IN THE HOURS BETWEEN • TC

4. Nothing New

Una is half able to forget about Timothée over the next few days. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday blur into one. She's not even sure if anything about the three of them was different, or if they were literally all exactly the same.

Because Frank is out with Timothée, showing him around town, taking him shopping to buy the things he didn't have at home or couldn't bring in his suitcase.

Because Una keeps herself to herself, and keeps herself to her room.

Because she avoids Timothée as much as possible.

It's not that hard to do, all things considered. He's a pretty simple guy, fairly loud for all his politeness, and it's easy to move around the house without him being there. She just has to calculate, has to remember the last time she heard his bedroom door shut or the last time she heard a set of foreign footsteps on the stairs.

With her brother and Timothée gone, her mum at work and her dad gardening, she takes the opportunity to do some yoga in her room. Una's balance isn't great but she tries her best and at the end, her back hurts less than it did before. She waters the plants on the windowsill. Makes her bed. Runs the hoover around, straightens up the books on their shelf. Even cleans the windows from the inside.

Then she showers, long and relaxing. Smoothes lotion all over, combs her hair, puts on makeup because that fits in with all of this generally uncharacteristic productivity. She's making herself a three o'clock lunch when Timothée and Frank come bustling through the front door, toting carrier bags that have been reused countless times in the Murphy household. She's pretty sure one of them still has her surname on it from when she took it on a school trip in Year Six.

The purchases are put down on the kitchen table; Frank and Timothée start unpacking things as Una breaks an egg into a pan. She crushes the shell into the compost bin. Slots bread into the toaster and then waits, watching as Timmy unpacks notebooks and pens. A water bottle. A t-shirt with Wallace and Gromit on it and...wellies?

"They were only five pounds!" Frank tells Una, who raises her brows and stifles a smile at Timothée, who is holding up the shirt against his chest.

"Five pounds," she replies. Both Frank and Timothée nod, and she gets the butter out.

"Have you watched Wallace and Gromit, Timothée?" she asks, and realises it might be one of the first times she's directly addressed him. (Apart from when she asked him if he knew the Arctic Monkeys and his lip started wobbling.)

"We're going to watch it later on," Timothée beams, and Una hardly realises he's standing next to her until she feels his body heat too close to her. Everything about him is too close - he's propped up at her side, leaning against the counter. She nods, hoping Timothée can pick up on the sarcasm in her tone when she says great.

If he does, he doesn't say anything. Nods again, still fucking smiling, and Una checks on her egg, which is still clear on top but bubbling around the edges.

"Which one are you watching?" she asks.

"The Wrong Trousers," Frank fills in as Timothée looks at him for confirmation.

"Apparently this is the best one," Timothée nods, and Una doesn't say anything. Her toast pops up and she butters it. Maybe the only perk of a heatwave is pre-softened butter.

She adds salt and pepper to the egg. Pokes around the edges and it looks like it might burn on the bottom any second, so she lifts it from the pan and onto her buttered toast. Timmy watches, still holding his shirt, but now it is crumpled in his hands. He smiles distantly when Una breaks the yolk of the egg with the tip of her knife. She doesn't like him watching. Doesn't know why he's watching, and that's the thing making her uncomfortable.