Soul Fire

signs that he’s doing pretty well are the designer shoes
and manbags, which really don’t match his dragged-through-a-hedge-backwards hair and clothes.
    Well, I definitely can’t afford designer, and all the gift shops round here are packed with pink cupcake-themed tat. If you hung around our suburb for long enough, you’d think
feminism never happened.
    No wonder Meggie got away to Greenwich. This place was too small for her.
    I can’t buy booze, because all the shopkeepers know me. And even though it’s his favourite, a crate of Diet Coke doesn’t quite cut it as a house-warming present. This has to be
a good present, to make up for neglecting him.
    Lewis started off as a kind of surrogate big brother, drafted in by my mates to try to get to the bottom of the weird emails I was sent just after Meggie’s funeral. By the time Lewis
showed up, I’d discovered that the ‘weird’ emails actually came from my sister, so I’ve never told him about Soul Beach. But he’s helped me out of a few scrapes, and
more than that, he’s become a real friend. And I can’t wait to see him.
    I’m passing the greengrocer’s when I see it – a huge chilli plant with the tiniest, reddest peppers emerging from the flowers. The label says they’re among the fieriest
on earth, and can irritate if not handled carefully.
    I don’t know why I think that’s just right, but I do. It seems to suit Lewis; he likes to get under people’s skin.

10
    ‘Welcome to Tomlinson Towers,’ Lewis says, opening the door to his flat.
    ‘So this is where you’re plotting world domination these days?’
    ‘Well, I couldn’t stay at my mum’s forever, could I? Living with Mummy does rather reinforce the stereotype of the anti-social computer nerd. I’m lucky the FBI
didn’t break down my door, taser me senseless and cart me off to Guantanamo.’
    I’m still trying to hide the badly wrapped chilli plant that Lewis has chivalrously pretended not to notice. The flat is in the basement of a Victorian house, close to the river, and as I
step inside, I half-expect it to be damp, but instead it smells green and woody, like a forest.
    ‘Have you overdone the air fresheners, Lewis? Oh!’
    The place is small, with a giant sofa, an old tiled fireplace, and an open-plan kitchen. But where the far wall should be, there’s a set of arched patio doors, a giant glass desk, topped
with three wide-screen monitors, and beyond that . . . what looks like a mini rainforest! Glossy jungle leaves, delicate ferns, over-sized bamboos: a wild wall of colour in a glass-house.
    ‘Are you growing drugs, Lewis?’
    He laughs. ‘Nothing as cool as that. No, I like plants. See, I am a geekafter all!’
    A neglected cactus might seem geeky, but this doesn’t. ‘Did you grow them?’
    ‘Some of the seedlings are mine,’ he says, still guarded in case I take the piss. ‘The rest I bought, or “adopted” from Freecycle since I moved in here. It’s
amazing how many people want to give up on their unruly plants.’
    I smile. Lewis is pretty unruly himself, like a gangly tree growing up towards the sun. ‘So you’re their last hope? St Francis of the Foliage?’
    ‘To be fair, they’re working for me too. There’s a theory that they help soak up electromagnetic radiation from computers. But before you ask, I don’t talk to them. Or
stroke them. It’s a purely platonic relationship.’
    That’s when it hits me: the weirdness of being in his flat. I turn away from the wall of plants. The fireplace is filled with half-burned candles, and the chocolate brown L-shaped sofa
seems designed for two. How many girls has he entertained here since he moved in? He was lying about it needing a woman’s touch – the flat’s already super-stylish, like a
laid-back bar where you’d hang out all weekend with your mates.
    I remember my plant. ‘Oh. I, uh, got you something. It’s going to look a bit pathetic next to all your trees, though.’
    He takes the package, and opens it carefully. ‘Habanero chilli. Wow! Perfect, Ali. I don’t have a chilli in my collection yet. You read my mind. Thanks so much.’
    He leans forward, as though he’s going to hug me, but at the last minute he stops, puts the plant down, runs his fingers through his already messy hair. ‘Right. So, can I get you a
coffee?’ He points proudly at the new espresso maker. Then he sees my face. ‘Or would you rather just tell me what’s happened straight away?’
    I nod, and