Page 99 of On Circus Lane

“Oh, that’s not good,” I whisper into the phone.

“Why? What’s happened?”

“I hit him in the face with my snowball and he fell backwards. I might have knocked him out and he’s definitely broken his lamp.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence on the other end of the line, and then Arlo starts to laugh. “Oh fuck,” he wheezes. “Tell me that again.Please.”

“My romantic life is not the subject of humour,” I say sniffily.

He laughs harder. “It is when you knocked your beloved out with a sixer.”

BEE

The festiveStrictly Come Dancingis playing on the TV and the lights on the Christmas tree twinkle. The flat is tidy and warm for once, and I’m full from the Chinese takeaway I ordered earlier. So why does everything feel so horribly empty since I got back from Edinburgh?

I snuggle further into the sofa and under my nest of blankets. I know the reason. I miss Tom.

I huff. “Fuck off,” I say out loud. It sounds good, so I say it again. “Fuck off. It was just a holiday shag. Nothing more.”

I pop my head out of the blanket. It was different, and I know it and no amount of swearing will stop that I managed to go on holiday and catch fucking feelings.

“Fuckmy life,” I breathe.

I miss him. I miss seeing his smile. I miss our adventures. I miss smelling his cologne and feeling the heat of his big bodyagainst me. I miss the way he seemed to look at me and really see me. He saw Beethoven Amadeus Bannister, because that’s who he got, unlike anyone else. I showed him the real me that’s buried under the years of academia and rejections. I showed him me, and he actually liked me.

And then I shook hishand.

I groan. “Why did I do that?”

I wanted to kiss him and ask to see him again. But then my usual caution reared its head, and I protected myself from rejection by donning my mask of indifference.

I turn on my side and stare at the fire, the false flames flickering merrily, unlike my mood. I reach for the Lindt selection box. Maybe chocolate will help. After all, dark chocolate can improve blood flow and lower blood pressure. It’s also said to improve brain function, and I need all the help I can get with that at the moment.

But ten truffles later, I have a neat pile of pretty foiled wrappers, I feel sick, and I still miss him.

I pick up my phone for the fiftieth time this hour and check the screen. Nothing. He hasn’t tried to contact me.

Tears sting my eyes. Why would he? He’s probably midway to hooking up with someone else. After all, he’s handsome, funny, and clever. The perfect trifecta. The next bloke might not be such a twat as me, and they’ll end up together, living in a big old house with dogs and decorating projects. They’ll go away with friends and have more adventures.

I blink.Since when has that become my dream?I consider the images in my head and have to concede that it’s since Tom. We have Before Tom, Currently Tom, and now I sadly have After Tom.

I cuddle back down into my blankets, feeling tiredness tug at my brain. I didn’t sleep well last night, and I need to be up andout the house early tomorrow to get the train to Oxford to see my dad.

My blinks get longer and longer and then sleep takes me under.

I come awake with a start, a dream about Tom still tugging at my head. I want to go back to sleep. What woke me? The fire is still burning merrily, and the TV is now showing what looks likeThe Omen. I roll my eyes. Because nothing says Christmas more than dramatizing the birth of the antichrist.

I’m about to lie down when I hear it. A soft thump. I sit up in a rush. Someone’s throwing something at the window.

Crossly, I get up and then squeak when the blanket wrapped around my legs trips me and I thud onto the floor. “Motherfucker,” I hiss. I manage to stand again, and then I march to the French windows. I throw them open and lean out to shout. And then I freeze when I see Tom standing under my window.

He’s wrapped up in his parka, and his angular face is bright under his woolly hat. I hardly have time to register this when something cold and wet hits me in the face. I fall backwards into the flat. As I go down, I hear a tinkle of glass and a pop as the lamp falls off the table and smashes.

For a few seconds, I lie stunned, staring up at the ceiling.Did that just happen?

“Bee?”

Tom’s bellow brings me to myself, and I sit up so quickly that my head reels. “Tom?”

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