‘Jessica, come and join us,’ Arthur said, to my surprise. ‘We’ve got snacks.’
I was relieved to see that he’d taken on board our conversations about food. Rather than Monster Munch and a packet of iced gems, he’d put out plates of olives, cheese and crackers alongside some chocolate coated strawberries. Admittedly, one of the plates was actually a saucepan lid, but it was a start.
‘Are you sure?’ I asked, hovering in the doorway. ‘I don’t want to intrude.’
‘Oh, not at all,’ Elsa said, hastily wriggling to the other end of the sofa. ‘We were just chatting, nothing untoward going on! Not that I was suggesting you have a sordid mind or anything…’
Arthur reached out and placed one hand on her knee, startling her into silence. I settled into one of the new armchairs, infinitely more comfortable than the gaming chairs, and offered Elsa my most reassuring smile.
‘I’ll get you a plate,’ Arthur said, standing up.
I started a brief reply about how I wasn’t hungry, but then I realised that it was six o’clock and all I’d eaten since breakfast was a handful of soggy chips wedged between cheap, white bread.
‘That would be great, thanks Arthur.’ He left the room, and I turned to Elsa. ‘Have you had a good day?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
I waited for more, but that was the extent of her reply.
‘Arthur said you were going to visit Southwell Minster?’
‘Yes.’
Another excruciating few seconds of nothing.
‘What did you think?’
‘Yeah, good. It was lovely.’
‘Did Arthur find the grave he was looking for?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Okay.’
I left it there. Until, a few seconds later, she blurted out, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. I’m trying to stop my mouth rambling on, spewing embarrassing nonsense. It’s become this thing, now, where my brain seems to relinquish all control of what I say to you. You must already think I’m a total loon, and I’m trying not to make it any worse. Though now, of course, you think I’m a rude, unfriendly loon instead.’
‘Not at all,’ I said, though I had to admit, at that point I didn’t know what to make of her, and I was also starting to wonder whether Arthur had gone all the way to the shop to fetch me a plate.
‘I’m just so nervous,’ she said, a weak giggle turning into a worried grimace. ‘Arthur thinks so highly of you. He values your opinion so much that I’m terrified you’ll decide I’m not good enough for him, and he’ll end things before they really get started.’ She shook her head. ‘So, it’s become this self-fulfilling prophecy where I’m so scared I’ll act like a fool in front of you, I act more foolishly than usual. That only adds to the pressure, and makes it worse.’
‘Um…’
‘And now I’ve told you all this,’ she babbled on. ‘You’ll think I’m a total weirdo. Spilling my humiliating secrets to a woman I hardly know.Isaac’ssister, of all people. One of Elliot’s best friends!’
‘Okay, can we rewind for a moment?’ I asked, my wine-sprinkled brain attempting to process this cascade of ridiculousness. ‘Firstly, Arthur values your opinion far more than mine, and I promise you that nothing I say could change how he feels about you. Secondly, unless I thought you were a genuine danger to Arthur – abusive or controlling or something – I wouldn’t say anything critical to him about you. It’s none of my business who Arthur chooses to go out with. Thirdly, there is really no question here over whether you’re good enough for him, trust me. And lastly, what does being Isaac’s sister or Elliot’s friend have to do with anything?’
‘Well, because you’re Jessie! You’re a legend to these guys. For weeks before you moved in it was all they could talk about. “Has Jessie called you yet about the room? Why don’t you call her? I don’t want to scare her off. How about we offer her an irresistible rent discount? Oh, man, imagine us all back together! Dream Team reunited!”’
‘What?’ I shook my head, as if to shake loose her words, buzzing about like confused bees.
‘Arthur missed youth group to stay in and celebrate after you finally agreed to move in.’
‘What?’
‘They really love you, Jessie.’
Before I could say anything else, Arthur returned. ‘I thought you might prefer a bowl,’ he said, holding out the plastic mixing bowl I’d bought for the cooking task, a clump of washing-up bubbles still clinging to one side.
