It was utterly silent inside the house. I couldn’t even hear a clock ticking. Which was why I jumped when my footsteps made the floorboards creak.

I laughed, the noise very loud in the silence. I guess it was just my conditioning – a voice telling me that this was wrong. But really I knew I wasn’t doing anything bad. I was just checking out Siobhan’s territory, exploring the place where she lives. Pretty soon I knew she would be inviting me inside anyway (oh God, I like the way that sounds: inviting me inside), so, telling myself this, I relaxed. There was a Modigliani on the wall inside the front door, a dark-haired woman stretched languorously on a bed, naked, gazing out intently at the artist and the viewer. Looking at the curve of her breasts and the shadow of her pubic hair, I felt myself become aroused. Why had Siobhan put such an erotic picture just inside her door? What did it signify? I held my hand up in front of me, yearning to touch the glass that screened the print. I held back. I didn’t want to leave any marks.

I looked up the stairs. I wanted to go up there, see where Siobhan slept, but I had to hold myself back again. I wouldn’t find what I was looking for up there. Instead, I went into the living room. It was quite small, but filled with light. More pictures on the wall, though I didn’t recognise the artists. And the place was so neat – astonishingly so. It looked like a hotel suite just after the chambermaid’s been round. No, it was even tidier than that. There were no magazines or papers scattered on the floor: instead, they were stored neatly in those boxes you get in Habitat. The carpet was spotless – I felt like I ought to take off my shoes. What a contrast to my room, with the stacks of books on the floor, the underwear overspilling the drawers, the ashtray that I always forget to empty.

There was no sign of the flowers I bought her, nor the card. I imagine the card is tucked away in a special place – under her pillow, maybe, so she can get it out and read it at night when she can’t sleep. Maybe she touches herself as she reads it. I like to think that – my words helping her come.

I crossed over to the sofa and sat down, rubbing the fabric beneath my palms. This, I thought with a tremor of excitement, is where Siobhan sits and watches TV. I could almost see her shape in the upholstery. Could smell her; a clean, sweet smell. I put my face to the fabric and inhaled. Delicious.

I stood up and moved towards the back of the room, where a computer sat on a desk. It was a small laptop; a very sexy little iBook. She hadn’t turned it off, which made me worry a bit – was she intending to return soon? – but I couldn’t stop myself from sitting on her desk chair and running my hands over the keyboard, the instrument with which she wrote her fiction. The keys that knew the feel of her skin so well; that had felt the soft press of her fingers a million times.

I needed to check her emails to see if there was anything from Bookjungle. I opened the Mail program and scanned the list of messages received. Nothing. But what if one had been sent since Siobhan had last polled her emails? I clicked the internet connect icon – how sweet, that she didn’t even have Broadband! The modem chirruped away, horribly loud in the quiet room. I held my breath, then, after the internet connection was established, I pressed ‘send and receive’. A new message arrived. I sighed with relief - it wasn’t from my old company. Instead, it was from a woman named Patricia Collins. I recognised the name, though it took a few moments for me to realise where I knew it from. It was on the Acknowledgements page of Tara Lies Awake: Huge thanks to my wonderful editor Patricia Collins.

I read her message:

Dear Siobhan

We haven’t spoken for a while. But you know how sometimes opportunities arise out of the blue? I’ve just returned from business in Amsterdam and while I was there I got chatting to someone from your Dutch publisher, Mareliese van der Zee. She asked after you and wanted to know if you had a second novel in the offing.

The interesting thing is that, as you know, Tara Lies Awake was something of a cult hit in the Netherlands. And a radio station over there recently broadcast a serialisation of it, which has reawakened a small amount of interest in the book. She asked if you’d like to go over to Amsterdam to do a couple of signings. Nothing huge – but I think it would be good for you to get ‘out there’ again.

Of course, you might prefer to put TLA behind you for good and concentrate on the next one. It’s up to you. But her email address is mareliese@mareliesevanderzee.ne

And please do contact me when your new book is ready. I’d love to see it first.

Best wishes

Patricia

I stared at the email for what felt like a very long time. Amsterdam? I had this awful image of Siobhan going out there and deciding to stay! Or even if she didn’t stay, how long would she be gone? Days! The thought of her being so far away from me made my guts churn.

I had no choice but to delete it. Besides, she was bound to think it suspicious when she noticed that the message had already been opened, when she hadn’t read it herself.

I disconnected from the Web and then spotted something beside the laptop: a credit card. I picked it up and held it by its edges. I had an idea. I reached down to the printer, took out a sheet of paper and copied down the number, expiry date and three digit code on the back. I folded up the paper and slipped it in my pocket.

Next, I went back into the hallway and checked her phone for messages. Again, there was nothing. Thank god for that.

I walked into the kitchen. Here was her oven, her fridge, her washing up. There wasn’t a single dirty piece of crockery on display – in fact, there wasn’t any crockery anywhere to be seen. I opened the cupboard above the sink and there it all was, gleaming and spotless. I reached up and took a mug down: a plain white one. I lifted it to my lips and kissed the edge.

Something went thump in the hallway.

I dropped the mug. It landed on the worktop, rocking on its base, thankfully not smashing. I swivelled towards the hall, my stomach freezing, my heart forgetting to beat. I expected to see Siobhan coming through the front door.

But it was a cat. It must have jumped from halfway up the stairs, the crazy creature, and now it was padding towards me. It was pretty fat, and heavy-footed for a cat. It came into the kitchen and started to rub round my ankle, purring.

‘Hello. Do you want some dinner?’ I said.

I opened a couple of cupboard doors and found a box of cat biscuits. The cat’s purring grew louder and I crouched down, sprinkling a few of the biscuits on the floor. I stroked it as it ate. ‘I’ll be your daddy soon,’ I whispered.

I put the biscuits away and looked out the back door at a small garden. Washing was pegged out on the line. A couple of T-shirts, a pair of jeans, a jumper. A black bra and several pairs of knickers. I leaned closer to the window to get a better look. The T-shirts looked a bit worn, the bra was fading and the knickers were quite tatty-looking. I couldn’t help but feel that she deserved better. If only I could afford to buy her nice new clothes; lingerie that would feel like silk upon her skin; that would flatter her and make her feel sexy. But now that I’d lost my job there was no way I could spare the money.

I felt sad. And I was very aware that I had to go.

I said goodbye to the cat, who was still munching on his biscuits, and headed back towards the door. I had no doubt that this had been an important event. (I now feel as if I know Siobhan much better. I can hardly wait for my next visit.) I wanted to go upstairs, to see her bed, to visit her most private place, but perhaps, I thought, it would be better to save that pleasure, to deny myself now so that it will be even sweeter when it happens.