I found Matthew in the propped-open doorway of the fire escape, watching the rumpled indigo of the starless London sky, cigarette between his fingers. I grabbed it, threw it to the ground, and stubbed it out with the toe of my shoe.
“Make up your f*****g mind,” I told him. “Like, smoke or don’t smoke. But stop pretending you’re not smoking when you are.”
He gazed at me, cartoonishly shocked, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. “What on earth are you doing?”
“What are you doing?”
“Well, I was having a cigarette, which you seem to have found objectionable.”
“What are you doing here? Why did you buy all the pictures? What the f**k is wrong with you?”
He was silent, the uncertain moonlight rendering him almost monochrome, all stark lines and shadows.
“Well?” I might actually have stamped my
