George refused to borrow a spare dressing gown from me, and instead practically begged that I wait before telling Joan we were ready, as he changed his mind, ran into the shower, brushed his teeth, got dressed in his jeans and a sweater, and then declared himself fit.
I’m now gagging for a coffee, he’s taken so long. He does look good, though. His sweaters are always that right side of “tarty man” and hug his biceps in a way that makes me want to reach out and stroke him as if he’s a cat. I, however, look like crap in the mornings and am utterly at ease with it. But only for him. And only for Joan. And, once upon a time, for Davey.
I’ve not worked out how I feel about Davey’s disappearing act online the other day. I leftARoom with a Viewon pause for so long, staring, waiting for him to come back online, that I eventually went to bed without realizing I’d left the film on pause on the screen. George found it on in the morning, asked what it was, and, on finding out it was my favorite film, asked if we could watch it together some time. I think I might have stiffened. I can’t be unwilling to share my favorite film with him. That’s not a fair way to treat someone. I have to be willing to make it all work, and so I stood still, silently having an existential crisis, wondering whether, if I wasn’t willing to share my favorite film with George, I was flat out admitting to myself that I saw this going nowhere. And that’s the worst way to start what could be the beginnings of a great relationship. So I agreed, smiled, planned to buy popcorn later today, make an event of it—let George in even further.
Joan arrives, a tray of coffees in her hands, gives George a good once-over and beams a smile at him and then at me. George looks nervous, bless him, but smiles in return.
“He really is as gorgeous as you’ve made him sound,” Joan teases. “Eleven adult sleepovers…yes, I can see that,” she rounds off with a giggle.
I can sense George going through the mental equivalent of puffing out his chest at this, while I die on the inside. He introduces himself and I can see his charm level increasing.
We talk about her cruise, which is all Joan can think about, and I confess I’m going to miss her when she goes away tomorrow. She’s been packed for ages, which is a trait I admit we share, and she says, “Oh yes, Thailand. And you, all heartbroken and probably not going to go.”
Bloody hell, Joan. You had one job.“I mean…” I start. “Not heartbroken, just—”
Joan looks embarrassed, gives me an apologetic smile, and, to glaze over it, says, “India with Robusta Monsoon. Intensity eleven.”
“Huh?” George queries.
“The coffee,” I murmur and stare into my cup, appalled at how this morning has fallen flat so suddenly, as Joan talks for far too long about the woody flavor and how months of monsoons affect the taste of what’s in our cup. George looks confused, as if she might be having some kind of stroke. I’ve told him we stand in the garden and grade coffee, but he’s obviously forgotten this.
“I’m going to be generous,” Joan says. “Five out of five.”
I notice she hasn’t even sipped her drink, but I sip mine and nod agreement. “George?” I ask tentatively.
George sips his. “Er, I dunno. Four. I guess?”
“Great,” I say. Now that’s dealt with, I want to disappear inside again.
“What are you crazy kids planning on doing today?” Joan asks.
George and I hadn’t discussed what we might do today. I look at him. I’m guessing we’re spending the day together.
“We’re watchingA Room with a Viewtonight,” I say halfheartedly.
Joan nods. “And for the rest of the day?”
I’m not sure what else to do today. “I think sitting around feels like a waste of time on one of our precious few days together.”
“Time you enjoy wasting isn’t wasted,” Joan chirps. “John Lennon,” she says, referring to her idol. Lennon gets quoted at me fairly regularly.
George looks baffled at this, puffs air out of his cheeks, and says, “Do you want to head into town?”
“Sure,” I say. “Shopping or…?”
“No. You can do that online. Why don’t we be tourists for the day?”
“O…K…”
“You don’t want to?” he asks.
“No, yeah, let’s do it.”
I can see Joan’s gaze flicking between us as she watches our verbal tennis.
“What do you want to do?” I ask.
“Let’s get a bus tour of London,” George says suddenly. “You know, one of those hideous red bus tours where you see everything in a matter of hours and someone shouts information at you.”
