He laughs. “I didn’t really have time to scroll for an old picture and I just got out of the shower, so I took it right now. Your turn.”
I don’t do selfies. In fact I hate them. I’ve never got my head around them. All those pouting images. Why do people pout when they do it? I’ve un-followed all my friends who regularly pout in selfies. Brutal, but the truth. Here goes.
“Hold on,” I say. I realize I also haven’t got time to scroll through and find a picture of me, so I switch on the camera, take a picture, and look at it. No, that’s awful. I try again quickly. Better. But still no. Third time lucky: I look at my hair, my smile, my eyes elongated with a brand-new Benefit mascara, and realize this is as good as it’s going to get. Thank God I dressed up tonight. I forward it to Davey. “Incoming,” I announce and then bite my lip. Please be kind, I think.
He grows silent and then, “Well,hithere,” he says.
He makes me laugh all too easily.
“You don’t look like how I imagined,” he continues. “In a really good way.”
“Likewise,” I reply. I’m still aiming for casual. I’m not sure if I’m hitting it or not. Is it my imagination or has sending photographs switched this chat up a bit?
“So,” he says, changing the subject. “We were going to talk about places to live. Where do you recommend?”
“Depends on your budget,” I say, sounding like an estate agent and hating that we’ve flicked onto practical subjects. “You’re an architect, you said, so you must be rolling in it.” In the background Davey chuckles. “That means you can probably rent in any of the locations starting with B.”
He laughs. “B?”
“All the best locations start with B: Battersea, Belgravia; Blackheath is cute—very villagey; Bermondsey’s quite cool; Brixton, too.”
“I’ll keep B in mind. And where do you suggest I look to find a place to rent somewhere beginning with B? Like, what kind of websites?”
“I use Rightmove, and there’s a couple of others. Do you want to flat-share, though?”
He thinks. “No, I don’t think so. I can probably afford to rent a small place by myself.”
“One bed or two?” I ask. And then horror strikes me. Why haven’t I asked the obvious? “Are you moving here alone? Or…with a girlfriend?”
“Alone,” he says and I can hear the curious humor in his voice as he says it.
I decline to respond, but inwardly I’m buoyed. When I next look at the time, it’s because hours have passed while we’ve been talking. It’s one o’clock in the morning and my phone battery is on its way out.
“Hang on, I need to find a charger.”
“Me too. And some clothes. I’ve been in this towel for hours.”
I think I audibly gulp as he says that, but move on quickly, plugging in my phone. I also need to pee, but don’t quite know how to broach that subject. I try, “Could you just hold on for one second, I need to…um—”
“Sure,” he says, cutting in. “I’ll wait.”
I put the phone down on my bed as it charges and run to the bathroom, pee so quickly I can practically hear my mum fifty miles away muttering the phrase “like a racehorse.” I wash my hands and dry them on my dress as I go back to the bedroom, flump down on the bed, and set myself against the pillows.
“It’s really late for you now,” he says when I’ve announced I’m back. “What is it—like midnight?”
He’s an hour out, but I don’t tell him that. “Do you want to hang up?” I offer. He’s quiet and I prompt, “Davey?”
“Sorry, I just shook my head as if you could see me. What an idiot.”
“Ha,” I reply and settle back.
“Do you have to get up for work early?” he asks.
I nod my head and then realize what I’ve done and reply in the affirmative.
“What do you do?” he asks. I can hear the rustle of fabric and assume he’s putting on clothes while we talk.
“Marketing.”
