There is no loyalty in offices, thought Issy crossly.

‘So why are you calling me now then?’ she asked.

Graeme’s voice went soft.

‘Well, I just wanted to see how you were. What, you think I’m a complete bastard?’

Was it possible? Issy wondered. Was it possible that she had got it wrong? After all, she had stormed out of his office, shouting. Maybe she wasn’t the only injured party here. Maybe he’d been as shocked and upset as she was. Maybe it had taken quite a lot of guts for him to make this phone call. Maybe he wasn’t the arse; maybe he was still – you know – the one.

‘Well …’ she said. Just at that moment, Helena marched into her room without knocking. She was carrying a hastily erected sign, scrawled on the back of a council tax reminder. In big black letters was written ‘NO!’

Helena punched her fists in the air like they were at a demonstration, mouthing, ‘No! No! No!’ very ferociously in her direction. Issy tried to wave her away, but she just advanced even more. Helena was reaching out a hand to grab the phone.

‘Shoo!’ said Issy. ‘Shoo!’

‘What’s that?’ said Graeme.

‘Oh, it’s just my flatmate,’ said Issy. ‘Sorry.’

‘What, the large one?’

Unfortunately Graeme’s carrying voice came right over the phone.

‘Right!’ said Helena, and made a lunge for the telephone.

‘No!’ shrieked Issy. ‘It’s fine. I’m fine. I don’t need saving, OK. But we do need to talk. So would you mind pissing off for five minutes and giving us some privacy?’

She stared hard at Helena until she retreated back to the sitting room.

‘Sorry about that,’ Issy said finally to Graeme. But he sounded much perkier.

‘Are we fine? We’re fine,’ he said, sounding relieved. ‘Oh good. That’s great.’ There was a pause. ‘Want to come over?’

‘No!’ said Issy.

‘You’re not going,’ said Helena, standing in the doorway with her arms folded, and giving Issy the look she gave drunks who turned up at 1.30am bleeding from the head on a Saturday night. ‘You’re not.’

‘It was a misunderstanding,’ said Issy. ‘He’s been feeling terrible too.’

‘So terrible he lost his phone for weeks and weeks,’ said Helena. ‘Issy, please. You’re making a clean break.’

‘But Helena,’ said Issy, fired up. She had necked the glass of champagne as soon as she’d come off the phone, and felt a warm glow through her whole body. He had called! He had called!

‘He’s … I mean … I mean, I really think Graeme might be the one.’

‘No. He’s the boss you had a crush on and you’re nearly thirty-two and in a panic.’

‘That … that’s not it,’ said Issy, trying to get her point over. ‘It’s not. You’re not there, Helena.’

‘No, I’m not,’ said Helena. ‘I’m back here, nursing you through tearful nights or mopping you up when he’s let you walk home in the rain again, or accompanying you to parties as your plus one because he doesn’t want to be seen out and about with you.’

‘Well, that was because of the office,’ said Issy.

‘Let’s see, shall we?’

‘I’m sure it’ll be different now.’

Helena gave her one of her looks.

‘Well,’ said Issy defiantly, ‘I’m at least going to find out.’

‘I’m so glad he didn’t even have to leave the comfort of his own living room,’ said Helena to the empty space after Issy had gone. Then she sighed. No one ever listened to good advice.

Graeme had a bottle of champagne open too. His flat was, as ever, spotless and minimalist, a huge contrast to Issy’s colourful, overloaded home. It was quiet and calm. Robin Thicke was playing on the expensive sound system, which Issy thought might be overdoing it a bit. On the other hand, she was wearing her best soft woollen grey dress and heels. And her Agent Provocateur perfume.

‘Hey,’ he said, as he opened the door – he lived in a rather smart new-build, with carpeted corridors and flowers in the lobby. He was wearing a fresh white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, with very dark stubble on his fine jaw. He looked tired, a little stressed – and utterly, utterly handsome and gorgeous. Issy couldn’t help it. Her insides leapt for joy.

‘Hey,’ she said.

‘Thanks … thanks so much for coming over.’

She looked nice, Graeme was thinking. Not hot, like those nightclub girls, with their skirts up to their bums and their great manes of long blonde hair. They looked sexy, really hot … but sometimes, if he was to be totally honest with himself … sometimes they could look a bit terrifying. Issy on the other hand – she just looked nice. Comfortable. Pleasant to be with.

Issy knew she should have played it cool, planned for a lunch a few days away, given herself breathing space.

But she wasn’t cool. She knew that. He knew that. There was no point beating about the bush any longer. Either he was in or he wasn’t, and she didn’t have months of pussyfooting about to figure out which.

He kissed her lightly on the cheek, and she smelled Fahrenheit, her favourite aftershave. He knew it was her favourite; he was wearing it for her.

She accepted a glass and sat down, perching on his imitation Le Corbusier black leather chair. It was like the first time she’d ever been back here; the mixture of fear and excitement; of being alone in this sleek apartment with this sensual, attractive man she fancied so much she could barely think straight.

‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘It’s funny not to be looking at you from over a desk.’

‘Yes. Losing the frisson?’ said Issy, then wished she hadn’t. This wasn’t the time for flippant remarks.

‘I have missed you, you know,’ said Graeme, looking directly at her from under his straight black brows. ‘I know … I think … maybe I took you for granted.’

They both knew this was an understatement.

‘You took me for granted,’ said Issy. ‘No maybe about it.’

‘OK, OK,’ said Graeme. He put his hand on her arm. ‘I’m sorry, OK?’

Issy shrugged. ‘Whatever.’