest fear as I’d fingered the cellophane covering of the chocolates was that they wouldn’t leave me alone long enough for me to start rebuilding my life. That they wouldn’t leave me alone, full stop.

I paced the bedroom floor, wringing my hands, fretting. An irrational terror was growing bigger and more real with every passing minute. The kids had probably gone back over to the house and told Mrs Gadsborough what had happened. ‘She’s quite pretty,’ Summer would say casually.

‘She had no clothes on, did she, Dad?’ Jaxon would blithely add.

Any moment now Mrs Gadsborough would be marching over here, frying pan in hand, to read me the riot act. To tell me to keep my clothes on, even in the shower. Especially in the shower.

Even if she didn’t come over here for that confrontation, it would hardly endear me to her. It’d put a seed of doubt in her mind about me, make her wonder if I had an eye on her husband and make her decide to keep an eye on me.

With that thought crystallised in my head, I pulled on a V-neck jumper, struggled into a black cardigan and put on my long black coat. Quickly, I wrapped a stripy, multi-coloured scarf around my neck, grabbed my bag and made for the door. I’d go visit a few estate agents, get the train into central London and spend the day there. I’d be back as late as possible, by which time they’d be asleep. I could keep doing that – staying out till late – until I found somewhere else to live.

Before I stepped out of the flat, I eased open the front door a sizeable crack and peeked out, checking it was all clear. Across the courtyard stood the house, large, white and imposing. From where I was, I could see the large kitchen window. The wooden slatted blinds were up and I could make out Mr Gadsborough standing at the kitchen table, gesticulating wildly at the two children who sat at the table, both of them engrossed by what he was saying. Mrs Gadsborough was nowhere in sight. This was my chance to escape.

I stepped over the threshold, and eased the door shut. Just as carefully, I slipped the key into the deadlock, gently turning it. Then, I slid the key into the Yale lock, turned that just as soundlessly to double lock it.

Biting my lower lip and tensed to move stealthily across the courtyard towards the gate, I turned – and found Mr Gadsborough, box of Weetabix in one hand, right behind me.

‘JESUS CHRIST!’ I screeched, leaping back and clutching at my heart. ‘DON’T DO THAT!’ What was it with this family and its talent for appearing from nowhere?

All at once my landlord looked stricken, as though he couldn’t believe he’d done that to me. ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry,’ he said, reaching out to me with his free hand. I flinched back, pressing my body flat against the door to stop him touching me. We’d already crossed far too many barriers in the last half hour, we didn’t need to trample down any more.

He drew back his hand, stepped away from me, gave me room. I moved a little away from the door, now he was at a safe distance.

‘Miss Tamale, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,’ he said.

‘Call me Kendra,’ I said cautiously, my heart still racing.

‘I’m sorry, Kendra, I didn’t mean to startle you. That’s the last thing I wanted to do.’

‘It’s OK, Mr Gadsborough, I’m fine. Really. I’m just a bit jumpy.’

‘Call me Kyle,’ he said.

‘OK, Kyle.’

‘I was giving the kids their breakfast,’ he said, pointing to the kitchen behind him, ‘and I saw you. I wanted to catch you before you left to apologise. I didn’t know what time you’d be back and we’re probably going to go straight to sleep after breakfast. Jet lag. But I want to apologise for before. You know . . . Before . . .’ His voice trailed away and he flushed a gentle carmine as the memory obviously refreshed itself in his mind.

‘It’s fine,’ I dismissed automatically, although it wasn’t. It hadn’t been intentional, which made it a little fine.

‘It most certainly isn’t fine,’ he interrupted. ‘I’ve just spent the better part of half an hour explaining to the kids why it’s not fine. I’m so sorry.’ His voice was smooth and gentle, a hint of an accent, Northern maybe, overlaid his words.

‘It’s OK, really.’

