The Alibi Girl. C.J. Skuse

motorbikes and wrestling. But I can’t think of anything I want to know about motorbikes or wrestling. I push my drink away. ‘How long have you lived in the flats?’ I say, even though I already know the answer.

      ‘Nearly two weeks,’ he says. ‘You?’

      ‘Two months tomorrow,’ I say. ‘I don’t think people live in our flats for long.’

      He smirks. ‘Yeah, the landlord gave me that impression as well. What do you make of him, old Sandy Balls?’

      I laugh too. ‘He hasn’t exactly got people skills, has he?’

      ‘Have you met the junkies in the flat between us?’

      ‘No, they keep to themselves.’ The flat between us. One flat away from us living together. One floor of separation. I wonder if his bed is directly above my bed. I wonder if he lies on top of me at night. My cheeks go warm at the thought.

      ‘Where were you before?’ he asks.

      ‘Nottingham,’ I tell him. This is true, but I was only there for a few months, less than a year. I can’t tell him any more than that. And I can’t tell him about Liverpool or Dumfries, or Manchester or Scarborough… certainly not Scarborough.

      ‘Ah, fancied taking in the sea air, did ya?’

      ‘Mmm. I prefer the flat here to the one they gave me in Nottingham.’

      ‘Who’s they?’

      ‘The council,’ I lie. ‘That one was awful. I never got a full night’s sleep. Drunks would spill out of the clubs below every hour through the night. And the fridge had slugs in it.’

      ‘Nasty.’

      ‘Yeah. The one drawback here is that it’s a basement flat, not top floor, so I often get a drunk peeing in the front garden or a can thrown over the wall.’

      ‘Better for the little one here though, I’d have thought?’

      ‘Yeah. Much.’ I kiss the top of Emily’s fluffy head.

      My god I can barely look at him. In anyone’s storybook he is stunning. He’s every Disney prince only four-dimensional and with smell-a-vision. I could look at him for the rest of my life. His eyes sparkle like the sea and he has faint freckles on his cheeks. If I get to know him better, I’ll count his freckles. I’ll lie next to him counting them, waiting for him to wake up in the morning. I wonder if he sleeps naked. I blush again, furiously, and it goes all down my neck too. I pretend to focus on Emily.

      ‘Do you have any family?’ he asks. ‘Apart from Emily?’

      I shake my head. ‘No.’ I think about telling Kaden the well-rehearsed lies that Scants gave me, but I don’t want to lie to him. I want him to know as much of the truth as possible. So I leave out the untrue stuff. ‘I live alone.’

      ‘Oh right,’ he says. Is that pity in his eyes?

      ‘How about you?’

      ‘No, I’m here in the short term for work. My family all live in London.’ Family, he said, not girlfriend, not boyfriend, not fiancée. That’s good. That means a mum and a dad. Though it could mean a wife and kids. I’m not going to think about that right now. ‘I’m a PT at Sweat Dreams on Tollgate Road, at the end of the seafront?’

      ‘Yeah, I know it.’ There’s a plunge of dread in my chest as I take in what he said before. ‘So you’re not staying here permanently?’

      ‘No, it’s a temporary contract. Six weeks’ cover. My predecessor broke his leg doing an Iron Man, so I’m filling in for him until he’s back at work.’

      ‘But you’ll definitely go back to London after that?’

      ‘Yeah, as things stand, though they might keep me on longer. It depends.’

      It’s not enough hope to cling to, but it’s small comfort. I want him to stay as long as I stay. I want to know every inch of him, even the hidden inches. Thank god he’s not looking at me, I can feel yet another blush coming on. I stroke Emily’s back. ‘How are you coping with her on your own?’

      ‘Fine. She’s a very good baby so I must be doing something right.’

      ‘Are you on maternity leave then?’

      ‘No, I don’t get any. I managed to find a childminder who takes them from new-born so I could still work. I’m a housekeeper at The Lalique.’

      ‘Do you like working there?’

      ‘No, it’s not really a job to enjoy. My colleagues all hate me for some reason. There are some parts of it I like. The views from the top floor over the bay. And there’s a lavender air freshener we’ve got in the lobby at the moment that’s really nice. And the porter, Trevor, he’s okay. Well, he gave me a mint once. I love meeting the children who stay there as well. I adore children.’

      ‘Me too,’ he says, and I have a sudden vision of our children buying him a Best Daddy in the World mug for Father’s Day.

      He’d be a good dad. I’d watched him for two hours walking around the pool at the gym, giving swimming lessons to the St Jude’s kids then tidying up the floats afterwards and chatting to parents. He was so sweet with them all. I knew it wasn’t an act. By the time I left I knew more about him, more clay I could add to the statue of him I sculpted every night in my mind to get me to sleep. The shape of his torso, the muscle pattern of his back, what his feet looked like in flip flops. He has a tattoo of a snarling tiger on his right shin. I imagined what Us would look like. Us on our wedding day. Us getting the keys to our new home. Us wheeling a trolley round Ikea, choosing crockery. Us at the hospital, me in labour sucking on the gas and air, him scrolling his phone for funny videos. Stroking my face. Telling me he’s proud of me.

      My heart thumps abnormally.

      ‘Are you a member of the gym then?’ he asks over the hissing of the coffee machine and the clanking of cutlery as a waitress clears a neighbouring table.

      ‘No.’ His face flattens. ‘I was thinking about joining though.’

      ‘You should. Or come along for a class, if you like. We’ve got Ladies Only Pilates, Ladies’ Boxercise, Fight Klub, which is like a self-defence class but to music…’

      He’s staring at me – the way he said ‘self-defence’ was loaded with meaning. He wants to ask me more about my hallway hysteria. There’s nowhere to hide. His eyes hurt me – green like ponds, flecked with tiny pennies. He touches my arm. Fingertips to forearm. Skin to skin. My thoughts are scrambled egg.

      ‘I rescued a duck last week,’ I tell him. ‘On the beach. Its wing was broken.’

      ‘Oh right,’ he frowns.

      ‘And one of the cats caught a little bird once, brought it to the door. I rescued it. Took it to the RSPCA centre in town.’

      He looks at me. ‘Is it her dad? The one you’re afraid of?’

      I bite down on my lip. I give him a nod that barely registers. He says no more about it. ‘I love animals, do you?’

      ‘Yeah, but I couldn’t eat a whole one,’ he winks. ‘I’m gonna get a refill,’ he announces. ‘Won’t be a minute. Do you want anything else?’

      I shake my head, smile flickering where it won’t stay on my face. He disappears up to the counter and I feel it this time – the ache. I resent the easy way he chats to the barista. The adoration in his eyes when he looks out towards the Lakes. I’m jealous of mountains. Of the half-eaten biscotti on his saucer. Touched by him.

      When he sits back down, I know he wants to address the hallway thing so in a rush of confidence, I beat him to it.

      ‘I can’t really tell you very much about it, why I cried and panicked earlier.’

      ‘It’s alright,’ he says. ‘I can