We Met in December. Rosie Curtis
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dressed in her work clothes of grey slim-fitting trousers and a pale blouse made of silky stuff, which I would definitely have spilled coffee on within an hour. But she’s here at 6.30 p.m. looking as if she’s just got out of the shower, instead of having battled her way home through London traffic after a long day doing corporate law stuff. I’ve taken off my pink fluffy coat because it was making me feel like a dislodged tree bauble, or a pom-pom, in comparison to Becky’s minimalist chic.
‘Hardly,’ I say, fiddling with a filter and making the photo look nice before hashtagging it and hitting share. ‘I just thought it’d be nice to show everyone back home what it’s like living in London.’
‘And make a point of what a lovely time you’re having even though they all think you’re insane to give up a promotion in Bournemouth for a pay cut up here?’ she says.
I nod, and pick up a tortilla chip, breaking it in half. ‘That too,’ I admit, making a face. ‘And Nanna Beth is on there too – she’s got herself an iPhone contract. I’m her only Instagram follower so far.’
‘She’s going to be sharing selfies with all the hot doctors in the nursing home, isn’t she?’ Becky snorts with laughter.
I turn the phone so she can see it. @nanna_beth1939 has posted a string of photos of her new ground-floor flat in the sheltered accommodation unit she’s moved into.
‘Oh, bless,’ says Becky, taking my phone so she can have a closer look. ‘Look, she’s got that wooden carving you bought her in Cyprus on the mantelpiece.’
I peer over her shoulder. ‘Ahh, that’s nice.’ I’m hit by a wave of guilt that I’m going to be up here and she’s going to be down there. I’ve spent the last year living in her house, ever since Grandpa died, and it’s going to be weird not having her there every night when I get home from work.
‘She’ll be fine,’ says Becky, as if reading my thoughts. She clicks the phone off and puts it down on the table. ‘And it’s not as if you’re miles away. It’s a train ride, that’s all.’
‘I know. Just feels weird leaving her to the tender mercies of Mum.’
Becky makes a face. ‘Yeah, well, she’s not exactly … well, she wasn’t at the front of the queue when they were giving out the nurturing quota, was she?’
I snort. My mother is many things, but maternal is not one of them. I mean she’s lovely, in her own way. But I’m not sure she’ll remember to pop round every couple of days and check Nanna Beth’s doing okay in her new place. Anyway. I square my shoulders and think of what Nanna Beth told me when she’d pressed a roll of twenty-pound notes into my hand yesterday morning. It was time for me to step out into the big world and let her do her own thing. Slightly odd role reversal, I know, but our family’s always been a bit unusual.
In the kitchen, Becky’s still singing out of tune and lighting the tiny tea-light candles that are scattered around. Even when we were living in university halls, she managed to make her room look good.
There’s a clatter as someone opens the door, and a gust of air blows a couple of Christmas cards off the top of the fridge. I bend down and pick them up, catching the one-sided conversation that’s going on in the hall.
‘You said you’d be able to get away.’ It must be Emma, the girl Becky’s found to take another one of the rooms.
There’s a long pause and I hover by the kitchen door, wondering if I should pop my head round and say hello. Becky’s stirring spiced chicken and peppers, filling the room with a smell that makes my stomach growl. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.
‘What about me?’ Emma says. My eyes widen. I shouldn’t be listening in, but I’m a sucker for a bit of drama. I fiddle with my phone, trying to look as if I’m busy and not just eavesdropping. Emma’s voice is in that middle ground, somewhere between angry and upset.
‘I don’t care what she’s doing,’ she says, and this time she’s not keeping her voice down. ‘I’m not waiting around forever.’
Becky turns round, frying pan in hand. She raises her eyebrows and looks towards the door. ‘Uh-oh, trouble in paradise by the sound of it.’
I nod, and lower my voice. ‘What’s the story?’
Becky puts a finger to her lips. ‘Tell you later. But it’s very Emma. It’ll be all over and they’ll be loved up before you know it.’
A moment later, Emma appears in the room, her eyes sparkling in that suspiciously bright way that mine do if I’ve been crying and I’m trying to look like everything’s okay.
‘Hi, hello,’ she says, and leans over and kisses me on the cheek.
‘Sorry, just had to take a quick work call. You know what it’s like. They pay us nothing, and expect us to be on call 24/7.’
I smile in a way that I hope suggests I haven’t heard a thing.
‘Emma, this is Jess, the university friend I told you about. She’s taking the room on the first floor.’
‘Lovely to meet you, Jess. God I need a drink,’ says Emma, picking up one of the little shot glasses of tequila. I’m about to pass her a lemon slice, but she’s too quick for me. The whole thing is gone in a second, and she winces in disgust. ‘Ugh. Revolting. I hate tequila.’ She takes another one and downs it as well. ‘Cheers.’
I’m still holding the lemon slice in mid-air when the kitchen door opens again.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ says a low voice. I look up, and almost drop my phone in shock.
Standing in the doorway, taking up quite a lot of it, is a man. The kind of man that makes you feel like your stomach just fell through the floor. I mean I say that, but Emma’s scrolling through her phone and Becky’s running hot water over the fajita saucepan, so maybe they’re immune or something but – wow.
I press my lips together, mainly to check that my mouth isn’t actually hanging open. I suspect my eyes are cartoon circles though, and I can’t press them shut without looking a bit weird, so I just sort of stand there, making a kind of mental inventory.
Scruff of beard – check. Broad, muscular shoulders – check. Twinkly eyes – check. Bottle of tequila in hand. He’s wearing a grey shirt and a pair of jeans and he’s got a scarf hanging round his neck and …
‘Hey. You must be Jess,’ he says, stepping towards me. He reaches out a hand to shake mine, and then leans forward to kiss me on the cheek in greeting. ‘I’m Alex.’
He smells fresh, his cheek cold from the winter air against mine. I catch a faint scent of cedar wood and notice as he steps back that his sleeves are rolled up, showing off the sort of forearms that look as if he chops wood or does something outdoorsy for a living, only we’re in the middle of Notting Hill and that’s unlikely.
There’s a moment where I think I’ve forgotten how to speak, which is slightly awkward as I’m basically standing there like the human embodiment of the heart eyes emoji, suppressing the urge to put one hand to my cheek (because: phwoar, basically) and the other on his, to check he’s real (because: well, ditto). And then I remember that I’m sensible, level-headed Jess, and this is my new house and my new life and the number one rule that Becky told us all about in the welcome email was NO COUPLES. Which is absolutely fine, because I’m here to work and definitely absolutely not to fall in love at first sight with gorgeous men with cute beards holding tequila bottles.
‘Hi.’ I shove my phone back in the pocket of my jeans and try to force myself to do something practical, so I press my hands together in a workmanlike manner and say in an artificially bright voice, ‘That’s everyone, isn’t it?’
I turn to Becky, who’s halfway through what she’d later explain was a test fajita, a dollop of sour cream on her chin. She wipes it off, and tries to talk with her mouth full, so it comes out a bit muffled.
‘Everyone