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I put my pillow over my head, which did nothing, because the wall was still there and so was she.
I must have slept in the end, because the next thing I knew Hannah was climbing in beside me at ten past eight, cold from the morning air, in her scrubs, smelling of hand gel and toast. She pressed her chilly feet against my calves and I yelped. She laughed and tucked herself against my chest.
Hannah is thirty-four, tall and dark, with a sharp bob, a dry sense of humour and a way of looking at me that makes me feel read like a book. I love her more than I can put into words, which was why I felt so guilty about the night.
Through the wall, the shower in the bathroom started up. Jess began singing, flat and cheerful and wildly out of tune.
“Thin walls,” Hannah murmured against my neck.
“Very.”
“Hmm.” Her hand slid down my stomach, found me hard under the duvet and stayed there, resting, not stroking. “That’s for me, is it?”
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
She propped herself on one elbow. Her eyes were tired but very alert.
“Tom,” she said. “I’m not daft. Something’s been on your mind since Jess arrived. Tell me what.”
The shower hissed. Jess hit a high note and missed it by a mile.