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  “Right. What’s she like?”

  “He. Philip. Carl’s gay. I must have mentioned that a hundred times.”

  “Not to me, you haven’t.”

  “A hundred times, at least. It’s not my fault you don’t listen. Bad habit for a phone-in host. Carl, by the way, is a great listener. That’s partly why I went there, I suppose, though I never thought it through to that extent. Did you have the idea I’d gone down to make mad passionate love to him? On the rebound? Act of revenge?”

  “Wouldn’t have blamed you if you had.”

  “You would, actually, but let it be.”

  I’m like one of Pavlov’s dogs whenever I hear a song title or a lyric. By reflex I start singing, under my breath at first. “Let it be, let it be, let it be, yeah, let it be…”

  Dropping her guard again, Sam joins in, softly, “Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.” Like she used to. Then, strangely, we both get embarrassed about it and start taking unusual interest in what’s on our plates, as if we were on our first date, not practised in our relationship. I guess it’s because we’re both experiencing such a confusion of emotions. I’m so pleased to have Sam here with me again, but at the same time I’m ashamed of what I’ve done and I’m still waiting for her to start in on me – almost willing it. Sam is being unpredictable – so unlike herself – one minute edgy, the next smiling, even singing. It’s as if she wants us to be the way we were, but isn’t quite convinced we can be, or won’t allow it, as if some part of her feels she has a responsibility to stay mad at me. I’m wondering what made her decide to come back, so I force the issue and ask her.

  “Was it your friend Carl? Did he put a good word in?”

  “Carl’s not the type to give advice. Like I said, he’s a good listener. He’s not like most men – most people, actually – who can’t wait for you to shut up so they can tell you what’s good for you. He just listened to me rabbiting on, mostly about you. Starting off with what a lousy bastard you’ve been.”

  “Thanks. I mean, sorry.”

  Sam frowns, twists her mouth, maybe at the memory of my lousiness or at the understated apology, or both. She goes on.

  “One nice habit Carl has...” (I’m still hating this bloke; he’s making me look so bad by comparison.) “One thing he does is always ask about the good things. You know, he’ll say, tell me how you got together with Marc, what attracted the two of you to each other?”

  I’m thinking, nosy sod, but a minute later I’m mentally hugging old Carl because Sam is telling me how their talks reminded her of why she fell in love with me in the first place, and how she got from that to realising how much she was missing me. “There you are, she says, “That’s the plain truth of it. I came back because I was missing you. Feeling a bit sorry for you as well, actually. And you can take that silly grin off your face cos I can tell you now you don’t deserve it.”

  “I know.”

  “And last night I thought I’d made the second biggest mistake of my life.”

  “What was the first?”

  “I suppose, running away, and letting you get yourself into all sorts of mess. I couldn’t believe it when Chrissie phoned and she told me about the trouble at work and you getting suspended.”

  “A lot of that was about me missing you as well. I think I went downhill a bit.”

  “You can say that again. I was quite shocked when I came back and saw your picture in the paper.”

  “Wait till I’ve been to the hairdresser’s. You’ll see a new man.”

  “Getting the old one back will be a start for me,” says Sam. “If you expect...” She looks at me directly for the first time since we’d started talking about our month apart, apparently winding herself up to deliver a lecture, but she stops suddenly in mid-stream, shakes her head and says, in what I could only describe as a tone of resigned amusement, “You know, you really are a sight.”

  Yes, when I take a candid look at myself in the see-all-evil mirror at Devine’s, I have to agree. A month adrift from Sam’s tender loving care, plus the ravages of a poor diet, steady drinking, stress, fatigue and downright self-loathing have left their mark on Marc. My unkempt chestnut locks, uncut since before Christmas, unwashed for days, and whiskers unshaved since- not that I’d admit it to Sam - Marni’s first night in the studio, have left me an uneasy mix of tramp, pro-wrestling villain and Glastonbury veteran in the looks department. No wonder Meg Reece wanted rid of me - even by the casual standards of the creative industry I’m a deadbeat.

