Sometimes, I catch a glimpse of a boy who looks like Kian, the same wild black hair, the same scruffy-chic clothes and lazy, ambling stride. Then the boy turns round and of course he’s nothing like Kian. How could he be?
It’s like it never happened, and that’s the toughest thing of all. Magic. Yeah, right.
I turn into the driveway, crunch my way up the path and punch in the door code. I run up the stairs and on to the landing and then it hits me, suddenly, the smell of wild mint, in London, in December.
It makes my heart race, it makes my throat ache.
Outside the door to our flat is a pair of broken-up old sandals, the scarily high wedge heels encrusted with moss. Lying against one sandal are a couple of tiny wild strawberries and a hazel twig with catkins and nuts on the same branch. A pair of faded, swirly sandals, curls of ivy where the ribbons should be? Strawberries, in December? Catkins and nuts on the same branch? Suddenly, I’m certain there’s someone behind me. I whirl round but there’s nobody there, just the empty landing and the silent staircase and the lingering smell of wild mint.
I pick up the sandals, the strawberries and the hazel branch, and I turn the key in the lock and go inside.
Scarlett Page 15