I shrug, determined to be apathetic about the whole thing.
'That's fine. Just because I've been shafted, it doesn't mean you can't watch slushy films.'
Before she can argue that I didn't get shafted, I close the door. I'm not in the mood for further discussion and anyway, in spite of all my bravado, I'm not entirely sure I can deal with romantic slush at the minute. Back in the kitchen, I take a box of fish fingers out of the freezer and lay a handful under the grill, buttering a couple of slices of bread while they brown, and discovering a cheap bottle of white wine on the top shelf of the fridge. I notice two glasses laid ready on the table, and even though the wine's probably part of Lucy's preparations for Clive's visit, I'm sure she won't mind if I help myself. Pouring a glassful, I turn the fish fingers and set about musing over the dream, replaying each and every part of it. I must be on the third repeat when the smell of burning tickles my nose.
'Bugger.'
Rescuing the fish fingers before they're thoroughly singed, I lay them out on the bread.
'You need a proper meal,' Lucy announces from the doorway. She's changed into one of her flowery summer dresses. There's no make-up yet and her hair's a mess.
'This is a proper meal.' I pick up a sandwich and take a bite, cursing myself for diving straight in: the fish fingers are superheated. 'When's Clive getting here?'
'Any minute now.'
'With my handbag?'
'Of course.'
Right on cue, the doorbell chimes. While Lucy gets on with the business of letting Clive in, I open up the bread, squirt ketchup all over my fish fingers, and close the sandwich again.
'That looks interesting.'
And that's not Clive's voice. My eyes travel up from my gourmet meal and meet the perfectly made-up face of Lily Babbage. What's she doing here? That's the first question that springs to mind, shortly before I start wondering why she's got a pair of Ray-Bans resting on top of her perfectly sleek brunette hair-do. It's still raining, and I'm pretty sure the sun hasn't shown itself all day. There's just no need for it. I take in the rest of her outfit: a pair of designer jeans matched with some Boho Chic flouncy white top, and I'm betting that's a Louis Vuitton handbag dangling from her skinny arm.
'Can you spare me a few minutes?' The perfectly made-up face gives me a smile.
Can I? Should I?
'I … er … '
I watch in disbelief as without waiting for an answer, she draws out the spare chair, lowers herself gracefully, positions her ridiculously expensive handbag on the floor and eyes up my plate.
'What on Earth are you eating?'
'Fish finger sandwiches.'
'Oooh.' She purses her lips. 'Don't let me stop you.'
'You won't.'
And how dare you look down your nose at my completely adequate evening meal, I'd like to add. I bet you've never once touched a fish finger sandwich in your charmed little life … maybe a caviar sandwich at a push.
'You've been painting.'
'How do you know?'
'Paint in your hair. Dan said you're a messy pup. He's not wrong.'
'Why are you here?'
She scans the table top, taking in the bottle of ketchup, the cheap wine, the spare glass.
'May I?'
She points at the bottle. I nod.
'Clive told me what happened.' She pours herself a glassful of our local supermarket's finest plonk. 'I must say, I was shocked Dan hadn't told you the truth. I went over to see him this afternoon.'
'Good for you.' I'm bristling now, premium blue ribbon bristling. If he thinks he can send in his friends to smooth the way, then he's got another think coming. 'And I suppose he's asked you to talk to me.'
She takes a sip of wine. Leaving a print of deep red lipstick around the rim of the glass, she swallows, recoils.
'He doesn't know I'm here. And if he did, he'd go mad.' Another uncertain sip. She pulls an I-think-I've-just-swallowed-drain-cleaner type of face, and places the glass back on the table. 'He doesn't like people meddling.'
'Well, don't meddle then. How did you find out where I live?'
I pick up a sandwich, take a huge bite and set about chewing my way through a mouthful of overcooked fish.
'Clive.'
She stares at me, focussing on my mouth, and I begin to feel uneasy. Shit. She's currently into women. Please don't tell me she's moving in on me.
'You don't like me, do you, Maya?'
I swallow a lump of bread. 'No,' I admit. 'Not really.'
'And why's that?'
I hazard a guess. 'Women's intuition?'
'I hope you don't mind me saying this, but I think your women's intuition might be malfunctioning.'
'It's in perfect working order, thank you.'
'But you've got me all wrong.' She holds me with her gaze. 'Gut reaction isn't always the right way to go.'