  “OK,” says Tristan from behind, touching me lightly on both shoulders and speaking to my reflection. “So it’s a wash, shave, trim and dye.”

  “Dye? Oh, dry. I thought for a second you said dye.”

  In the mirror I watch Tristan turn to Sam sitting in the corner of the salon. His body language is all question.

  “Yes,” she assures him. “We want it dyed. Could you do some sort of subtle blond? He’ll need his eyebrows tinted as well, won’t he?”

  “Definitely for the best,” Tristan agrees.

  “Hey, don’t I get a say in this?” I crane my neck around to look at Sam. What’s she playing at?

  “It’s for the best, trust me,” says Sam.

  “Do you mean the eyebrow tint, or the whole dye thing?”

  “The whole thing.” And she gives me one of her meaningful expressions, so meaningful that I spend the rest of my time in the chair trying to work out what it means, while Tristan merrily carries on with his mini-makeover.

  To be fair, he does quite a decent job. The unfamiliar face that stares back at me from the mirror when he’s finished might seem a bit anaemic, but it’s a definite improvement on the wino look. Pale and interesting. Sam must think so. As Tristan is waiting to help me on with my coat, she comes up close to smell my fragrance. “Mmm, nice, I could fancy you myself,” she says, and reaches up slightly to peck my newly-shaven cheek, thrilling me beyond reason with the merest brush of a breast against my shirt. The tingle goes to my scalp, adding emphasis to the strangeness there.

  As we’re walking from the hairdresser to retrieve the Audi from the hotel car park Sam allows me to hold her hand inside my coat pocket in our old way, which she hadn’t on the way there, still slightly edgy then.

  “Not ashamed to be with me now, eh?”

  “That’s it.” She squeezes my hand and walks close enough to breathe me in. “Well, now you’ll look nice and smart for your meeting on Thursday.”

  This throws me. “How do you know about my meeting on Thursday?”

  “How do you know about your meeting on Thursday? I was just going to tell you about it. Meg Reece called the flat. She wants you to go in and discuss coming back to work.”

  “Really? Left it a bit late, hasn’t she? I bet she got a surprise to hear your voice on the phone.”

  “Not really. She knew I was back.”

  “How come?”

  “Cos I called in on Friday to chat with Debbie. Bumped into a few others on the way, including Meg, as it happens.”

  “Hmm, well, far as I’m concerned Meg Reece can go and...” I kill the fuck herself on my lips. Trying to clean my act up around Sam. “Bottom line, I’m not meeting her, and I’m not going back.”

  Sam looks at me sideways. “And what would you intend to do instead?”

  “Get another job, obviously.”

  “In radio?”

  “That’s what I do.”

  “And how often do those jobs come up?”

  “Well...”

  “Could you see yourself doing something else?”

  “Not really.”

  “So why are you being so stubborn? Nobody asking you to crawl to Meg. All you have to do is go along and see what she’s got to say. You never know, if they’re keen enough to have you back you might be able to negotiate a better deal. You’d like to get the drop on them in that way, wouldn’t you?”

  I reach across to rub Sam’s sleeve with my free hand. “You know, for a well brought-up girl
you have a touch of Miss Devious in you.” She looks ahead with a ‘who-me?’ innocence on her face. “What time is the meeting?” I ask.

  “Twelve. Anyway, I thought you said you knew about it.”

  “No. I was thinking about something else. I’ve arranged to see the mysterious Amina on Thursday afternoon.”

  “The Valentine woman?”

  “The same. Oh, did you get mine?”

  “Your what?”

  “Valentine card. Well, email, actually.”

  The Premier Inn sign is glowing with promise on the other side of the road as we cross at the lights. I’m praying my car hasn’t been clamped to spoil a perfect day.

