He shrugs, resumes jogging on the spot. “Can you get a shift on? Listen.” He changes his mind. “I’m going to be late, so don’t worry. I’ll see you later.”
“Sure,” I say as he plants a kiss on my cheek. “Er, George?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not going to turn up again at midnight, are you? I do love my sleep,” I say, trying to make light of it.
He pauses jogging. “You don’t want me here? Booty-calling you something rotten?”
“I do,” I say, genuinely meaning it. “But not at midnight.”
He looks at me.
“OK, I’ll take my case. Crash at mine. I’ll see you…Saturday? I can do Saturday.”
“Night or day?” I ask.
“Night, obviously,” he says.
“Teensy problem. I usually see Miranda and Paul on Saturday nights.”
“Every single Saturday?” he asks.
“Usually, unless one of us is at a party or a wedding, or home for the weekend or something.” And I realize how silly I sound now. “But it’s not a problem. I’ll cancel if it’s the only time we’re going to see each other.”
“Don’t cancel,” he says. “I’ll come along too.”
“Really?” I ask. “You want to come for a night out with my friends?”
“Yeah,” he says.
“When can I come for a night out with your friends?” I ask.
“Whenever you want.”
“When do you guys normally hang out?” I’m curious.
“Whenever their girlfriends say they can.”
I laugh. “Fair enough. So Saturday then?”
“Saturday,” he says, pulling his suitcase out as he heads to the door. “Text me the details.”
“I will.”
He comes back. Kisses me goodbye and then leaves. I’m only minutes behind him, but I see him flag down a black cab. I feel guilty. I’ve made him get a taxi, all because he’s lugging his suitcase around. Although I didn’t tell him to take it. But still.
—
On Saturday morning I message Joan, tell her I’m ready, then plate up some biscuits and head into the garden. Joan’s roller blind is up and I can see her pottering, lifting her cups from the cupboard, loading pods into the Nespresso machine. I pull my dressing gown tighter around me, although March is mild and I’m glad now the weather’s turning from winter to spring, so that I don’t have to wear my winter coat in the garden. I’ve still got my battered Uggs on, though, to protect my feet from the cold concrete on my side of the fence. I’m not suicidal.
“Vanilla Éclair,” Joan says.
“Vanilla Éclair to you too.” I laugh at my own tragic retort.
Joan reads from her coffee leaflet. “If we dare the decadence, we should try it as a cappuccino and find sweet almond notes through the taste of creamy custard.”
“Let’s dare the decadence then,” I say and we take a sip.
