“Two rooms, right?” he says.
“Obviously.”
“Good, because I’ll be bringing girls back probably and I don’t want you getting annoyed.”
“George, for God’s sake.” And then, “Girls, plural?”
“Not at the same time,” he chuckles and then thinks. “Maybe at the same time? Who knows. Holiday, baby!”
I laugh but roll my eyes.
“So we’re booking this now?” he asks, pulling out his wallet.
“Yes!” I practically squeal. “I’m so excited.”
“Me too. I want to be there now.” George books and pays for it with his credit card and I transfer him the money. As he concentrates on paying, I look out of the window and wonder what Davey’s doing right now. Out toward the car park it’s started snowing.
—
I’m shopping for holiday clothes. In the middle of December this is incredibly difficult, and I decide now’s as good a time as any to start buying Christmas presents for friends and family.
I’m excited to see Mum and Dad at Christmas. Despite the fact that they only live in Kent, I rarely make it home. But we chat a lot and text a lot, and they both work, so we’re all as busy as each other. Dad’s a GP and Mum’s a receptionist at a hotel. She gets special staff discounts in the spa and spends a lot of time test-driving the treatments. I head to Waterstones to stockpile books for both of them. They’re book fiends and it’s become our ritual that we buy each other a grab bag selection for Christmas.
I end up in the travel section and find a book about London. I put it in my basket and decide to gift wrap it for Davey and hand it to him when he arrives. There’s no point sending him something he’ll have to pack.
When I eventually tick everyone off my list, I move on to finding holiday clothes in the other shops. The snow’s falling fast now and my Uggs are getting soaked through, but eventually I catch the bus home and sit clutching my shopping bags, watching the edges of London blur into East London. At the park I get off and walk home, settling into the sofa with a book and a cup of tea. I’ve already strung fairy lights around my flat; they live there all year, but I always leave the tree until last because it’s such an effort. The decorations are from John Lewis—intricate, ornate baubles, which cost a complete fortune, but they look good now, twinkling delicately as I switch on the new fairy lights I bought to wind around the tree.
My phone dings and I wonder if it’s Davey. It’s not. It’s a rare Rightmove alert about a two-bed flat in Wanstead with a garden. I’m horrified to see the cost per month is at least £300 more than I’m currently paying. I love Joan for not upping the rent. I click onto flats in Brixton and look at the kind of properties Davey might rent. I look at places similar to my own, cute Victorian terraces with high ceilings, and some distinctly different, cool new-builds with open-plan spaces and small kitchen areas. I wonder what he’ll go for and message him to ask. Who says I always have to wait for him to contact me?
He messages back almost immediately. I love that about him.I’ve found a place,he confirms.I’m putting down a security deposit.
But you’ve not even seen it. You’re going to rent a flat you’ve not even looked at?
Uh, yeah? How else was I going to do it?he writes and puts a little laughing face.
Send me,I volunteer.I’ll go look for you. Choose your top threeand I’ll view them for you after work, or on the weekend or something.
Can I call you?he asks and I reply happily with a thumbs-up emoji.
“Hi,” he says when we connect.
“Hi,” I say, warmed by hearing his voice.
“Are you sure you don’t mind going to see them? Is it far from you? I don’t want to put you out.”
“No trouble. I love looking in people’s houses. I’m nosy like that.”
“Good to know.”
We talk about the kind of times I can do, and he tells me about the flat he really liked the look of. “I spent hours clicking and dragging on Street View to figure out what the local area around it was like. How far it was from Tube stations and whatever. Brixton looks fun. Thanks for the suggestion.”
He’s looking at one-bed flats and sends me the links to both his favorite choices. I look through the pictures eagerly, and we discuss the high ceilings and cornicing. I watch a lot of Channel 4 property programs in my spare time, and Davey’s entranced by the idea of Kirstie and Phil’sLocation, Location, Location.“There’s like thirty-five seasons!” he declares excitedly. “Man alive, I’m here for this. Move over, Netflix.”
“Where are you?” I ask, wanting to picture him.
“Lying on my bed. You?”
“Sofa.”
