Her hair was still wet from her shower and dripping steadily onto the towel she clutched around her chest. Deprived for the most part of sunshine and fresh air, her once light blonde locks have darkened, settling into an ash blonde that doesn't entirely displease her. So much has changed in so short a time. Her home. Her friends. Her life. Why should her hair be any different? Sometimes she thinks about cutting the lot off. About walking into a salon and asking for her hair to be razed to her shoulders. About seeing her tresses on the floor, an abandoned mess, nothing more than keratin fibres and memories better consigned to the past.

But even as the thought crossed her mind, she reached for her hair protectively, whirling a damp strand around her fingers. Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, she could still see his face next to hers. She could almost feel his hands, warm and sure, against her scalp and in her curls. Could almost feel his breath against her cheek and in her ear, soft and alluring.

But no. She forced herself to open her eyes, staring at herself in the mirror.

Let go of him like he let go of you, she reminded herself sternly.

She began to apply her foundation and blusher, using a cruelty-free, palm-oil free and carbon footprint friendly brand that is so bad it's less like using make-up and more like using crayons and fingerpaint. But if her beauty is the price to pay for a healthy planet, well, so be it. She's seen firsthand the effects everyday selfishness are taking on the Earth, and refuses to play any further part in that wanton destruction. Besides, she only uses a touch of make-up, and only ever on special occasions.

Like tonight.

Tonight, she reminds herself again, is a special occasion.

She has a date tonight. Her first date in... actually, it probably counts as her first date ever, she supposes. Certainly she never had time for dating before, and what she did with him can hardly be counted as dating. Friendship, perhaps. Mild flirting, absolutely. But not dating. Definitely not dating.

Tonight, she's going out with her Professor. She's been at the University of Cambridge for a year now, studying for her masters in biological anthropology and environmental sciences. And for about the same length of time, she's noticed Dr. Richard Cox staring at her during every lesson. A subtle glance here, a lingering smile there... his attention made her feel uncomfortable and flattered all at once. For even now, twenty-two years old and a little more wordly than she ever was at sixteen, she still finds male interest perplexing and almost unwelcome.

But at the same time, she needs to do this. Needs to prove to herself that there are other men than him. That there is more to romance than a few cheap lines thrown easily over a waste ground, that there is more to a kiss than a quiet, stolen moment. That she is worth more than the final line he left her with.

'I'm gonna go back home and try new things,' he'd said, ultra casual, as though her heart weren't on the line and her hopes turning to ash in her mouth. 'This has been fun, but it's done now, you know?' He'd shrugged, turning away from her to lie back on the sand, bringing his hands to his face to block out the blinding light of the sun. 'You should too,' he'd added, almost as an afterthought. 'Try new things, I mean. New people.'

Well, it had taken over a year, but now she would do just that. Try a new person. Date him and talk with him and maybe kiss him, trying him out just like she would a new coat or pair of shoes.

That thought makes her shudder, as does the uncomfortable idea that she might finally have said yes to Dr. Richard Cox for all the wrong reasons. He'd been asking her to dinner for about six months, and until yesterday, she'd always refused.

'You are my professor; it would not be right,' she'd always argued. And he hadn't pressed her, hadn't debated her point. There was never a cocky response to her disinterest, or a throwaway quip designed to disguise his hurt at her refusal. Dr. Richard Cox wasn't him, after all.

No. Dr. Richard Cox was thirty-eight, distinguished, intelligent, and good-looking, albeit in a muted, sedate kind of way. She isn't wildly attracted to him, and nor does her heart race in his presence, not like with... well, what does attraction matter, in the end? She's a biological anthropologist, after all. She knows that attraction is merely a trick of the brain. A response designed to ensure healthy offspring and a suitable environment for rearing them in. As always, she felt an unreasonable dart of anger for her own brain, for tricking her into feeling something for someone so unsuitable. Because in every sense of the word, he was unsuitable. Her exact opposite in living, breathing form. The cheese to her chalk, the hot to her cold, the fire to her...

She stopped, taking a deep breath to clear her mind.

Concentrate on the make-up, she told herself. Don't think about the past.

When she appeared in the basic living room she shared with three other girls, twenty minutes and three eyeliner applications later, one of her flatmates nodded her approval at her appearance.

'Helena, darling, you'll knock him dead,' Laura purred in that crisp and privileged British twang that still made Helena wince, even after a year.

