“Coming out for a drink?” said Tracey, who sat opposite her and had a mass of frivolous blonde curls. Bella knew she was thirty-two, married, and liked Robbie Williams. She was always pressing Bella to join her and the other admin clerks for an après work drink but Bella had resisted so far. It wasn’t that she didn’t like her co-workers – it was just she didn’t really like them much either. What, apart from their jobs, did they have in common? She didn’t want to tell them her history and she certainly didn’t want to talk about what had happened to her over the summer. The only person she really wanted to spend time with was Jake. She felt sometimes as if she were enclosed in a bubble, set apart from everyone else but her boyfriend, separated by a rucksack full of explosives.

“Sorry,” she said, smiling and trying to sound regretful. “I’m meeting my boyfriend for a drink.”

She popped to the Ladies and brushed her hair, slicked on lipstick, removed a fleck of mascara from the corner of her eyelid. It was hard to tell but she thought she’d gained a little weight. Certainly her face looked a bit less gaunt. Mum would be pleased, Bella thought, and felt a sudden rush of longing for her mother. I’ll call her later, she told herself.

She said goodnight to the porter at the reception desk of the building and made her way out through the revolving glass door. The streets were heaving with people, the roads snarling with traffic. Pigeons scuttered out of her way as she turned the corner, heading towards Dean Street. She waited at the kerb, watching as the number 55 bus passed her. For a moment she held herself rigid, sure she would see the vehicle’s side bulge out in a spray of jagged metal, the windows shattering, the passengers disintegrating in a splatter of blood and flesh. Then the bus was past her, whole, undamaged, and Bella tried not to shudder as she walked on across the road.

The pavement outside the pub was thronged with people, spilling from the doorways and onto the road. The sight of Jake lounging against one of walls of the pub cheered her. He caught sight of her and waved and she felt a jab of excitement hit her in the pit of her stomach. She slid through the crowd towards him, tipping her face up to him for a kiss. He wore aviator shades and for a moment she saw her own face reflected in each one, tiny and white, lips pursed and eyes eager.

“How was your day, sweetheart?”

“Dull. Incredibly dull. My workmates are all…”

“Dull?” said Jake, grinning.

“You got it.” Bella leaned to kiss him again, twining her fingers through his. He kissed her back briefly and then leant back against the wall. Bella watched him happily, loving the sight of him.

“I got you a drink,” he said and proffered it. She took it gratefully. He was so thoughtful. She pressed herself up against him, sliding her hand around his waist and down, to slip her fingers into the back pocket of jeans. For a moment, the crowd around them faded away – her consciousness narrowed itself to the warmth of his body and the twin black mirrors of his sunglasses.

"Mark! Over here mate – over here."

Jake was waving to someone over her shoulder. Bella turned, her fingers slipping out of Jake's pocket. A man was making his way towards them, wading through the throng of people on the pavement. Mark was tall, black and wore a smile that seemed to split his face in two. Bella felt her own mouth stretch wide, almost unconsciously. It was the first of Jake’s friends that she’d met and she tried to compose herself.

"Hi Jake, haven't seen you for ages. How's it going?"

"Good, good, man. Mark, this is Bella - Bella, Mark."

"Hello." Bella held out her hand, which was engulfed by a warm, firm palm.

"Bella, hello. Lovely to meet you."

For a moment he hovered. Jake gestured to the empty space beside them.

"Slot yourself in there, man. We’ve got this windowsill, at least."

"I'm not intruding?"

"Of course not. Come in here. How the fuck are you?"

Bella stood smiling uncertainly. She felt oddly bothered by Mark's - intrusion was too strong a word - Mark's presence. It can’t be because he’s black, she told herself, almost blushing at the thought. Come on, you’re in London now. She edged her hand out to take hold of her glass, trying to both efface herself and sneak a peek at this newcomer. With a small shock, she realised he was the man from the photograph pinned to Jake’s bedroom wall.

She was used to sitting silently when she was with Jake and Carl. The two of them would talk to each other and occasionally Jake would talk to her, but Carl acted as if she wasn't there, most of the time. It was almost a shock, therefore, for Mark to turn to her and begin to ask her questions; about her job, about what she thought of London, what she liked to do. She was shy at first; she worried a little about what she said, stuttering a little as she answered him. After a few more drinks, her tongue smoothed out and she began to enjoy herself.

Mark was dry and funny and made her laugh. It took a little while after his last quip for her giggles to subside and for her to realise that Jake, who'd been holding her hand, had let go of her fingers.

She looked at him, suddenly aware she'd barely acknowledged him over the past hour. His brows were lowered, giving him that glowering look that she'd seen more and more frequently over the past couple of weeks. Instantly, Bella was swamped with guilt. She reached for his hand again only to have him jerk it away.

Her face heated up. It felt as if all the blood had rushed to her head, to the extent that she was worried that Mark would notice. Picking up her drink to cover her confusion, she sipped at the tepid wine and tried to breath normally. He was talking quite loudly, gesturing with the hand not holding his pint.

"How crazy is it on the tube at the moment? Everyone looking around, one heartbeat away from a panic attack. Everyone not wanting to sit next to anyone of a vaguely brown persuasion. Even those of us who are of a brown persuasion. Stupid tourists with their bloody rucksacks, thinking they’re about to get lynched by a terrified mob of commuters. If you’re not worrying about bombs, you're worrying about being shot by the police - man - this is not the London I know..."

Mark trailed off. Bella waited for Jake to answer him and when she heard nothing, forced herself to speak. She wasn't sure if Jake was angry with her for talking to Mark or at Mark for talking to her... Amidst the confusion, she was conscious of her own slowly rising annoyance.

"It’s crazy, isn't it?"

"I was at London Bridge the other day and there were coppers there with machine guns. Fucking machine guns! This isn't Sierra Leone, this isn't  - isn't Beirut. Seriously, I mean – what is happening? It’s like something from Orwell. It’s like we’ve been catapulted into the future. The bad future.”

"It's all fucked, is what it is."

Jake said his first words for thirty-five minutes. Bella looked at him, uneasily.

Mark drained his pint glass. "Too right it is.” He checked his watch. “Shit, I’ve got to - listen, it was lovely chatting with you guys but I'm going to have to split. See you again soon? Make sure you give me a call, Jake, you hear? Bella, make sure he does. It’s been too long, man, too long. Let’s catch up again soon."

Bella dredged up a smile from somewhere. "Sure."

"Nice to see you again, Mark." Jake shook the hand that his friend held outstretched to him. "Give me a ring sometime and we'll go out properly."

His use of the pronoun didn't escape Bella. Give me a ring...  Briefly she considered taking him up on it and decided not to, for the sake of future harmony.