Okay, so she might have a point. After all, the first time I ever laid eyes on the woman, I jumped to the massively wrong conclusion that she was a madam, or a kinky dominatrix, or both.
'You were jealous of me.' A smile creeps across her crimson lips. 'When we last met, I could smell it. Jealousy.'
'Why would I be jealous of you?'
'Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's because you thought I was fucking Dan.'
'Don't be ridiculous.'
I shrug, feigning indifference, and take another bite of my sandwich, but the truth is she's got it right. When I first saw her in Dan's office, the green-eyed monster went on the rampage. But who could blame me?
'Go on, Maya.'
'Go on what?'
'Ask the question.'
'What question?'
'You know. The one you want to ask.' She leans forwards, her tiny breasts forming the slightest hint of a cleavage. 'You want to know if I've ever fucked him.'
My mouth opens. I clamp it shut again, just in time to prevent a lump of fish from falling onto the table. What the hell is she playing at now?
'Have you?' I whisper.
And what the hell is my brain playing at? That shouldn't have happened. I've opted for the whole nonchalant bitch routine, and that was definitely the wrong way to go about it.
She watches me a little, and then she answers.
'Yes.'
And that does it. My face launches into chaos. Mouth. Eyes. Eyebrows. They're all over the place.
'But … '
'Ha! You didn't expect that, did you?' She waves a finger, triumphantly.
No, I certainly didn't. And now I'm wondering why she felt the need to land this on my plate. After all, it's of no concern to me: I'm done with the man.
'We were sixteen,' she explains, obviously determined to give me the details. 'I popped his cherry. We might as well get it all out into the open.' She picks up the glass again, slugs back the remainder of the wine and cringes. 'One time only. Drunk as a skunk at a party. Teenage fumbling. Very embarrassing. We never bothered again.' She slips the glass back onto the table. 'Now,' she goes on, 'the very fact that you needed to know tells me a lot.'
'Does it?'
'Oh yes. And your reaction just told me a whole lot more.'
'Really?'
She laughs. 'Really. It tells me that you're still jealous. You're not finished with him, are you? Not by a long stretch.'
Picking up the bottle, she pours another glass of wine.
'And you're deluded.' I put down my sandwich. Suddenly, I'm not hungry any more. 'Like I said, it's over.'
'I don't think so.'
I examine her for a while, this woman who looks for all the world like a high class prostitute.
'Why are you so keen for us to get back together?' I demand.
Her eyes gleam.
'Because he's changed, and I like it. I like the new Dan. He's more like the old Dan I used to know.'
The old Dan? I thought he'd been an arrogant, womanising shit for most of his life. I'm looking confused now. I'm pretty sure of it. And I'm absolutely certain that Lily's noticed. Her smile has widened.
'You know, when he first appeared in my world, he was only twelve,' she explains. 'A lovely boy. Very sweet, very kind … a little lost.' She points at the second sandwich. 'May I?'
'Go ahead.'
Picking up the sandwich, she turns it in her hands, narrowing her eyes at a blob of ketchup as it oozes from the side. At last, she seems to make a decision, possibly to take her life into her own hands, and takes a dainty bite. Rolling her perfectly oval eyes, she chews.
'Mmm. This is really good. Where did you get the fish?'
'Local supermarket. Freezer aisle.'
She chews some more, probably for a good minute or so before she finally swallows. No wonder she looks like a stick insect, eating like that. It must take at least three hours to down a regular meal.
'Aren't you going to say any more?' I demand.
'Do you want to know more?'
I'm fighting the urge and not doing a very good job of it. I nod, meekly, and still holding the sandwich, she begins her story.
'My parents knew John and Lydia Foster. When I was younger, we were always at their house. Clive's family too. That's where we all met.' The blob of ketchup falls from the sandwich onto the table top. 'Dan wouldn't say boo to a goose to begin with, but I liked him. We used to play in the orchard, climb trees, go exploring in the fields, that sort of thing.' She leans forwards, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. 'His first kiss.' She puckers her lips and grins mischievously. 'He started at the same school as me and Clive. They hit it off straight away. Thick as thieves.' She takes another tiny mouthful of the sandwich, swallowing quickly before she proceeds. 'The older Dan got, the better looking he became, but he never seemed to understand that. By the time we were in sixth form, he was already a stunner.'