We Met in December. Rosie Curtis
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of London at your disposal. You downloaded Tinder yet?’ Gen asks. She curls one of her ginger ringlets around her finger, then lets it go so it springs back into place. Gen’s never had a bad hair day in her life.
‘Ugh, no.’ I shudder. ‘The thing is I’m not really a Tinder sort of person.’
‘Mmm.’ Sophie nods. I wonder what she means by that.
I sigh. ‘Anyway the thing is there’s a bit of a problem with Becky’s whole plan. I mean, there’s being practical, and then there’s – well, do you believe in fate?’
Gen cups her chin in both hands and leans forward. ‘Tell me more.’
‘I totally do,’ says Sophie. ‘I mean look at me and Rich.’
I think about the two of them and catch a glimpse of Gen, who doesn’t say a word but there’s a split second when her nostrils flare, which is always a tell with her, and I know she’s thinking Sophie and Rich, the most practical couple in the world?
‘Come on,’ Gen urges. ‘Spill.’ She looks at Sophie and they look back at me.
‘It’s not – I mean it couldn’t go anywhere. I’m just being silly,’ I begin. ‘It’s, um, Alex.’
‘Ahhh,’ they say, and exchange another glance.
‘What d’you mean, ahh?’ I cup my hot chocolate in both hands, holding it in front of me defensively.
‘Oh, just Alex … as in the new housemate you’ve casually mentioned about fifteen times a day for the last week?’ Sophie’s eyebrows lift and she gives a snort of laughter.
‘No,’ says Gen, totally straight-faced. ‘Alex, as in the guy who’s training as a nurse and isn’t that amazing because he’s given up being a lawyer to do something that really matters …’
‘Shut up, you two.’ I can feel my cheeks are going pink, and put my hands against them so my face is all squashed up, and I make a silly fish face at them to make them laugh and hide my blushes. I feel like I’m about fourteen again.
‘Yeah, we wondered how long it’d be before you actually admitted to us that you’ve got a massive grade-A crush on him. I mean it’s been pretty obvious. But—’ Gen pauses to beckon the waiter, before asking, ‘how does that work with Becky’s no-relationships rule in the house?’
‘I’m pretty sure that’s not enforceable,’ says Sophie, her brow furrowing. She’s a stickler for rules and regulations and things. She takes out her phone.
‘Don’t google it,’ I say, warningly, and she puts her mobile back on the table, making a face because I’ve caught her out. ‘Becky’s totally right. It would never ever work. Plus, I’m starting a new job, and I’ve got a brand-new life to be getting on with.’
‘Yeah, and gorgeous men who wear nurses’ scrubs and walk into your life completely out of the blue are ten a penny in London,’ Sophie says.
‘Totally.’ Gen nods, earnestly. ‘That’s why I’ve been single for bloody eternity, and why you haven’t had sex since Sad Matthew.’
‘Don’t,’ I say, covering my whole face in my hands now. I’d had an accidental one-night stand with Matthew-from-school after Neil and I split up, and every time he got pissed he’d text long, drunken messages telling me how he thought we were the perfect couple, and how it wasn’t too late. In the end, I’d blocked him, feeling only about five per cent guilty. The rest of me was deliriously happy to have him out of my hair.
‘Anyway. You can’t let him just slip through your fingers.’ Gen looks up at the waiter and asks for some more drinks and a plate of chips to share. It’s half ten in the morning and my stomach contracts with horror at the thought.
‘He’s hardly going to slip through my fingers. He’s sleeping in the room next door.’
‘And Becky’s on the second floor. She’ll never know,’ says Gen, waggling her eyebrows. ‘You can just sneak into his room after dark. That’s quite romantic.’
‘Or creepy,’ said Sophie, pulling a face. ‘Honestly, I’m sure Becky would be fine. Maybe when she said no couples, she probably meant it as in no couples moving into the flat, not that you all had to take a vow of chastity when you signed the lease.’
I make a face. I think Becky was pretty bloody unequivocal about it. ‘I think that’s probably just as well. I think keeping a vow of chastity with him in the room next door might be pretty much impossible.’
I think of Alex reaching up to get something from the cupboard and the sight of his bare skin underneath his T-shirt and the way it felt when I was standing beside him and my arms were all prickly with goose bumps and I give a tiny shiver of anticipation. Maybe when I go back, the best thing to do would just be to get it out in the open. Ask him out for a drink. There’s nothing wrong with asking someone out for a drink, is there? And if it happens to lead to something else, well …
3rd January, London
I think there is a strong possibility that my body is going to be bent into this position forever. We’ve been on a coach for twenty-one hours, and I can’t remember who I am. When I stand up, everything aches. I took a travel sickness pill and I’ve slept groggily for so long that I have to count on my fingers to work out what day it is. Victoria Coach Station doesn’t look any more glamorous at 5.30 a.m. than it does in the middle of the day – in fact, it probably looks worse without people all around. It smells cold and damp and grey, but inside I feel a tiny fizz of excitement that I’m back home – that London, the city I’ve always loved, is home.
I’ve done what feels like the scariest thing of all in changing career when I was perfectly safe and secure. My stomach contracts when I think about it and all the things that could go wrong. It’s a bit of a weird leap from managing a marketing company to working as Operations Manager for a publishing house where I’ll be in charge of making sure books go from finished manuscripts to products on the shelves. It’s still weird to think of books as products, if I’m completely truthful. I look at the posters on the bus station hoardings – half of them are for books. Someone like me helped that to happen. It feels like a huge, pretty terrifying responsibility. I swallow and turn back to the girls, who are organising their bags.
‘I want ALL the details on what happens when you get back,’ Gen says, hugging me goodbye before she hops in an Uber.
‘Come for dinner next Friday?’ Sophie kisses me on the cheek. Rich’s waiting by the road to give her a lift home. Getting up at five in the morning to collect her from the coach is the most Rich thing he could do.
‘Sure you don’t want a lift?’
I shake my head. There’s an early morning bus in ten minutes, and I want to stand up while I wait, stretch my legs, and think about what I’m going to do when I get home. And then I beam with happiness at a flock of unsuspecting pigeons. I think this year is going to be pretty bloody amazing.
Even though I’m so tired I feel like a zombie I can’t help smiling to myself as the bus makes its way along the streets. London looks so pretty, dusted with the finest icing-sugar coating of frost. It sparkles on the top of stone walls and expensive-looking black railings, making the red telephone boxes look picture-postcard pretty. This is home. I squeeze my arms around myself, because I can’t quite believe it’s true. I feel warm and sleepy in my thick ski coat. My head leans against the cool of the bus window and I watch the city coming to life.
Two early-morning runners, clad in thermals with reflective stripes, zoom past as we wait for a traffic light to turn from red to green. Christmas