It's been a hell of a week, but by Friday evening things are starting to feel like they are getting back under control. There was a bug, a stingless bug of an IT nature, behind Obuasi's numbers, now all fixed. The data-cards that had been thought lost by the Accra depot were found again on Wednesday. And best of all: Gemma just put the phone down on a very nice man from Montage's London office. She couldn't quite think why his voice sounded familiar. Maybe his French lilt was just generically adorable. His telephone manner was impeccable anyway. Given Agnes' parentage and Queen Bee's European ambitions, it's nice that Montage have assigned them someone bilingual. It's even nicer that they've taken less than a week to get in touch and arrange a face to face meeting with someone who sounds like he has the best kind of experience for helping Queen Bees.

Perhaps, Gemma thinks, bad things do happen for a reason. Meeting Nicky was a very painful waste of time, but the killer investor pack that Gemma spent months putting together for her no doubt helped convince Montage they might want to invest.

Now it's time to go to Adrienne's birthday party, which is great. Agnes left the office early to help set up – it's at their loft in Shoreditch. Hari left on time to go home and change. Only Gemma stayed back, and waited for Montage to call back. Now that they have, she can leave. She should, really. She's texted Peter Rabbit. He should make it through the Friday evening traffic and get here soon, and then she will go, and everything will be just fine.

Agnes was right: Dylan's been very gracious over the whole silly bet thing. Concerned for her, sympathetic, even, about Nicky. He's not mentioned the bet again all week so everything will be fine, really. Just fine.

So fine, that Gemma is wearing navy blue cigarette pants today, with a white shirt and a teal blue Hermes square knotted around her neck, and powder blue ballet flats. Clothes that scream, in other words, that she's not making an effort. All her working life she has pulled out of her wardrobe daily variations on the theme of heels, a tailored dress and a matching small cardigan, jacket, or both, depending on the weather. They're all sensible, lovely clothes, which she's comfortable wearing anywhere but the gym. So this morning it took her some time to come up with something to wear that looks so very much like she's not trying.

The 10-minute-away text from Peter Rabbit comes in: Gemma heads out, greeting the cleaner on her way out and enquiring about how his youngest is enjoying grammar school. She heads for the florist around the corner, where forty-two each of white, blush pink and dark pink long-stemmed roses are awaiting collection. The pink and silver velvet ribbons are, as usual, a present in themselves. Peter Rabbit pulls over and the shop lady sets the bouquet on the passenger seat next to Gemma, who thanks her profusely, and asks Peter whether they have a date yet for Cath's second knee replacement.

x

"Thank you so much, Peter," she says as he sets the brace of flowers onto Agnes and Adrienne's kitchen counter forty minutes later. Then to Adrienne:

"Happy birthday! Agnes said you didn't want things, but flowers aren't things. And maybe you can use the ribbon for a project or something?"

"They're gorgeous, thank you so much, Gemma. Are there…?"

"One of each colour for each of your years, old thing," Agnes fills in, giving her girlfriend's waist a squeeze. "Hope you don't mind, Gem checked with me yesterday morning."

"Not at all, thank you!"

"Gosh, how many samosas per each of your years did Dylan bring?" Gemma asks, suddenly noticing piles of them dotted around the loft. Each heap is bigger than her giant bouquet.

"Oh my God! I don't know where he gets them but they're deeee-lish!" Hari says, turning up out of nowhere. What on earth is she wearing? There is a bodice, pink with red lacing, petticoats, an abundance of white frills puffing a silk skirt into a pink ball, and bows and lace everywhere. A small white pinafore. Hot pink net stockings with white pop socks on top. No wig and cat ears combo today, but Hari has curled her hair, and sprayed the front curls pink. There is some sort of lace doily tied to the top of her head with another length of satin ribbon. Patent red Mary-Janes on three-inch platforms, with twin cherries for clasps. Gemma's mind boggles as Hari smiles and piles samosas onto a plate. How are Agnes and Adrienne keeping a straight face? Adrienne's yoga buddies can be a little left of centre, but this is a whole new level of insanity.

"Bye, boss!" Hari sings.