  “Oh, that was from you, was it?” says Sam. “I thought I had a secret admirer.” (I love it that she’s joshing me like this – she’s bringing me back in to her.) “No, well, I only started checking my emails again last week, so I read it a bit late I’m afraid. I was glad to get it, though, thanks. It made a difference. Sorry I didn’t send you one, I’ll make it up to you.” (Will you? Oh, please, please do.)

  The TT has escaped clamping over the four hours or more I’ve been an ex-guest of the hotel. Sam, though, is starting to look anxious again as we climb into our seats. I wonder if she’s making the assumption that the car is where I did it with Anji. Then I’m thinking, is she concerned about going back to the flat with me? About making a definite commitment to restarting the relationship, maybe only to be let down again later?

  “They’ll know the car, won’t they?” she says, out of the blue.

  “Who?”

  “The guys who chased you and Edona. She told me they’re really dangerous.”

  “Everything is danger now.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Nothing. Just what Edona said when I asked her if she was ready to try escaping. She’s been through much more than I’ve risked for her. I can live with that.”

  “Yeah, but you’ve done your bit,” says Sam. “I’m petrified one of those thugs is going to recognise you on the street, come up and shoot you in the back of the head.”

  It finally clicks why Sam had been so keen for me to get my hair dyed. And why she seemed so nervous on our way to the salon. Her concern makes me fall in love with her for about the third time today. I reach across to touch her, run the back of my fingers over her cheek and down under her taut chin to the soft yielding under her throat.

  “Don’t worry, they’re like vampires, they only come out at night. I’ll stay well away from their hiding-places, promise.” Even as I say it I have the image of Stefan going in to Tesco for a paper, like any ordinary Joe. Emmanuel buying leather gloves. I will have to be careful, for a few days at least. Sam, facing forward, lifts her hand to close over mine. I’m finding it really hard to interpret her movements since she came back – is this affection? anxiety? or is she saying, don’t touch me like this? Her eyes are ambiguous. To be on the safe side I slip my hand out of hers and concentrate on reversing out of the parking space.

  While I’m waiting to join the traffic at the main road Sam’s mobile rings (La Valse D'Amélie) and she fishes it out of her handbag to answer. I hear her cooing, “Well done you,” and “Twenty minutes, yeah?” before she puts the phone back in her bag and says to me, “OK if we go round to Chrissie’s? She’s been putting some feelers out. Seems the Poppy Project only deals with women over eighteen. But one of her old contacts in Children’s Services is coming round this afternoon.”

  Children’s Services. I feel my face go hot. “Is that wise at this stage?”

  “Nothing official. Off the record, sort of thing. Just to give us some advice, tell us the options.”

  Quite apart from my discomfort over Edona being a suitable client for Children’s Services, I’m really not sure about this development – the cack-handed meddlings of Social Services have been a regular topic on the Marc Niven phone-in over the years, as Sam knows only too well – but I’m certainly not going to put up any significant objections now, not after the way she and her sister have taken Edona under their wing. I take the next left and aim for Welbeck Grange.

  Embarrassment is piled on embarrassment by the time we’re sitting having tea with Chrissie. Even before she lets us in I’m reliving the furtive guilt of waiting on her doorstep New Year’s morning with the musk of Anji hanging on me. It’s the first time I’ve seen Chrissie since Sam walked out, and I’ve no idea how much she knows about why, but she can’t disguise a flicker of disdain in my direction even while she’s welcoming us both in. Fern, the social worker, has arrived and is already closeted with Edona in another room, no doubt pumping her for information. I find it difficult to contribute much to the conversation while we’re waiting for Fern to come and give us the lowdown on what to do – at the moment I feel more like a suspect than a Good Samaritan.

  I’m simultaneously lifted and disturbed by the sight of Edona peeping through from the dining room before she walks shyly in to join us. She’s wearing light blue jeans and (a further embarrassment to me in my confused mental state) an outmoded pink fcuk top that I reckon must have belonged to Chrissie’s daughter Lois circa 2005. With her slave-girl tart’s makeup cleaned off (replaced by a modest enhancement around the eyes) and a refreshed optimism in her demeanour, Edona, despite the suggestive message on her tee-shirt, does indeed look your typical attractive, artless, adolescent girl. I want to weep.

