Holly’s mum’s home is a poky, crumbling town house in Southwark. Paint peels everywhere and pictures lean on walls, unhung, but it feels friendly. Just a little tired.
Streams of children are darting in and out of the front door when we arrive. Feel slightly overwhelmed. I’m still processing last night, still buzzing with adrenaline from the altercation with Justin. We reported the incident to the police, but I want to do more. She should get a restraining order. Can’t suggest it, though. Her choice. I’m helpless.
We step inside the house. There are many party hats and a few crying babies, possibly baited into tears by boisterous eight-year-olds.
Me: Can you see Holly?
Tiffy stands on one tiptoe (her good foot).
Tiffy: Is that her? In the Star Wars outfit?
Me: Star Trek. And no. Maybe over there by the kitchen?
Tiffy: Pretty sure that’s a boy. Did you tell me this was fancy dress?
Me: You read the invite too!
Tiffy ignores this, picks up abandoned cowboy hat and plants it on my head.
I turn to the hall mirror to admire the effect. The hat perches on top of my hair precariously. Pull it off and put it on Tiffy instead. Much better. A sort of sexy cowgirl thing. Very clichéd, of course, but sexy nonetheless.
Tiffy checks her reflection and yanks the hat down further.
Tiffy: Fine. You’re a wizard then.
She pulls a moon-covered cape off the back of a chair and reaches up to drape it over my shoulders, fixing it with a bow at my throat. Just the feel of her fingers makes me think of last night. It’s a highly inappropriate location for these sorts of thoughts, so I try to ward them off, but she is not helping. She trails her hands down my chest in a gesture familiar from time on sofa.
Grab her hand.
Me: Can’t be doing that.
Tiffy quirks an eyebrow, mischievous.
Tiffy: Doing what?
At least if she’s planning on torturing me in this fashion it must mean she’s feeling a little better.
*
Eventually locate Holly sitting on stairs and realise why she was so hard to spot. She looks completely transformed. Bright eyes. Hair thicker and healthier, falling forward to be blown back impatiently as she talks. She’s actually looking a little chubby.
Holly: LEON!
She skids downstairs then stops short at bottom. She’s dressed as Elsa from Frozen, much like every girl hosting a birthday party in the Western hemisphere since 2013. She’s a little old for it, but then, she missed out on most of her time being little, so.
Holly: Where’s Tiffy?
Me: She’s here too. She’s just gone to the bathroom.
Holly looks placated. Links her arm through mine and drags me off to the living room to try and feed me small sausage rolls that have been fingered by many unclean children.
Holly: Are you dating Tiffy yet?
I stare down at her, plastic cup of tropical juice halfway to mouth.
Holly does her classic eye roll, thus convincing me that she is still the same person, not chubbier lookalike.
Holly: Come on. You two are Meant to Be!
I look around nervously, hoping Tiffy is not within hearing. But I’m smiling too, it seems. Think fleetingly of my reaction to similar comments made about me and Kay – generally was the sort of response that made Kay call me a commitment-phobe. Admittedly those comments rarely came from the mouth of a small, precocious child wearing a fake plait around her neck (guess it fell off her head a while ago).
Me: As it happens . . .
Holly: Yes! I knew it! Have you told her you love her?
Holly: Not if you’ve been in love with her for ages.
Pause.
Holly: Which you have. By the way.
Me, gently: I’m not sure about that, Holly. We’ve been friends.
Holly: Friends who love each other.
Me: Holly—
Holly: Well, have you told her you like her?
Me: She definitely knows.
Holly narrows eyes.
Holly: Does she, Leon?
I feel slightly discomposed. Yes? She does? The kissing is a clear clue, no?
Holly: You’re terrible at telling people how you really feel about them. You hardly ever told me how you liked me better than all the other patients. But I know you did.
She stretches out her hands, like case in point. I try not to grin.
Me: Well, I’ll make sure she knows.
Holly: It doesn’t matter. I’ll tell her anyway.
And she’s off, darting through the crowd. Shit.
Me: Holly! Holly! Don’t say any—
I eventually find them together in the kitchen. Burst in at the end of what is clearly an intervention on Holly’s part. Tiffy is leaning down to hear her, smiling, hair shining red-gold under the over-bright kitchen lights.
Holly: I just want you to know he’s nice, and you’re nice.
She stands on tiptoe, and adds, in a stage whisper:
Holly: So that means there isn’t a doormat.
Tiffy looks up at me, enquiring.
Press lips together as something warm and melting settles in my chest. I step in and pull Tiffy towards me, reaching over to ruffle Holly’s hair. Weird, clairvoyant child.
