No comment, borrowed

The review landed at 8am. "More in him than he is yet letting himself show." Scalpel, not a compliment. I read it three times on the bed and felt like I'd been caught.

Mum rang at eleven. She'd read it on the bus. Liked the car park bit. Asked why I never told her about it.

Because you weren't supposed to know, mum. Because I write the bits and then I tell you I'm doing well and that's the whole deal. That's how I keep you.

Debs rang later. Different voice. A podcast. Off the record. Panic attack. Ringing round. She said no comment and she said it like a wall. I love her the way you love someone who just took a bullet for you.

The bar. Manchester-via-Camden bloke. "Heard about the panic-attack thing, true?" I said no comment. Borrowed her phrase. Put the pint down. Walked out on him the way I walk out on rooms when the laugh goes somewhere I can't follow. The Cowgate was warm and I didn't see any of them.

Staring at the kettle. Not making tea.

The review says I have more in me than I'm letting show. The podcast thinks I'm hiding something. They're talking about the same room from different doors and it's the same room — the locked one, the bit I won't do, the panic attack I made into a punchline and never told anyone was real until other people started asking.

Soho's September now. The Soho thing and the podcast thing and the review thing are all the same question wearing different coats. I said I'd tell Kate. I said that yesterday.

Marble on the kitchen floor. Same place.