'I would rather he lived through dinner, though,' she replied, with a smile.

Laura smirked. 'Already thinking of dessert, are we darling?'

'No,' Helena said instantly. 'I am thinking of the cost. Les Marmites is a little, umm, rich for my pocketbook?' Laura nodded at the phrasing, seeing the unspoken question in Helena's eyes. 'And you cannot split a bill with a dead man.'

'God darling, don't split the bill. Let him pay,' Laura urged. 'Oh, when he reaches for the bill, you should protest a little, of course. But don't set yourself up as one of those activists or feminists. Men like Dr. Cox don't care for women like that.'

Helena raised an eyebrow in confusion. 'Women like that?'

'Oh, you know,' Laura said knowingly. 'The ones who care too much.'

Helena gave a tight smile. She's always been the type to care too much. She wouldn't be where she was if she hadn't.

'What will you do tonight while I am out?' she finally asked by way of reply. Laura shrugged.

'Oh, I'm going to drink the rest of that bottle of wine in the fridge and watch mindless television. Now that exams are finished for the year I could do with a little less mental stimulation and a little more brain-rotting fluff.'

Helena nodded. 'But you will remember to eat something too? You should not drink on an empty stomach.'

Even now, with someone she doesn't quite like enough to call a friend but doesn't dislike enough to cut out, Helena cares too much.

But Laura suddenly grins. 'Oh, don't you worry about me. I'll find something to nibble on. Although I have to admit, there's an American dish on at 8pm tonight that I'm probably going to lap right up.'

Helena frowned in confusion. 'Hamburgers? Or Hot Dogs? I did not know we had any in the house and...'

Laura laughed. 'Oh, I do love how you use English, darling. I didn't really mean food, Helena. I meant on the television. That American TV reporter, you know, the one who did all those environment issue reports for the CW? The YouTuber? Well, they've given him his own show now. It launches next week so he's on Graham Norton tonight, doing an interview.'

Helena suddenly felt a lurching sense of dread mixed with an all too familiar anticipation. 'What American reporter?' she asked, already knowing the answer and hating herself for needing- no, wanting- further clarification.

Laura looked at her in mock horror. 'You haven't heard of him? What, have you been living under a rock for the past year?'

'No... no, I've been living here,' Helena replied confusedly, almost certain she had missed something. It was a common frustration of her life that she was yet to speak English without betraying her Russian background. She thought that by now she'd have learnt all the different idioms and subtexts of the English language, but no. How was it that she knew all the Latin names for the different types and sub-types of early man but still couldn't understand everyday English? It made her grit her teeth with annoyance.

Laura grinned. 'I know that, darling. I only meant that James Wheeler is kind of the celebrity of the moment right now. Good-looking, charming, and all about saving the planet. He's the perfect cover-boy for the eco-lifestyle.'

'James Wheeler?' Helena asked, her mouth dry.

'Yes,' Laura carried on effortlessly. 'He was one of the Planeteers, did you ever hear of them? Back in Russia? Were they a thing over there?'

'No,' Helena lied easily.

'Oh,' Laura looked surprised. 'I'm almost certain one of them was Russian. Or maybe she was Ukrainian. Or Polish. Well, whatever. I only ever really cared about Wheeler and Kwame. I'm pretty sure the whole thing was a gimmick, but they were a good-looking gimmick and I wouldn't kick either of them out of bed for eating biscuits, if you know what I mean... actually, you probably don't,' Laura smiled. 'Well, Helena, it means that-'

'I can guess what you meant,' Helena replied quickly. 'You don't need to elongate.'

'Elaborate, darling,' Laura grinned again. 'You mean elaborate.'

'So... this... this James Wheeler,' Helena fought down a blush. 'He is a television star now?'

'Hmm, I would say so. Like I said, he was a Planeteer. After they disbanded he went back to New York, started a YouTube channel. Reported on environmental issues, but made it fun and relevant for teenagers and young adults. He managed to blag an interview with a Kardashian for it, and then a few music stars. After Obama did a bit for him the CW snapped him up for a regular slot on one of their shows. Now he has his own. The reviewers said it was funny and irreverent but in a serious way. Like, climate change but with an appealing edge.'

'Oh,' Helena replied weakly. So that was what he was doing these days. Well, if anyone could make climate change appealing it was James Wheeler.

She should know.