‘It’s not. I just want to assure you it won’t happen again. It’s the kids, you see. I don’t know if you’ve ever had kids?’ His eyes trailed down my body, as though he could assess whether I’d had kids from examining the curves of my form, then his face bloomed red again as he obviously remembered seeing these same curves in a towel.

‘I know of kids,’ I said, a touch of sarcasm to my tone. If I had kids would I have moved into his house without them?

‘Well, my two, when they get an idea in their heads, they won’t let up. When I told them I’d rented the place to you they wanted to know everything all at once. They wanted to meet you straight away. Wanted a picture. Wanted to find out where you were right then. Wanted to fly over to Sydney. They couldn’t understand why we couldn’t go to Sydney on the way to New York because, you know, there’s a plane ride involved in both of them. But, when we got to New York, nothing. Didn’t bring it up at all. I thought they’d forgotten but on the way back from the airport just now, Jaxon, I think it was, remembered all of a sudden, reminded Summer and off they went. I couldn’t get them to stop until I let them in to prove you weren’t there, which of course you were.’

The strong silent type Kyle was not. All the while he talked his eyes, which were the deep maroon of mahogany, danced. Close up, he was an attractive man. Ignore the exhaustion, the paling of his skin and the semicircles of darkness under his eyes and you had a handsome soul. Rugged physique, soft lines at his jaw, strong but striking features, an air of natural inquisitiveness his daughter had inherited. Woven into his height, his body, his persona, was a gentleness that would put most people at ease – when he wasn’t creeping up behind them.

‘We did knock,’ Kyle said to end his explanation.

‘I was probably in the shower,’ I said, with a deadpan face just to see him redden again, which he did, right on cue. When Kyle blushed, dipped his head a little, he became a bashful boy who had been caught looking through his mother’s underwear catalogue; he became the adult version of Jaxon.

‘It won’t happen again,’ he promised. ‘Look, if you want to take the spare keys back and give them to someone else, feel free.’

‘No, I’d rather someone nearby had them, you know, just in case I slip in the shower and can’t get up.’

He didn’t blush this time, instead he tilted his head to one side and his lips slid up into a smile. He had a nice smile, warm, sweet, inviting. ‘You’re going to keep on making shower jokes for the rest of my natural life, aren’t you?’ he asked.

‘Yup, pretty much.’

‘As long as we haven’t scared you off? I hope you weren’t going out to find a new flat? Because it absolutely will not happen again. I’m going to learn to keep the kids under better control. That’s my mission.’

‘Oh, they’re fine. Just spooked me a bit, that’s all.’

‘Yeah, you say that, but you don’t know how often they run rings around me. I’m new to all this, you see.’

‘Oh,’ I said. Weren’t they his kids after all? Where was his wife?

‘My wife and I are separated,’ he said in answer to my silent query. ‘Very recently. Well, a few weeks. That’s why I’m renting out that space – it was her work studio,’ he said with a nod towards the flat. ‘We’ve just been to New York, that’s where she’s thinking of moving to. Without us. We’re getting divorced. I thought the trip was a reconciliation but on our last night we’re lying on the huge hotel bed, the kids are asleep between us, and she whispers, “I want a divorce, Kyle. We can’t make it work so I want a divorce.” Nice huh? We slept in the same bed the whole two weeks. All four of us, just like old times, and that’s how she ends it. I hadn’t even known we’d been trying to make it work.’

With every word my toes had been curling under, clenching themselves in my trainers while every muscle in my body strained with the effort of not turning around and running away from him. I knew all about divorce. I’d just fled from divorce. I did not need to run straight into another one.

Kyle stopped talking and we stood, unmoving and silent. His act of emotional bloodletting that had dragged me into the deepest recesses of his family vault stood between us, an unexpected horror. Neither of us knew what to say and an uncomfortable, stifling quiet flowed over us.

‘You’re going to move out in the middle of the night, aren’t you?’ he said sadly. He shook his head, ran a hand over