So as I walk into my room an hour later I’m not surprised to feel my phone vibrating in my pocket to let me know he’s calling. Even though I’m spaced out from the way my afternoon has panned out, my heart tells me I need to hear his voice – we might have spoken the previous night but communication between us has been sparse to say the least. It’s been weeks since a letter has found its way to me, and it’s just dawned on me how much I’ve come to depend on the sight of his messy handwriting. ‘What have you been up to today?’ he asks, sounding full of beans as he fires a normal, mundane question in my direction. It’s lovely that he sounds so pleased to talk to me, but I suddenly feel put on the spot and on edge. ‘Nothing. Just a roast with everyone,’ I reply, sounding a little cagey as I omit to tell him that Peter joined us. It’s not lying, but it’s certainly withholding the truth and putting up a barrier between us. I just don’t want to be talking about Peter to Billy.