She's off again, under Gemma's disapproving eye, which gets even more disapproving as she realises who it is Hari is delivering samosas to. Martin is wearing full satin cape regalia, plus wig and sword. Even at this distance he looks utterly ridiculous. Is this, is he, the reason Hari went home to change? This is simply ridiculous. Gemma checks that no Dylan will intercept her, then makes a bee line for them:

"Martin! It's so lovely to see you again!" she lies. He will never know.

Along the way Gemma has made some quick calculations. She can't engage Martin, or rather dis-engage him, by starting the topic of shoes: it's obvious even from a distance that is exactly what he and Hari are discussing. Make up would normally be a safe bet with any man, unfortunately Martin is not any man. She's really not sure he's any man at all, seeing as he's wearing eye liner, and quite possibly lipstick too. This is going to be tough, but Gemma relishes nothing more than a good social challenge. Inspiration doesn't come to her until after she's greeted him, but then it does, just in time. It always does:

"Martin, I was so sorry to hear about your backup problems the other day. Sounded like you had a really bad day. Didn't it, Hari, remember? I told you about this. Now, Martin, was this anything to do with your recent Linux migration?"

Listening, even to the dullest things, always pays off in the end. In fact, and although she doesn't like to admit it, Gemma usually finds Dylan's IT talk quite interesting. There's a sense of order about computer systems, a feeling of control over them that appeals to Gemma's better nature. Then again, like with Agnes' hives, Dylan's IT systems are quite fascinating, but only in theory. And only to Gemma: Hari is no friend of machines, as demonstrated by every one of her painful interactions with the office printer.

Martin is explaining how the Linux migration had nothing to do with Dylan's back up issues and everything to do with the useless servers team, and Hari's eyes are beginning to glaze over. It's easy to tell on someone with such big eyes as her. Perfect. Time for the next move:

"I'm so sorry, Martin," Gemma lies again, "I've just seen someone I'd promised to introduce Hari to, won't be a minute," she lies - a third time, but she is not counting. In fact she is not even aware of lying, only of solving small problems, one at a time, and with great efficiency. She checks her next route is Dylan-clear:

"Come on, Hari!" she says then, moments later:

"Esther, Suzanne, it's so nice to see you again!"

Gemma is not lying this time. She is genuinely pleased to see them, and not just because they are neither Dylan nor Martin:

"Esther, remember that Sakura-themed doll's dress you made, that you showed me on Etsy?"

"Oh my God!" cries Esther, when she sees Hari. Esther looks ancient, with a head of long wild grey hair, but apparently she can still drop-back from headstand, whatever that means. She used to be a dressmaker for the Royal Shakespeare Company and, in her retirement, she teaches some obscure Japanese martial art and makes what, until she saw Hari's get up tonight, Gemma thought were the craziest dresses. Except that Esther's sensibly sticks to dressing dolls up, not humans.

Gemma's work here is done: she has found the one person in the room, other than Martin, who will enthuse about Hari's outfit with the full degree of technical expertise it deserves. Esther is already feeling the fabric of the skirt and admiring the shirring on the bodice. Thoroughly pleased with her work, Gemma has excused herself to go and grab a well-deserved samosa, when she bumps into something large and pink.

x

"Hey," Dylan says, "our bet was for a kiss. Never said you could cop a feel as well."

Gemma swiftly takes her hands off his torso and steps back to a more respectable distance. That old faded pink t-shirt is the one he was wearing the day they met on Helvellyn, though of course what with the rain and cloud and infernal cold the t-shirt itself was only revealed from under his waterproofs and fleece down the pub, afterwards. Back then it was bright pink, now it's faded and, Gemma realises as she wonders what to do with her hands, very nice and soft. Smelt awfully good too, just now, but she mustn't let that distract her:

"I'm sorry," she starts.

"Aha," he interrupts.

"I believe I owe you an apology."

"I believe you owe me a kiss."

He's messing with her. Only to be expected. He's not even beginning to ruffle her feathers:

"Of course, Dylan. That too, naturally. But I thought almost as much as kissing me, you would like to hear me acknowledge that you were right, and I was not, about Nicky."

