‘I get this note and I don’t know what I did to make it happen.’ ‘Show me,’ she said quietly. I handed her Jarrold’s message written on a yellow Post-it in a surprisingly even, flowing hand. ‘“I love you and I can’t be without you”,’ she read. She turned the paper over, examined the sticky strip on the back, turned it over again. ‘How did that happen?’ I sighed. We were in Grace’s big, open-plan kitchen with maybe ten minutes to spare before Jude and Aaron showed up. Grace got me a glass of iced water and sat me down at the breakfast bar. ‘I have to tell you something, Tania. Knowing you, it’s probably not anything you did – OK?’ ‘I gave out the wrong signals,’ I argued. ‘Guys don’t write love letters unless they get the idea you want them to.’ ‘Sometimes they do. They’re blind, or else they misread the signals. Sometimes they’re just psychos.’ Ignoring this last remark, I blundered on. ‘I did tell Jarrold about Orlando, or I tried to.
