“Can I guess which one’s your favorite?” I ask.
He smiles. “Sure.”
“Well,” I say, in between mouthfuls of pasta and salad, “I feel that given you’re an architect and love clean lines and new things, it should be the new-build. But I actually think it’s the Victorian terrace.”
He smiles again. “Busted. How did you know?”
“It’s bright, light. High ceilings. Beautiful detail. Decent-size kitchen. It was my favorite.”
“Was it? Well, I look forward to cooking for you one night in the decent-size kitchen,” he teases. “I’ll go ahead and put my deposit down, if you didn’t find anything to worry about. No rats in the halls? No corpse in the bathtub?”
“None of that. It was perfect.”
“How far is it from where you live?” he asks.
“About an hour.”
“OK,” he says and I can’t tell what he thinks about that.
I give him a tour of my flat, eventually ending up in the sitting room, where I plug my phone in and we talk about Christmas. I talk about my hometown, Whitstable, where I’m going to be in aweek or so’s time. He talks about the family dinner he’ll have with his parents. He goes first thing in the morning, helps cook dinner, and they start drinking champagne and orange juice from the get-go. I tell him about my mum flapping around the kitchen, determined to take charge, and my dad who storms in like the cavalry and helps cook the only meal he cooks all year and then takes all the credit. Mum doesn’t mind. It’s sort of a tradition now. We talk about walks on Whitstable seafront to blow away the cobwebs after a day spent mostly eating and reading, and playing silly board games that we’ll never play the rest of the year.
“Sounds like heaven.”
“It is. I finish work in a few days. I’ve saved up so much of this year’s holiday allowance so that I can go home, and I’m there all the way through until after New Year.”
“I have to work,” he says. “But I don’t mind. I’m actually working from home this afternoon, so I should probably get back to it. But…can I call you this weekend?”
“Yes, please,” I say. I’d be disappointed if he didn’t want to talk to me. Whatever is happening between us is so delicate, so early, that I’m afraid we might overdo it. I’ve never had anything like this with anyone: this complete openness, friends who might be something else, forced into a slowness that I like because we physically can’t be anything else. Because now this feels like it might be something else; something amazing. And it is turning into something with possibilities, and it’s moving there so incredibly slowly that I’m not sure I even noticed when it happened.
Chapter 6
“You can’t rememberDavey’s last name?” Miranda asks as Paul tries to flag a waitress down during our Thai night out. She’s new, she’s ignoring us, and Paul declares he’s going to give her the largest tip at the end of the night.
Miranda and I balk at this idea.
“It’s so she remembers us for next week.” Paul shrugs. “Then we get good service. It’s all about playing the long game,” he says, offering the waitress a winning smile, which she ignores as she rushes past us once again.
Miranda and I look back at each other, leaving Paul to his task. I try to remember. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Callow or Carrow—it was something like that. I’ve genuinely forgotten. It didn’t seem important after I asked it. And after I’d established he was who he said he was via a second photo…I was happy.”
“Christ, have I taught you nothing?” Miranda asks. She’s holding her mobile phone, stalking Davey’s social-media accounts. Only she can’t find him. She was reliant on his last name. “It was Cornish,” I volunteer and she begins researching Cornish last names.
The waitress suddenly arrives at our side and we begin a frenzy of ordering absolutely everything in one go—starters, mains, sides, more drinks than we’ll need—as we’re now in fear we won’t ever see her again. She looks flustered and we know we’vebombarded the poor woman. We also know half our order is coming out of that kitchen incorrect. We’ll eat it anyway.
Miranda puts her phone away, annoyed, and mutters, “You’re useless.”
It’s our last night out for a while, as I’m heading back home in a few days for Christmas, and we swap gifts tonight with strict instructions not to open them until Christmas Day. I’ll pack their gifts to me and take them with me to Whitstable.
I’ve put their presents in a huge box and everything is gift-wrapped individually. Paul holds the box up, shakes it fiercely, and then says, “What is it?”
“A puppy,” I reply with a wicked look, as he stops shaking it violently and stares at me.
“So when are you talking to Davey next?” Miranda asks.
“Not sure. Maybe later today?”
“How can you be so cool about it?” she asks.
“It’s easy,” I say truthfully. “I know he’ll ring and when we speak…” I don’t want to say “it’s wonderful,” so I don’t. But it is.
