Fiction

If he met her, I know he’d find her charming. Doesn’t everyone? But I won’t taunt myself with doomsday prophecies. I won’t let her gate-crash my dirty weekend.

She called as I was turning the corner of Churn Lane. I put up my hood, put my back to the wind, to save her from asking me to repeat myself. What are you up to?

It’s three in the afternoon, and the flight from Hong Kong has not been kind.

Tom went in first. I followed and put down my suitcase. My hand was shaking. I waited for him to speak. ‘Nice room,’ he said. I thought, And does it remind you of anywhere, Tom? He threw his coat on a chair, took off his shoes, and flung himself on the bed. ‘Good bed.’

Twitter Envelope On the northeast end of the island, on top of a cliff, there’s an orchard that has no right to be there. Maybe no one told those olive trees that they can’t grow on rock, or maybe they did, and the trees ignored them anyway, and went ahead and carved their roots in…

“Line up your chipolatas on the grill pan,” bright green trousers, used to be a chef in the army, says, barking at us like we’re all dogs and he’s the alpha. Fuck me, did I know I’d be faced with this twat when I agreed to come along to the cookery class with Tony, as…

Cape Town, 1982 Nobody had liked her uncle’s wife. Not her kind-hearted granny – who for reasons unknown, didn’t trust her. Nor her sanctimonious aunts and their drunken husbands – who she suspected were jealous of the pretty woman, nor her stern, bible-reading grandfather – who often commented on the woman’s lack of church attendance.

“Nice garden, Charlie.” He’s sitting on the bench, nestled amid magnificent summer borders, secluded and peaceful, strategically placed for reflection. It was barely dawn, the smell of Turkish tobacco wafting through my window had broken a fitful sleep, transporting me back, up the A23, from East Sussex to the smoke. Soho to be precise. “Pucker…

Lottie opens the door, her eyes sleepy. She’s smoked a joint already. Maybe they all have, maybe several. The conversation will be warm and slow, and my voice will sound too loud, exaggerated, my mouth taking up my whole face. My lips twitch as I smile.  I’m late, I say.

I wait in the passenger seat for Dad to start the engine. The window is cool against my forehead as I lean into the glass, watching Mum on the doorstep, stifling tears. Dad wouldn’t stop groaning about his back as he loaded my stuff into the boot, but I know it’s just his way of…