‘Then tell me so.’

He casts his brown eyes to my arm. ‘I hope I haven’t marked you; I quite like my spine where it is and in one piece.’

I press my lips together to prevent my grin at his sardonic joke. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Thank f**king God.’ He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down sheepishly. ‘Can we start again?’

Relief floors me. ‘Please.’

‘Great.’ He looks up to me, remorse rife in his brown eyes. ‘Can we walk and talk? I’m not all that comfortable bad-mouthing your coffee-hater when he’s in such close proximity.’

On a roll of my eyes, I link arms with him and lead him to the stairwell. ‘C’mon.’

‘Is the lift broken?’

I skid to a halt, frowning to myself. I haven’t even realised that I’m picking up on Miller’s obsessive habits. ‘No.’

Gregory’s frown matches mine as we stroll over to the lift and board as soon as it arrives. His face looks dreadful, but I’m not sure it would be wise to acknowledge it or ask how he is, given that we’re both smiling now, so I plump for something entirely different. ‘How’s work?’

‘Same old,’ he mutters unenthusiastically, killing that line of conversation dead in its tracks.

I think hard again. ‘Mum and Dad okay?’

‘All right.’

‘How are things with Ben?’

‘Fragile.’

‘Has he come out?’

‘No.’

I roll my eyes. ‘What the hell did we talk about before I met Miller?’

He shrugs as the doors open, and I lead on, desperately searching my empty mind for anything to talk about, other than Miller and the inevitable interference that’s on the horizon. I come up with zilch.

Nodding politely at the doorman and ignoring the reflection of Gregory’s reluctant figure behind me, I push through the doors and emerge into the bright, fresh London air. I would have thought the vast open space engulfing me would instil a sense of freedom, but it doesn’t. Nowhere near. I feel suffocated under the impending interrogation from Gregory, desperate to run back to Miller and take my freedom from being smothered in his apartment. In his thing. In him.

I turn on a sigh, finding Gregory shifting awkwardly behind me, obviously stumped for what to say or do. He insisted on a talk. He must have things to say, and even though I don’t particularly want to hear them, I wish he’d just get it over and done with so I can tell him that he’s wasting his energy . . . again.

‘Are we going for coffee or not?’ I ask, indicating down the street.

‘Sure,’ he mumbles grumpily, like he’s aware that he’s about to waste his breath. He joins me and we begin to stroll down the street. There’s at least three feet separating us and unrest is filling that gap. It’s never been like this between us, and as there’s no conversation happening, it gives me too much silent reflecting time to wonder how it came to this. Our silly little fumble in my bedroom that time was a cause for concern, but with the animosity and battling between Miller and Gregory, that’s fallen by the wayside, which is undoubtedly a good thing.

We cross a road, quite easily, given the early hour, and continue at a leisurely pace, Gregory drawing continuous breaths of air to speak but never actually saying anything, and me looking eagerly for the sign that’ll tell me we’re nearing the coffee house. The discomfiture squeezing us is becoming unbearable.

‘Just tell me what it is about him.’ Gregory pulls me to a stop, and I open and close my mouth, trying to figure out how to word it. It’s all clear as daylight in my mind, but trying to voice it to an outsider stumps me. I don’t need to justify myself to anyone, yet the profound need to make Gregory understand why I’m still here is suddenly very important to me.

‘Everything.’ I shake my head, wishing I could come up with something better.

‘The fact that he’s an escort?’

‘No!’

‘Money?’

‘Don’t be stupid. You know I have a bank account full of cash.’

‘He’s intense.’

‘Very, but it has nothing to do with that. He wouldn’t be Miller if he didn’t have issues. Every part of that man is a result of his life so far. He was orphaned, Gregory. His grandparents dumped him in a questionable children’s home and forced his young mother back to Ireland, leaving him behind because of the shame he’d bring on the family.’

‘Doesn’t mean he can behave like a total twat,’ he mutters, scuffing his boots on the concrete beneath his feet. ‘Everyone has problems.’

‘Problems?’ I fume indignantly. ‘Being orphaned, becoming homeless, having OCD, and resorting to prostitution to survive isn’t a problem, Greg. It’s a f**king tragedy!’

My friend’s eyes widen, making me frown. ‘Homeless?’

‘Yes, he was homeless.’

‘He has OCD?’

‘Not confirmed, but it’s pretty obvious.’

‘Prostitution?’ he shouts in delayed reaction.

I realise my error immediately. Escort. Gregory didn’t need to know that Miller had been a regular prostitute. ‘Yes.’ I raise my chin, daring him to pass comment, thinking what he’d say should I add drug addict to the list.

My ploy fails on every level. ‘It gets better!’ he laughs, but it’s a nervous laugh. ‘And I’m pretty sure he’s psychotic, too, so you really do have your very own head case.’

‘He. Is. Not. A. Head. Case.’ I punctuate each word on a hiss, my blood beginning to boil. ‘You don’t see him when we’re alone. No one does, except me. Yes, he can be uptight, and so f**king what if he likes things a certain way? He isn’t killing anyone!’

‘He probably has.’

I recoil in disgust, words collecting and sticking to my tongue, my brain not quite sure which expletives to hurl at Gregory first. ‘Fuck off!’ It settles on a good all-rounder, and once I’ve lobbed it in his face, I turn back towards Miller’s apartment block, my angry feet pounding the pavement harshly.

‘Ah, Livy, come on!’

‘Piss off.’ I don’t look back. There’s likely to be explosions if I do. But then I think of something and swing around. ‘Where did you get Miller’s card?’

He shrugs. ‘That black-haired bird who was at Ice’s opening night. Hot as f**k!’

Cassie.

I feel my hackles rise and the pressure in my head mount. The bitch! I steam off, worrying about my mounting fury. I want to hit something. Hard.

‘Oh!’ My yelp is high-pitched as I’m captured and tossed up so I’m lying across his arms. He changes direction and strides off down the road, back in the direction of the coffee house, ignoring my incredulous look.

‘Sass,’ he says simply. ‘I’m kind of glad you’ve hung on to it.’

My body lets up on the tension stored and I relax in his arms. ‘I love him, Gregory.’

‘I can see that,’ he admits begrudgingly. ‘And does he love you?’

‘Yes,’ I answer, because I know for certain that he does. He just doesn’t say it so straightforwardly. But that’s his way.