He shrugs:

"What's this anyway?" he asks, wagging his index finger up and down at her: "Did the butler burn down all your pretty dresses, or is this your new fuck-off-Dylan look?"

"I don't…"

"Nice try, Gem, I appreciate the attention but you still look delightfully kissable in trousers."

"Thank you, I'm sure that's very kind of you to say, but I wasn't actually finished apologising."

"Really? Go on."

Dylan is beaming from ear to ear. Fair enough: let him enjoy this. It's not just that she can take it: she has planned this speech specifically for his amusement. After all, if she's not going to kiss him the least she can do is give him a laugh at her expense. She did lose the bet. In that spirit:

"Secondly, Dylan, I must also apologise for making you bet your beard. I should not judge nor indeed seek to influence the choices you make with respect to your facial hair or any other aspects of your personal appearance. I'm afraid I may have done so in the past. I sincerely apologise if I have objectified you in any way, and I promise to be more respectful in the future."

"I don't believe that for a second, but go on."

"And thirdly," she takes a deep breath. This is the most sincere, and therefore the hardest part of her apology: "I apologise for my side of the bet, that too was silly - and disrespectful. I'm not sure how this whole silly betting started…"

"Oh it was me, I started it."

"You also said you'd broken our conservatory so I'm not..."

"Give me some credit, Gem."

Again, with the interruptions! She had not expected so many interruptions, they keep almost throwing her off course. Almost:

"Again, that's very kind of you to say, but I too had choices, and even if you started it, I'm sure I should not have gone along with it. It's taken me far too long to realise this, but by going along I have put you in the awkward position of having to lose every one of our bets, which you have been very gracious to do, all these years, and for which I thank you. I do. And for the coffees. And so I can only apologise that my excess of confidence in Nicky has made it impossible for you to lose this bet too, as I'm sure you would have wished to."

She stops and looks at him: a frank, open, nothing-to-see-here look, even as her heart rate accelerates and her head feels a little light. She can't possibly have misjudged this. Well, she might have, but she and Agnes both can't have. He's going to let her off, he has to. He's smiling, evidently enjoying this. Fair cop. This is going to be fine.

It will, right?

"All is well," he shrugs, which helps not at all. "All is well" pronounced "Al is well" is a catchphrase from some Bollywood thing he likes about three idiots. It is often said in jest when things are not at all well, and therefore could mean absolutely everything and anything. Who, for instance, is all well for? Not for her, right now, but then she did lose that bet.

"So are we settling here in front of everybody or d'ye want to find somewhere quieter?"

"What?!"

That came out a couple of hundred decibels too loud. Some heads turn to stare. Dylan throws his back and has a good laugh. Her heart, having skipped a beat or three, screeches back into a normal rhythm. She could kill him. Really, she could. She won't of course but oh, self-restraint can be hard sometimes. Not that Dylan would know, of course. He does eventually stop laughing and then he shakes his head and says, in a completely level voice:

"Don't worry, Gem. So strike me down for a romantic fool but I always fancied next time we kissed it'd be consensual."

Oh?

So… hang on, so he does mean to… that is… one day… he might kiss her, if…

"Foosball?" he asks, interrupting these luminous thoughts.

"What?"

She's not shouting now. She's barely whispering.

"Foosball? Shall we play? Table's free and you always play better when you're pissed off with me."

Too right she does.

x

There is something wrong with time tonight, Gemma realises when she next looks around the room. Time is Gemma's oldest and most familiar foe. Time is always too short, that is a given. There is too much to be done and not enough time to do it in, so every minute is precious. Time must be parcelled carefully, allocated between Queen Bees, exercise and sleep, with enough left to be there for her friends and her father, Isabella, and Isabella's children of course. Time to unwind, yes, occasionally, but better to manage so as not to need to unwind in the first place, through judicious planning around both duties to others, and self-care.

Within each of these categories, constant trade-offs: more time spent looking for a gift for Quentin means less time spent with Quentin. More time stretching means less time on the cross trainer. More time on Obuasi's numbers is less time to cost the production of Agnes' latest formulation. Without the notifications which keep popping up on her phone, Gemma would probably never be on time anywhere.

