“Is it possible?”

“The police don’t think so. They reckon it could have been a hit-and-run and the driver took the body as a cover-up. Either that or someone else took her. But as far as they’re concerned it’s not Cox. A whole bunch of people have sworn he was with them. The problem is, Mum just won’t accept that. If she keeps on harassing him they could put her inside.”

“Your poor mum.”

“It’s driven her mad. I don’t mean mad, that’s unfair. I mean she carries this quiet suffering with her all the time. She hides it, though.” Willa briefly chewed on her lip, staring vacantly, somewhere far off. Then, slowly, she added, “She’s always been good at hiding things, Mum.” She turned to look at me. “I’d love for you to meet her. You’d like her, really, she’s lovely. She’s kind, thoughtful, decent. She’s funny too, even now, after everything. She loves cooking and gardening and the X-Files and Jilly Cooper, and, okay, get this—she’s a massive George Michael fan. What I mean is, she’s normal. But after Laika went missing, the press made her look completely deranged. Which is hardly surprising, given the sorts of headlines the tabloids were printing: psychic says jungle-loving laika killed by jaguar in paraguay. Remember that one? It’s cruel, that’s what it is. They just made things up.”

“Your poor, poor mum.”

“Even now they do it, the tabloids, I mean. Laika was on the cover of the Mail last week. It’s like a bone they keep picking, a useful fallback for a slow news day. And it’s not like it’s proper investigative journalism or they’re doing anything that’s actually going to find her; it’s just repackaging her story again and again in different ways, feeding the public’s appetite for sensation. None of it helps.”

I paused. “And what about you? How are you doing?”

“Me?” She opened her mouth, then shut it again. I waited. Eventually, she dropped her voice. “I still think I see her sometimes. I’m always doing double takes, but it’s never, ever her. And then I dream about her too—dreams where I see her and I know it’s her but I never can get to her.” She shakes her head. “And it’s awful because it’s like I’m the one who’s the problem, not her, because I’m the one who can’t move or speak.” She put a hand on my arm. “But also that means she’s alive, Rob, I know it. She’s somewhere. It’s just that I can’t reach her.”

A group of pigeons startled and rose chaotically into the deep blue of the sky as the man sitting across from us approached our bench, his eyes still fixed on my friend. We both looked up, and Willa promptly set her own face into a friendly, expectant look. Looking directly at her, he said,

“Do you want to watch me wank off?”

“Thank you,” Willa said, “but I honestly can’t think of anything worse.”

***

“You okay?” I said as we walked toward the tube, so close our shoulders brushed.

“I’m fine,” Willa said. “Poor man. He’s obviously not well. You never know what’s going on in another person’s life, do you? We should probably tell someone, though. There’s kids about, and anyway he needs help.” We walked a few more paces. “Though on the subject of odd sexual practices, I had a date last night with a dentist, Greg. He seemed nice enough and we’d been out a few times, so, long story short, I ended up going home with him. Well, everything was going okay, I thought, but then he burst into tears the moment he came. Wept for a good ten minutes. Completely inconsolable.” She stopped walking and turned to face me, her expression somewhere between baffled and amused. “I mean, is that normal?”

I blinked. “Wow,” I said, “I honestly wouldn’t know.” I grinned. “Though you are very lovely. It was probably that.”

“Though, now I think about it, he also thought the Booker Prize was something to do with gambling. I don’t think I’ll be seeing him again.”

At the entrance to Great Portland Street tube, Willa hugged me close.

“I feel bad,” she said, “like we’ve only spoken about me. Can we do this again? I really, really want to see more of you.”

“Me too,” I said.

“And will you do something for me?”

“Of course.”

“I want you to meet my mum. I want you to see what she’s really like, that she’s not the total fruitcake the media made out. Promise me, Rob. It would mean so much.”

“Sure—”

“Come and stay for the weekend, then. We’ll make a date.”