'Honestly, Helena, I'm surprised you haven't heard of him. He's been all over the internet the past six months. A regular viral superstar. Facebook, Instagram, Tumblr... all the usual places.'

'You know I do not use social media,' Helena replied tightly. 'And I am so busy with my education. With my English lessons...' she drifted off, unwilling to admit that when it came to James Wheeler, she'd made a pact with herself not to search for him online. That sort of behaviour inevitably led down a dangerous path she had no desire to climb again.

Laura suddenly snapped her fingers, startling Helena.

'I've got it,' she abruptly announced. 'There was a Russian planeteer. Linka... Linka Orlova. She was kind of a non-descript blonde. Tall and leggy but dull as dishwater. Oh, sorry. What that means is that...'

'I think I know,' Helena interrupted. 'She was- ah, you might say- uninteresting?'

'Well, like I said, I never paid attention to her. But she always seemed so serious. Never smiled, refused to give interviews or pose for photographs, stood there in the background looking sour while Wheeler and Kwame did all the talking. Hmm,' Laura's eyes suddenly snapped up to Helena's. 'Your surname is Orlova too. That's funny, isn't it?'

'It's a common Russian surname,' Helena shrugged. 'There must be a million people with that name,' she cleared her throat. 'So, what happened to her? The Russian planeteer?'

Laura shrugged. 'I should know? They all went back to their people after that last mission,' Laura sighed. 'It was such a terrible thing, what happened to them then. Did you know that-'

But Helena stood abruptly. 'I will be late,' she said sharply. 'Richard will be waiting for me.'

'Oh. Okay,' Laura said, relaxing back into the sofa. 'I do hope you have a good time, darling. You're so serious normally. Always studying or reading... never going anywhere or doing anything. You deserve to go out and blow off a little steam... Sorry, I mean, you should have some fun, darling. And tell you what, I'll set Graham Norton to planner so you can watch James Wheeler's interview when you get home. Then you'll see what I'm talking about.'

Helena stared at Laura for a long moment. Her reply, when she gave it, was curt and cold.

'Don't bother. I am not really interested.'

'In the show or in James Wheeler?'

Helena shrugged. 'In either. Both.'

Let go of him, she told herself again, for the thousandth time. For the millionth time.

Let go of him, just like he let go of you.

Dr. Richard Cox was good company to Helena over dinner. He chatted with her about her course and plans for her future, lingering with her long after their plates had been emptied and coffee cups cleared.

'Of course, you should go on to PhD level,' he intoned, sipping at a deep red claret he'd ordered for them both as a digestif. 'With your background and intelligence, you're the perfect candidate. I think a doctorate in the evolutionary reproductive culture of birds and its similarity to the reproductive culture of indigenous peoples would be right up your lane, Helena. What did your last professor think? When you were an undergraduate? He obviously recommended you to a Masters here, so he must have been impressed.'

Helena gave a small smile, sipping at her own wine. She'd never been a good drinker, and she'd already drunk far more than she usually did. She needed to pace herself now or she'd be useless all day tomorrow.

'Well, she was very impressed with me, actually,' Helena admitted.

'Oh, she was?' Richard blinked. 'Forgive my presumption; most tenured professors in our field are male. Who was this then? What university did you undergrad at?'

Helena sipped her wine, thinking on her answer. It was a sticking point that came up occasionally, with Helena unable- perhaps unwilling- to admit that Cambridge had accepted her results from an advanced correspondence course and her eco work over the past six years in lieu of an actual undergraduate degree. So she simply shrugged.

'It was in Russia,' she lied again. 'A small university. You won't have heard of it.'

'Do you miss it?' Richard asked. 'Russia, I mean.'

She needed no lie to answer this. 'Yes. Everyday I miss my home.'

'Well,' Richard leaned back. 'I'm sure one day you'll go back with a good education and a good career under your belt. Your parents will be proud of you.'

'They're dead,' Helena said blankly.

'Oh,' Richard looked at her. 'Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realise...'

'No, well, it is not something I talk about normally,' Helena explained. She gave Richard a rueful smile. 'I am not what you expected at all, am I?'

But Richard shook his head. 'Helena, you're everything I expected, and more.' He stared at her for a moment, long and hard. 'Everything I ever wanted, too.'

She blushed, and he smiled. Quietly he asked for the bill, and when Helena pulled out her bank card to pay her share he waved it away.

