‘Olivia?’

‘I’m here.’

‘Sweetheart, those words you whispered to Gregory.’

I swallow hard. I knew she’d heard but hoped she hadn’t. There’s nothing aged about my grandmother’s acute hearing. Humming my acknowledgement, I sit back in my chair and lay my palm across my forehead, ready to ease the pounding head that’s about to ensue. It’s already working up to a light thudding, just at the thought of explaining those words. ‘What about them?’

‘You’re right.’

My hand drops and I gaze ahead at nothing in particular, confusion replacing the threatening headache. ‘I’m right?’

‘Yes,’ she sighs. ‘I’ve told you before, we don’t choose who we fall in love with. Falling in love is special. Holding on to that love, despite circumstances that could destroy it, is even more special. I hope Miller realises how lucky he is to have you, my darling girl.’

My bottom lip begins to tremble, my throat closing off any words that I’d like to say in return – the most important words being thank you. Thank you for supporting me – for supporting us, when it feels like the whole of London is on a mission to sabotage what we have. Thank you for accepting Miller. Thank you for understanding, even if you don’t know the full truth. Gregory knows what this could do to her. ‘I love you, Nan.’ I swallow hard around my words and the puddles of tears in my eyes start to tumble down my cheeks.

‘I love you, too, darling.’ Her voice is even and strong, yet soaked in emotion. ‘Are you staying with Miller tonight?’

I nod and sniff, just spitting out a ‘yes’ in response.

‘Okay. Sleep tight.’

I smile through my tears and use the sound of her loving tone and her words to gather myself and speak. ‘I won’t let the bedbugs bite.’

She chuckles, joining me in my fond memories of one of Granddad’s favourite bedtime lines. ‘Get yourself off up those apples and pears,’ she says, reminding me of another.

‘Miller lives in an apartment. There are no stairs to the bedroom.’

‘Oh, okay.’ She falls silent for a while. ‘Are you cream crackered?’

‘Exhausted,’ I confirm on a laugh. ‘I’m going to bed now.’

‘Good. Nighty-night.’

‘Night, Nan.’ I smile as I cut the call and immediately consider calling back to ask how Gregory is, but stop myself. The ball’s in his court. He knows the deal; he knows I’m going nowhere, and he knows that nothing he can say will change that, especially not now. There’s nothing more I can say and there’s no guarantee he’ll listen. It kills me, but I’m not putting myself in the firing line again. If he wants to talk, then he’ll call. Satisfied with my decision, I make to leave the kitchen but pause at the doorway, my mind wandering to silly places.

Like the top drawer where I know Miller’s date book to be.

I try to disregard my bout of irritating curiosity, I really do, but my damn feet take on a mind of their own and I’m standing looking at the drawer before I can convince myself that it’s so very wrong to snoop. It’s not that I don’t trust him, I wholeheartedly do, but I just feel in the dark, unaware and ignorant, and while that’s undoubtedly a good thing, I can’t help the raging inquisitiveness from getting the better of me.

Curiosity killed the cat. Curiosity killed the cat. Damn curiosity killed the f**king cat.

I open the drawer, and it’s looking up at me, teasing me . . . tempting me. It’s like a magnet to my hand, drawing me in, pulling me closer, and before I know what’s happened, the leather book is lying in my palms, feeling like a forbidden spell book. Now I just need the pages to miraculously start flapping open, but after staring at it for way too long, it’s still closed. And it should probably stay that way – sealed for ever, never to be looked upon again. History closed.

But that would be in a world where curiosity doesn’t exist.

I shift the book in my palms and slowly pull the front cover open, but my eyes don’t home in on the first page. They drift down to the floor, following a square of paper that’s slipped from the inside cover, until it comes to rest by my na**d feet. Closing the book on a frown, I scoot down and collect the wayward piece and immediately note the paper to be thick and glossy. Photograph paper. The chill that sneaks up my backbone confounds me. I can’t see the photo, it’s still face-down in my hand, but the presence of it unsettles me. I glance to the doorway, trying to think, and then return my curious eyes to the mystery picture. He has said there’s just him. No one else, no matter how many ways I ask the question. Just Miller – no family, nothing – and while I was shocked and curious, I never pressed too hard on the matter. There were too many other Miller revelations that came about to be dealt with.

Drawing a deep breath, I slowly turn it over, knowing that a piece of Miller’s history is about to be revealed. I’m chewing my lip nervously, my eyes closed to slits in preparation for what I might be confronted with, and when the full picture comes into view . . . I relax. My shoulders loosen and my head cocks to the side as I study the image, placing Miller’s organiser back in the drawer without looking.

Boys.

Lots of little boys – laughing, some with cowboy hats on and some with Indian feathers protruding from their happy heads. I count fourteen in total and guess an age range of five to fifteen. They’re in the overgrown garden of an old Victorian terraced house – a tatty-looking house, with what look like rags hanging at the windows. A quick assessment of the boys’ clothing tells me this picture was taken in the late eighties, maybe early nineties, and I smile fondly as my eyes travel across the photograph, feeling the elation of the boys’ happiness, mentally hearing them shout their delight as they chase each other with bows and arrows and pistols. But my smile is short-lived, dropping away the moment my gaze creeps onto a lone little boy standing to the side, looking on at the shenanigans of the other boys.

‘Miller,’ I whisper, my fingertip meeting the picture, stroking across the image like I could rub some life into his little body. It’s him; I have no doubt whatsoever. There are too many of the traits I’ve come to know and love – his wavy hair, looking wilder than ever, his wayward curl present and correct, his impassive, emotionless face and his piercing blue eyes. They look haunted . . . dead. Yet this child is inconceivably beautiful. I can’t pull my eyes off him, can’t even blink. He must be around seven or eight. His jeans are ripped, his T-shirt far too small, and his trainers are wrecked. He looks neglected, and that thought, plus this image of him looking despondent and lost, cripples me with unrelenting sadness. I don’t realise that I’m sobbing, not until a tear splashes onto the glossy surface of the photograph, blurring the painful sight of Miller as a boy. I want to leave it that way, blurry and masked. I want to pretend that I never saw it.

Impossible.

My heart is breaking for the lost boy. If I could, I’d reach into this picture and cuddle the child – hold him, comfort him. But I can’t. I look towards the kitchen doorway in a haze of sorrow and suddenly wonder why I’m still standing here when I can cuddle, hold and comfort the man who that child has become. I rush to wipe my tears away, from the picture and my face, then slip the photo back into Miller’s organiser and shut the drawer. Shut it away. For ever. Then I virtually sprint back to his bedroom, at the same time pulling my top off, and slip between the sheets behind him, snuggling as close as I can get and breathing him into me. My comfort is restored quickly.