She reached into her bag for her travel pass. She kissed me on the cheek and I felt my face pulling into a strange smile. Then she was gone, and I hadn’t told her about Cat.

But she’d told me about Greg. As I walked away from the underground, I folded my arms around my chest. Over my ribs. Above my battered, broken heart.

***

We next met in a bar near St. Paul’s. I came straight from work and was a bit late, aware the smell of the ward was probably still clinging to my skin. I spotted Willa at the bar, talking to a woman with long dark hair, and she looked so involved I almost didn’t want to pull her away. I stood by the entrance, looking at them there. Then I reminded myself not to be stupid. Willa wasn’t gay. She’d told me that herself. She didn’t like girls. And I had news too, I knew that. A promise to keep: something I had to be honest about. Something she had to know.

“I’ve met someone,” I said, the moment we sat down, “actually we’re moving in together. We’re going to see some possible flats this weekend.” I grinned wildly in her direction. Willa grinned back.

“That’s wonderful,” she said. “You look unbelievably happy. Your eyes—”

“She’s lovely,” I said. “I can’t wait for you to meet her.”

“Oh,” she said.

“What?”

She paused. “I hadn’t realized you meant a girl.”

I laughed and pushed her arm, Come on. I mean, honestly. It was always going to be a girl. “As soon as we’ve found a place, you’ll have to come over.”

***

The flat we found was in a tower block near Lewisham: reasonable transport links into Central London, big enough for the two of us, cheap enough to allow us to save. I told my mother the area was lively. I told my father it was liberal. I told my brother it was good enough for the time being.

And I kept my word, inviting Willa to come and meet Cat almost just as soon as we’d moved in. The August air was still warm at seven, and we’d thrown open all our windows. Laughter, shouting and snatches of music freewheeled into the flat from the street below, together with the heady scent of street food, mixed in with bus fumes and weed. In our kitchen, an area of the living room portioned off by a narrow worktop that doubled as our dining table, Cat was stirring a big pot of callaloo while I pretended to tidy the living space.

“Robyn?” Cat said, looking up. “You’ve been plumping those bloody cushions for about five minutes. Are you—”

“Door,” I said, “hang on.”

And then there was Willa, standing on our little welcome mat, holding a small plant in both hands and blinking rapidly.

“I’m here,” she said, her voice containing a small note of panic; then, in a whisper as the words Just fuck off bounced up the concrete stairwell from the floor below, she added, “I don’t think they mean me.”

I ushered her inside, and there was a moment when time seemed almost to stop. Cat walked forward. Here was Cat, this brilliant, amazing woman whom I loved, I really did. And here was Willa, whose presence filled me with such complicated feelings I didn’t know how to turn them into words. And here they both were, in the same room, at the same time. As planned. For some baffling reason I’d engineered this, and now it was happening.

“Willa,” I said, “this is Cat. Cat is—” I stopped. They both looked at me. “Making us her grandmother’s totally amazing saltfish patties for supper. And, Cat, this is Willa, who—” I stopped again, thinking I should really have thought through the introductions prior to Willa’s arrival at our place. Cat narrowed her eyes.

“Robyn, are you intentionally trying to make this as weird as possible?” To Willa she said, “It’s lovely to meet you.”

Willa laughed. She held the plant out to Cat.

“It’s a succulent,” she said, “apparently they’re almost impossible to kill.”

We showed her around the flat, our bedroom, the little bathroom and the very small second bedroom which now housed Cat’s drawing table, explaining how the lime-green and egg-yellow walls would be painted over just as soon as we found the time. Then we ate, and after, as the air finally began to cool, the three of us collapsed together on the brown corduroy sofa Cat and I had rescued from a skip.

I knew Cat felt odd about meeting Willa. She hadn’t come straight out and said anything directly, but I knew. Nonetheless, she did everything to make her feel welcome, even getting her laptop to show Willa the plans she was drawing up for her very first commission.

“It’s going to be the best toilet block ever,” I said.