'I would never expect a lady to pay when I've invited her out for dinner,' he said, with mock-importance. He laid his own card out, suddenly pulling her hand into his. 'I've had a marvellous time this evening, Helena. Or should that be Yelena?'

She must have blanched, for he laughed and nodded to the bank card, still tightly clutched in her hand.

'Yelena Orlova,' Richard commented. 'A beautiful name. Why ever did you anglicise it?'

Helena paled. 'It just felt... well, I suppose I thought it would be easier to pronounce,' she lied yet again. It felt like all she had done tonight was lie, the words slipping from her tongue like false honey.

'Yelena,' Richard mused. 'What do they shorten that too, then? Lena, I suppose? Or Lenka, perhaps?'

'No,' Helena snapped, pulling her hand from his, and shoving her bank card back into her purse. 'No, I was never called that. I never had a nickname.'

Linka, she heard her Babushka's voice echo in her mind, tired and worn. Linka, she heard Gaia speak, her voice like a rustle in the breeze. Linka, she heard a man now, his voice brash but calm, soothing her in the night. Linka. Babe.

Abruptly she stood, a spoon clattering to the floor as she did so. 'I would like to go home now, please Richard.'

He did his best to hide his dismay, helping her into her coat and bundling her into a taxi.

'We'll do this again,' he promised her. 'I have a feeling I'd like to get to know you better, Yelena.'

When she walked back into her flat, kicking off her shoes and hanging up her scarf, she turned left to go towards her bedroom before abruptly and unexpectedly turning right, towards the living room.

'Laura?' She called out, but from her flatmate there was no reply.

She padded quietly to the television, flicking it on and then turning to the planner. Her heart hammered in her chest as she leafed through the recorded programmes, the blood pumping hard around her body when she found the right one.

His face, when it appeared on screen, was just as she remembered it. That chiselled jaw, the sandy-red hair, and those crystal blue eyes, still capped by a cheeky twinkle. Helena sucked in a sharp breath, feeling as though her lungs were too tight for her body, her head suddenly light and dizzy. She sank down onto the sofa, clutching at the remote control tightly.

He was sitting easily on the lounge, the muscles and strength she recalled so well poured expertly into a black designer suit. He looked perfectly polished and yet dangerously relaxed at once, all too at ease with the celebrity culture he now so clearly courted. Helena felt a familiar stab of aroused annoyance, that old confusing rise of both desire and disdain.

She wanted to kiss him and kill him all at once.

He laughed and chatted with the host, joking about his new show and purported veganism. When he made a quip about bacon being almost a vegetable, Helena resisted the impulse to throw her purse at the screen. But she's quiet, her stomach in knots, when the host asked him about a particular blonde in his life.

'No comment, of course,' Wheeler waved his hands. 'A gentleman never tells.'

'But you have been seen in New York with her on several occasions,' the host cajoled, the audience laughing in the background. 'Including leaving your apartment very early in the morning.'

Helena felt sick, wringing her hands together and fighting down a wave of nausea.

Wheeler grinned. 'What can I say? What's the bigger scandal? That she was over to... you know...' the audience almost went wild, the applause deafening. 'Or that I sent her out in the morning to buy my waffles with non vegan bacon?'

Shaking, Helena turned the television off. She stood for a moment in the dark living room, her feet cold and bare on the floor, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

It serves you right, she thought. You've only yourself to blame. You should've let go of him a long time ago. Just like he let go of you.

Helena clenched her fist, feeling her spine strengthen with resolve. She pulled her phone from her purse, dialling her voicemail and pulling up the only message she's ever kept for more than a day. Or, in this message's case, for fourteen months, thirteen days and eleven hours.

She's listened to it countless times, so much so that she knows the words and intonation by heart. But still, she listens again, knowing now that this will be the final time.

'Hey, Linka, babe... look, you aren't returnin' my calls and I'm gettin' kinda worried here. If this is about that night... look, I thought we were on the same page and if I'd thought we weren't I sure as hell would never have let it... look, I miss you, babe. I really fucking miss you. Just call me back, okay? Even just to let me know you're okay. Just call me back and put this capitalist pig out of his misery, okay babe? Please, just...-'

An obnoxious beep, and he was gone.

Fourteen months later she hits delete, and makes it for forever.

Hurriedly, she tapped out a message on her phone. Richard. I am sorry tonight ended so abruptly. Can we do dinner again?

She then pulled up another contact.

Kwame, she keyed in. Call me tomorrow?