And now, as she looks around the room, Gemma realises that a whole chunk of time has evaporated. Slipped away, unnoticed. Her match ball clacked as it hit the back of Dylan's goal, echoing around an almost empty room. She and Dylan looked up, a few stragglers looked back, then went on bidding their goodbyes to Agnes and the birthday girl. Time to call Peter Rabbit and help clear up.

Really?

"Come on," Dylan says, and they walk towards the kitchen counter, and Agnes and Adrienne and the roses and what remarkably little is left of the samosas.

Time slows down again. It's dangerous for anything to slow down this fast. No wonder it hurts: time whiplash. She's texted Peter Rabbit and she's going around the room picking up bamboo plates and leftovers for composting. And fighting the twin temptations of checking on her phone and on Dylan, who's on drying duty while Agnes washes up and Adrienne puts away. They are laughing at something. She's not feeling well.

She forces herself to focus on not contaminating the composting with other recycling. It's important, but her mind keeps jumping around time, going back over the evening. Time was slow enough at the beginning, when she was talking to Hari, to Esther, to Peter Rabbit or to Adrienne.

Wait! She stops and drops the bin liner. It's obvious, really. Put the compulsion to look back in the sink's direction together with the dread of her phone buzzing to announce that Peter Rabbit is around the corner, and the answer is obvious: Dylan. Dylan, and his smile that spells trouble and his magic pink t-shirt: they have broken the space-time continuum. Come within smelling distance of them, and time accelerates away. Pull back, and…

But wait: foosball? How many times have they played foosball? Maybe that is the thing, though: she's never bothered to count. She stops counting whenever they are together, time flies and she is… distracted. But also, strangely, hyper focused. He's right: she does play better when she's annoyed with him.

Which she is, most of the time she spends with him.

So why doesn't she walk away if he annoys her? It would be easy enough, wouldn't it?

She's not even pretending to be picking up anymore, she's standing at the other end of the room staring at the three of them standing around the sink, and then her brain does that other, all too familiar time-warp thing: time shunts back, folds onto itself, lands her ten and a bit years ago sandwiched between the cold edge of a City marquee bar and the warm half-drunken front of Dylan. Only to snap back a second later and fling her straight into whatever this present is, like some old …

Dishrag, maybe, she concludes while watching him dry.

So no, don't wait. Stuff drying and stuff clearing up: there's no time to lose. She can't be feeling this way a second longer. Her feet somehow carry her until she is standing by the sink with her Burberry's folded neatly over one arm and her faithful teal-blue Alma dangling from the other.

"Dylan, will you see me downstairs please?"

Agnes stares at her for a nano-second, almost speaks, then she turns, snatches the plate Dylan's been drying, and the cloth, while Adrienne somehow magics his jacket, opens the doors and shoves them both through it. It's possible there is whooping and cheering from behind it after it shuts, but Gemma is not paying attention. Dylan is looking worried.

"You OK, Gem?"

Her face erupts into an idiotic smile as she shakes her head, and reaches for his neck. By the time the lift arrives, only from two floors down, they've long been joined at the lips.

x

For once in her life, Gemma has forgotten all about her phone. Hence it comes as some surprise to both of them when, down on the pavement, they interrupt themselves for long enough to notice the Woodhouse Bentley pulled up in front of them. Peter Rabbit winds down the window and Gemma extricates herself from Dylan's arms:

"I'm sorry, Peter, something has come up, I'm..." I'm so incredibly happy, is what she is thinking, "Something came up, I'm so sorry."

"You mean someone came down with you," Dylan corrects her, then buries his head back into the back of her neck.

"I'm sorry, Peter, I am so sorry I dragged you all the way here so late. Would you mind awfully…?"

"Not at all."

"And… would you tell Daddy that you drove me to Isabella's?"

"Of course. Good night," Peter Rabbit says, winds the window back up, and drives off.

Dylan looks at the car then back down at Gemma. He frowns for a second then shakes his head:

"Does this mean you're… coming home with me?"

She nods.

"All is well."