Monday 13 April, 2020

That night, I raised an eyebrow when Tom yawned and said he needed to hit the sack. He held out his hand as he stood up. "D'you want to come too? Same deal, though. Nothing X-rated."

"Okay then. But only if you let me tidy that room up."

Upstairs, he rolled his eyes when I entered the room armed with full cleaning arsenal—an extendable feather duster, cloths, polish and a bottle of bleach.

"There," he pointed to the corner of the ceiling. "You've missed a spider's web." When I jumped up in alarm, extended duster at the ready, he burst out laughing.

Room finally at an acceptable standard, he stuck his arm out and I scooted under it.

"What are you most looking forward to doing when this is all over?" he asked, warm breath close enough to tickle my ear.

"A meal in a restaurant," I said. "Not somewhere fancy. One of those crowded places like Yo Sushi where you're squashed up close to people and grabbing food off a conveyer belt. You?"

"A football match. Hey, what about if I take you? I bet you've never been to one, posh girl."

He was wrong. Years ago, I'd been to the Emirates Stadium. One of the corporate boxes where companies or individuals pay thousands for a private room, bar, catering and a bird's-eye view of the game. This particular individual, showing off in front of his Saudi Arabian mates, paid for another added extra too.

"I'd like that," I said, banishing the memory and everything else it conjured up, taking pleasure instead from Tom's inclusion of me in his future. The two of us wrapped in green and white scarves, his arm around my shoulder as he explained the mysteries of the offside rule "But it would have to be the full experience."

Match days, Tom had told me, were ritualistic. Because of his postal shifts, he wasn't a season ticket holder. As he often worked on Saturdays, he'd miss too many games to make it worthwhile. But when he did go, he and his mates met at the same pub on Ashton Lane beforehand, where they drank pints of Guinness and ate curries.

"Lamb bhuna for me. Tarka dhal for Liam and chicken korma for Arthur. Two lots of fried rice. A large naan bread between the three of us. Poppadoms and spiced onions."

"What, the same dishes every time?"

"Oh yes. If we don't, our team might lose. Then we get on the underground and go to Celtic Park. Shout our heads off, sing dodgy songs and back to the pub if the team wins to celebrate. Drown our sorrows if we lose."

"Fine," I said, "but I'll skip the Guinness bit."

"You can't. If you don't drink it, we might lose."

And who says women are illogical?

But later when he drifted off once more, other images intruded on the vivid picture of Tom and I at Celtic Park. Older men—one in particular, who leered and spoke in disparaging terms.

Football? We're not here for the football, are we? If I hire a private box, I can do whatever I want.

How would I be able to stand next to Tom at a football match and not remember that experience? Worse, would being in a ground surrounded by cheering fans and the roar of a crowd every time their team scored compel me to blurt out the truth?

"But that's... that's awful!" imaginary Tom said, stepping back and holding out his hands, face dismayed.

I couldn't possibly tell him.

Friday, 17 April, 2020

Back at work the following week, even the five-way conference call with management and the unions on the Friday, where the latter demanded answers about what the university was doing to ensure its essential workers safety, didn't dent my happiness.

The Sophie/Tom sleeping not actually sleeping together was our new norm. We'd crawl into bed at the end of the day. He'd stick an arm out and I would scoot under it. We talked—those conversations that bit more precious because they took place in darkness, silence all around us.

Tom's childhood. Mine. The teenage years. Safe subjects.

After that blip post the football conversation where I'd spent the night tossing and turning next to Tom, the new bedtime arrangement worked wonders on my sleep patterns. Perhaps it was osmosis. Lying next to someone who dropped off so lightning-fast made me do so too. I still woke up every morning just before his alarm went off, but seeing as I'd had to drop the 'I woke up looking like this' pretence, now I listened to Tom getting ready for work, enjoying the familiarity of it.

Pee, toothbrushing, the shower turned on and the clouds of steam that escaped when he opened the door. Wet hair, white towel tied neatly around his waist. Me, sighing in exaggeration, as I turned over to allow him to dress without me peeking.

What were we, the union rep, demanded now doing to protect the lab staff, whose jobs were classified as essential because they looked after animals? Where was the personal protective equipment? Why had the hand sanitiser supplies run out? All those researchers on temporary contracts—what was the university doing to secure jobs?

"Sophie?"

My line manager. I must have drifted off, too entranced by the image of Tom in that white towel imagining his tugging the knot undone.

"We've a meeting scheduled with PPE suppliers next week," I said to the union rep, who glared at me through the screen, "and will be able to sort out equipment then."

I spent the rest of the day dealing with the emails the union rep fired off, having to go through all of her bullet points one by one, trying not to say anything inflammatory and crossing my fingers nothing I wrote would lead to the university being sued.

By the time the evening arrived, my shoulders needed ungluing from where they'd stuck up around my ears and my neck had taken on a permanent ache thanks to the hours I'd spent hunched over the screen.

I switched off my computer and headed downstairs, following my nose to the kitchen. After the time I'd erupted about the mess Tom made when he cooked, he'd made more of an effort to tidy up as he went along.

Nothing close to my exacting standards, but I also made more of an effort not to mind. And the sight of him cooking in my kitchen never failed to cheer me. The rightness of it. Today, he wore a T-shirt, the faded slogan saying, Spread Hummus Not Hate, and a pair of old jeans. Bare feet, hair reaching that stage of too long, thanks to the barber shops all being shut. I liked it—the way the locks touched his collar and the glossy darkness, him being too young for greyness.

His beauty never ceased to astound me.

"Garlic, wine, mushrooms?" I asked, and he nodded, glancing up from the saucepan he stirred with a wooden spoon.

"Want to taste this?"

He held up a spoon, hovering it in front of my face. Risotto—rich, creamy and bound to be stuffed with calories. I kept telling myself all that unrequited lust must torch through the fat.

But the mouthful took me back years ago. Mum and I, sitting across from each other in the city's most expensive Italian restaurant, two bowls of risotto and a chilled bottle of white wine served in those bowl-like glasses. Her agreeing to the waiter's offer of black pepper, which he dispensed onto the dishes from one of those ridiculously huge grinders.

My eyes glassed over.

"Hey," Tom peered at me. "Is me cooking that terrible tonight?"

I brushed my eyes. "No, it's fantastic. It reminded me of something. A risotto I had once when I was with my mother. A Michelin-starred restaurant too, which says a lot about your cooking abilities."

He shook his head, but I saw the pleasure my compliment gave him. His face turned serious.

"Sophie, I hope you don't mind me saying this, but d'you think you should see a counsellor about your mam? Grief is awful, but it seems to be such a big ting for you."

I swallowed hard. The words touched too many nerves, and I gulped back yet another onslaught of hysteria.

"I'm sorry, sorry!" He pulled me to him. "What do I know? I just wondered if that might be an idea."

Confession time. "I, er, already talk to someone. Have been for a while. I guess it's taking me longer than most to get over it."

Not least because of what I suspected had led to my mother's death. And that flashback of memory linked back to everything. I hadn't eaten risotto since that fateful lunch I'd shared with my mother just after my 30th birthday.

"That's good," he said. "Take your own time. Do you want some wine? Me mate Liam has suggested another pub quiz. Are you up for that?"

I nodded, relieved when he said nothing further about counselling. But at the beginning of the week, I'd promised myself I would pick up the phone, ring Arlene and ask her advice about Richard. Still not done.

Monday. For sure.

AUTHOR'S NOTE - sorry if you've already read this story and got a notification about a new part. I've been revising the book and have moved chapters/scenes around. (My head's burstin' with it...) So this isn't a new part if you've already completed the story - just a rehash and reordering of what I've done before.