“With Bob and Sam.”—Charlie’s friends that he so often namechecked on Facebook—“Sam works near here. He’s a cashier at the Santander Ban... on the high street.” “And you, Charlie?” asked Jane, as she sipped from her glass. “Where do you work?” “Erm,” he said. “I’m a back room kind of guy. I work in accounts. I’m a clerk for a small accounting firm. Bradshaw & Wilkins. You won’t have heard of them.” “Back room…?” “Yes,” said Charlie, who avoided Jane’s eyes. “I’m not what you would call a. Then he turns slowly back toward the forest. Frozen for a moment you race to fling an answer in his direction. Words. Any words. Quickly. ‘Are you okay?’ you ask. And feel a little lame. Four months together. The deepest conversation you have had to date. He’s all business. All the project. Finding that new serum. Making the project a success. ‘Actually, I was pretty scared,’ he says. Softly. He watches the movement in your eyes. You are more than surprised. You are astounded. ‘You were. More

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