“You’re English then?” I say in surprise, slotting my key in the door and letting myself in. My heating is on and I’m immediately warmed as I flick on the lamp in the hallway and throw my keys onto the side table, among the detritus of receipts and emptied-out coat pockets.
“Don’t let my dad hear you say that. He takes great pains to tell me he’s Cornish first, British second.”
It’s so nice hearing Davey’s voice.
“Why did your family move from Cornwall to Texas?” I inquire as I kick off my ballet flats and take off my coat. I put my bag under the hallway table and discard everything else in random positions. I’ll pick it up later.
“My dad works for an oil company and put in for a transfer,” Davey says. “He and my mom got settled here, and that was it. The Great American Dream…perfect life for a Cornishman.”
“I can see the lure,” I say. “I used to love our family holidays to the US. Everything’s better, bigger, cheaper.”
“And I’ve always secretly been an Anglophile,” Davey laughs. “Biding my time, waiting to return to my roots.”
I flick on the fairy lights I put up last Christmas and refused to take down. I flop onto the sofa, shrouded in a flickering glow from the lights, and tuck my feet underneath me. “I like your style, by the way—calling a girl, not messaging.”
“You don’t talk on the phone?” he asks.
“It’s quite rare these days. In fact I was so surprised when my phone rang, the first time you called me, that I only answered out of curiosity.”
“Isn’t that why most people answer?” he laughs.
“I guess. But no one talks anymore. No one calls.”
“My new boss wanted me to call in. I don’t think he knew how much a call like that was gonna cost me. He’s not one for Skype or WhatsApp calls, apparently.”
“Old-school,” I say.
“Yeah. I like old-school, though. Don’t you?”
I tuck my feet further underneath me. “I do. Ironically, it’s refreshing.”
“I like to call rather than message. You and I talked on Friday. We were pretty good at it, as I recall. Besides, it’s what will define us against the generation after us: being able to still talk on a phone.”
“True,” I say and a comfortable silence grows in the five thousand miles of distance between us. “Davey?” I ask.
“Hannah,” he says in a mock-serious tone.
“What do you look like?” Now that I’ve asked it, I feel like a fool. The Negronis have clearly taken hold.
He pauses. “How do I answer this honestly, without making myself sound like either a Hemsworth brother or Gollum?”
I splutter with laughter, get up, and fetch a glass of water from the kitchen tap.
“Honesty is one thing,” Davey says, “but if I’m self-deprecating, that could lead you to imagine all kinds of things about how I look. What do you look like?” he asks, when we’ve both finished laughing.
I glimpse myself in the reflection of the kitchen window as I run the tap. “I’ve dressed up for a date and so, right now, I look better than I’ve looked all week,” I say, realizing that neither of us has really answered the question.
“I’ll show you what I look like. Hang on.” Davey goes silent and I hear the dull thud of him tapping his finger against his phone. My WhatsApp dings and he says, “Go ahead. I’ll wait while you look.”
I’m so intrigued that I almost drop the phone as I move away from the call and open my message from Davey. My mouth drops open. It’s a selfie of a man without a shirt on. His skin on his tanned chest is covered in droplets of water, as if he’s just got out of a pool or a shower. His blond cropped hair is damp and he’s smiling—a hint of white, but not blindingly white teeth. Behind him college football flags are on his wall. I’m not sure what to do with this image. This man is…gorgeous, all-American. I briefly compare him to George’s English-and-looks-it pale skin and high cheekbones. It’s an unfair comparison. I click on “save to photos.” I’m going to look at this again later. I return to our call.
“Yep, got it,” I reply, all too casually. “One question: I asked what you look like, so…is this what you look like or is thisactuallyyou?”
“It’s me,” he says as if I’m completely stupid.
I click back to the picture and look again. Christ! He really does look like a Hemsworth brother.
“Definitely not Gollum,” I reply and then swallow, as I process how attractive the man at the other end of the line has turned out to be. “Did you just take that? Are you shirtless?”
