IN THE HOURS BETWEEN • TC

33. Spring

In the morning, Una wakes up to the sound of the shower being turned on, wakes to the clunk of the boiler in the attic. She rubs her eyes and lies back against her pillow. It's still dark outside, so it can't be later than seven thirty.

Her room is dark and swampy with heat. Someone must have turned up the radiators all the way. Una gets out of bed as she does every day, her movements calculated, precise. She opens her wardrobe, picks out some tight fitting trousers and a low-cut top, her heart telling her that she should try talking to Timmy, her brain telling her to try and lure him in wordlessly. Lure him in with her body.

She goes downstairs and eats her toast mindlessly, staring at something on her phone which is just interesting enough to grab her attention, but not enough to hold it for very long. Chattering on the stairs snaps her out of her trance, and she fixes her posture. Takes a small mouthful of toast and resumes her mindless scrolling, only it's not very mindless anymore. Instead, she is concentrating on exuding nonchalance, concentrating on making it seem like she doesn't even know that Timmy is there.

Frank and Timmy come into the kitchen and they're talking about something in English. Una half follows - something about Christmas decorations - but in all honesty she is listening to the soft rumble of Timmy's morning voice. With her back to them, she savours the slightly raspy noise. Una stops chewing so she'll have a better idea of what they're saying.

Still nothing. Mindless chewing. Timmy pulls out one of the stools at the kitchen island and she realises with dismay that she won't be able to stare at him. Una stands up, holding the rest of her toast in her mouth with her teeth as she carries her plate to the sink. Timmy looks soft this morning, wrapped up in an old fleece of Sean's and some novelty socks. They used to belong to one of Frank's friends. Una has no idea what happened to the friend, because they never see him any more. She also wonders if the friend was really just a friend. With Frank, it's hard to tell.

She grabs an orange from the fruit bowl. They're sweet at this time of year, tangy with a heat that doesn't exist otherwise in the drab London streets. They're fresh, exciting, everything that England isn't. She wants to get some dried cloves and stick them into the peel, piercing the skin, the juices spattering onto the table. She wants to leave it in her room and let the spiced sweetness fill the air. She wants to look at Timmy and she wants him to be looking back at her.

His eyes are trained on her fingers as she peels the orange. Una can feel him staring distractedly at her. It makes her want to smile. Only he won't look at her face. His eyes trail as far up as her chest and then he looks away, staring down into his cereal or fiddling with the edge of a notebook that has been left on the island.

"S'a nice photo, Tim," Frank says, tilting his phone towards Timothée, who smiles blankly. Half-nods.

"It was pretty," he says wistfully, as Frank turns his phone around to show Una, who has been caught staring.

She glances at the newest photo on Timmy's Instagram, a brilliantly coloured sunset behind a hollowed-out pier. Her face is cropped out of the image, but she can see the corner of her jacket. A few strands of stray hair.

Una makes a sound. Glances at Timmy, and he's staring right at her. His mouth opens like he's going to say something but he looks away with a jolt, like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't.

—

A knock comes on her door the moment the clock turns one. Una glances at her bedroom door, and back at the time in the top left corner of her screen.

Come in, she says hesitantly, craning her neck. Nothing happens, and she repeats herself, louder. The door squeaks open.

"Hello," Timmy says quietly. He's changed out of his pyjamas but the socks remain - bananas on a lurid orange background.