  Fern follows her through. She stops at the edge of the group, her eyes moving quickly from one to the other of us as if she’s constructing a sociogram before she touches Edona lightly on the elbow and draws her back, whispering in her ear. She’s a big woman - more trunk-like than fern-like - though, with her playground clothes and the incongruous bunches in her hair, she could be an am dram trouper aiming to convince in the role of Edona’s over-sized schoolfriend. Her off-stage whispering done, Fern releases Edona’s arm and negotiates around the back of the sofa towards the one empty armchair while Edona, with a gentle smile for us, leaves the lounge at the door nearest the stairs, presumably to go to the room Chrissie has prepared for her. Fern settles into the wide-bottomed seat and reveals herself as unmistakably Lancastrian when she says, “Any more brew on the go, love?"

  While Chrissie disappears to top up the teapot Fern introduces herself and addresses Sam with, “Not hard to spot who you are. You look right like her, ‘cept for fairer hair.”

  “Everybody says that. I can’t see it myself,” says Sam, smiling.

  “So you two are...?” Fern continues, waving a finger between us, still drawing her sociogram.

  “Partners,” I fill in. “We live together.” I glance at Sam and fancy she blushes a touch as I say it. “We used to work together as well,” I add, more to cover up any awkwardness than to arm Fern with more information than she needs.

  “Yeah, you’re on the radio, aren’t you? I think I was on your programme once, good while ago. Respect agenda.”

  “OK. Rings a bell.” (My usual response when mists-of-time callers and guests ask if I remember their fifteen seconds.)

  “Marc, isn’t it? I hear you’re the one that, let’s say, found Edona.” She’s getting down to business, inquisitorial.

  “He rescued her as well,” Sam puts in. Her turn to cover for me.

  “Tell me about it, Marc,” says Fern as Chrissie comes back with the teapot and a spare mug.

  I’m not sure I’m ready for this interrogation in front of all three women, but I’ll play her game for now. “Do you mean tell you about the rescue, or the whole thing?”

  “I’ve already heard the saving part of it from Edona. Dangerous and stupid, but very well done. No, I’m curious to know how you got involved in the first place. Thanks, Chris,” as she receives the mug and watches the weak tea pouring into it while she waits for me to compose an answer to the sixty four thousand dollar question. Sam is waiting as well. And her sister. What are my options here? I don’t have to answer her questions – I’m not on trial, even if it feels like it. On the other han
d, what is Sam going to think of me if I make it obvious I’m not going to cooperate when her sister’s gone to all this trouble? And at the end of the day it’s all for Edona’s benefit, supposedly. Anyway, I’m not under oath. I don’t have to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  “Mmm, I first saw her coming out of a lorry one night at Tesco’s car park. I think she was being used to return a favour, if you know what I mean, probably somebody involved in the trafficking business. The reason I noticed her is she tried to run away, only she got caught by the guys who ended up chasing us the other night. Anyway, I followed them....” So far I’ve been honest, but now a little economy with the truth won’t harm anybody. “Yeah, they took her to this house in Warkworth Street. I guessed it was some kind of brothel, and I realised she was there against her will, so that’s when I decided I was going to try and help her out somehow.”

  “Which you did by becoming a john?” says Fern, then adds a glossary for Sam and Chrissie. “That’s a client.”

  “Well, posing as a client, to see the lie of the land, so to speak.”

  “Edona told me you’d said you’d come to find her.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Why didn’t you just go to the police in the first place?”

  “Because I was afraid she’d get arrested and be treated as a criminal along with everyone else.”

  “Well, actually,” Fern pauses to take a sip of her tea, then looks around at the group, enjoying her role as the expert. “That does happen a lot. All the agencies are supposed to work in partnership now... Supposed to. Not everybody follows the protocols. Funny thing though, we always end up getting stick for it. Always Social Services’ fault, ‘twas ever thus.”