‘What?!’ My cheeks flushed with a level of embarrassment only a 13-year-old girl can possess as I spun quickly on the spot, head over one shoulder like a dog chasing its tail. My hand scrabbled at the back of my skirt, pulling the hem out from where it had bunched beneath my backpack, exposing my 80-denier-clad bottom. A group of girls sniggered to my left. I willed the ground to swallow me whole.
‘I once spent an entire day last year with my flies undone. Half the school saw my Spiderman underpants – which I was only wearing because they were the one clean pair in my drawer that morning,’ he added hastily. ‘I was known as Spidey Pants for a week. Wish someone had told me.’ He shrugged, his eyes wide and kind behind his glasses. ‘Strawberry lace?’
I looked down at my shoes in panic, thinking he meant my shoelaces had somehow turned into giant strawberries or something equally mortifying. Joe just laughed, presuming I was joking, dimples cutting deep into his cheeks as he thrust the open bag of fluorescent red laces under my nose.
Back in the present, I closed my eyes, remembering how the sickly-sweet scent of artificial sugar had instantly made my mouth water. And how I’d felt as we’d walked side by side down the corridor together, the pointing fingers and muffled scoffs suddenly irrelevant. As though with Joe by my side, nothing else mattered. I had no idea then, on 6thFebruary 2008, who he was. Who he would become to me. The man who liked to torture me by saying things likedo you need more thrush cream, babeat maximum volume in the supermarket just to watch my cheeks bloom. The man I shared a joint bank account with, which sailed into its overdraft the last week of every month. And the man I would drop everything for in a heartbeat.
‘Are we getting up at any point today?’ Joe’s voice was muffled, distant-sounding. As though he were speaking to me through a wall. My eyes snapped open, landing on his side of the bed – empty – both pillowcases plump and smooth. He must be in the kitchen already. He always was an early riser. I could see the natural light, which flooded in through the big sash windows of the flat every morning, glowing invitingly around the bedroom door, as though it too were trying to entice me out of bed. I rolled my eyes but made no move to get up. My phone buzzed suddenly on the bedside table, making me jump. Who the hell was calling at – huh, it was 10:30 already? – still, it was the weekend. I ignored it, pulling the duvet up higher around my ears until it stopped. I breathed a sigh of relief, only for it to start up again. Short, aggressive buzzes with varying times in between. Text messages. Lots of them.
‘For God’s sake, Mother,’ I growled, anticipating themultitude of paw-waving kittens and dramatic sunrise Good Morning gifs that no doubt awaited me. But as I rolled over, I watched my phone vibrate closer and closer to the edge until, eventually, it dropped onto the rug below. I peered over the side of the bed, squinting to read the phone display.
Brunch today?
I had THE worst date last night with that guy from Hinge. Unhingedmore like!
It was from Jacob. My best friend. Well, one of them. Jacob and his twin sister Alice were used to sharing things. Genomes. Clothes. Even romantic interests, if you count David Horrigan who Jacob hooked up with last year at Brighton Pride. Alice does not, because as she likes to remind us, declaring he was her boyfriend for three days when she was six does not constitute a relationship. But status as my best friend was an accolade they’d happily shared since we met aged five in the playground of Brunswick Primary School. My phone pinged again.
I need to vent. Preferably with waffles.
And again.
And bacon. Lots of bacon.
And again.
Is it too early for mimosas?
‘Jenny, the need for caffeine is reaching an almost fatal level out here. I might keel over at any moment.’
Christ, why were all the men in my life so bloody dramatic?
‘Keep your pants on, I’m coming,’ I grumbled, flinging theduvet back and dragging myself out of bed. Fuck, it was cold. I shrugged my biggest, cosiest knitted jumper on over Joe’s old t-shirt, sniffed my way through various articles of clothing draped over the ottoman and eventually settled on my mom jeans which, if you overlooked the suspicious-looking stain near the crotch (was that ketchup? Please tell me that was ketchup?!), were the cleanest item to be found. I left my jumper untucked, the oversized hem hiding the stain from view. Problem solved.
‘Coming!’ I trilled, odd socks sliding across the bare wooden floorboards of the dining room as I shoved my phone in the back pocket of my jeans. It vibrated again and I made a mental note to text Jacob en route. My nose wrinkled.Ergh, what was that smell?
I frowned accusingly at the still open, half-full Chinese containers that littered the dining table. Having neither the energy nor the time to get into a domestic about household chores, I rescued my coat from the floor, slung my bag over one shoulder and, turning my back on the mess, followed Joe out the door, the pungent waft of stale sweet and sour following me down the communal staircase as it slammed shut behind us.
We took a left as we exited our building, walking on autopilot along the promenade as we had done a thousand times before. The location was what had sold us on the flat five years ago. Yes, the lift was permanently out of order, the decorative Victorian cornicing in the entrance hall was crumbling, and the creaky floorboards had a suspiciously shaped bleach stain at the foot of the spiral staircase. But the building was right opposite the sea, and that vast, uninterrupted horizon of blue made my heart stutter whenever I stepped outside, nothing but a tiny patch of carefully manicured lawn and a rusty run of turquoise railings separating us and the ocean. It never failed to take my breath away, whether it was bright and winking like a sapphire, ortinged with grey, as it was today, the smell of vinegar and brine ever present in the air.
The March weather was brutal, wind biting at every bare inch of skin around my neck, the cuffs of my wrists, the bones of my ankles, as dark clouds swirled threateningly above us. I turned the collar of my coat up high around my neck as we walked, pulling it close as the tails flapped wildly around my shins.
‘You should have brought a coat,’ I scolded, frowning at Joe’s shoulders hunched around his earlobes, his jumper billowing around the arms like a parachute ready to take off. But he just turned and smiled at me, a kind of knowing look in his eyes as if he would rather freeze to death than admit that I was right.
We were greeted by the welcoming jangle of the bell above the door as we hurried into the warmth of Drew’s Brews, our favourite coffee shop. It was small. Only big enough for four tiny hairpin-legged tables and a chaotic assortment of mismatched chairs. The exposed brick walls were lined with old books, battered board games and chipped plant pots occupying every little ledge and crevice. We liked that they served coffee in proper ceramic mugs, no-one demanding to know our names so they could spell them incorrectly on flimsy cardboard cups. Most people got their coffees to go, in and out before the bell had even stopped its merry jingle, but Joe and I liked to sit and watch the world go by.
‘Usual spot?’ Joe asked, his feet already steering him towards our favourite table in the back right-hand corner. The one with one leg shorter than the rest. I nodded silently, smiling after him as I queued behind a tired-looking woman with a baby carrier strapped to her chest.
‘Here we are,’ the barista announced, handing the woman a large steaming takeaway cup. Coffee. Black, judging by the smell of it. The woman took it eagerly, closing her eyes as she breathed in the restorative caffeine fumes. She gave the barista a gratefulsmile, her eyes already a fraction brighter, and then bobbed her way out of the shop, wrapping her coat tightly around the sleeping baby as the door closed behind her.
‘What can I get you?’
I turned to see the ruddy-faced barista smiling across at me.
‘One coffee, black, and one oat milk hazelnut mocha with extra whipped cream, please.’ Our normal order rolled off my tongue like an ice cube on a summer’s day. One of the first things I noticed about Joe, when we met at the tender age of 13, was that he enjoyed ridiculously flavoured drinks. Strawberry milkshakes with a mountain of whipped cream. Radioactive slushies made by combining every possible flavour on offer. As we got older, these progressed into toffee nut lattes with syrup so sweet it made your teeth hurt, and brightly coloured cocktails complete with garish umbrella and a sparkler, or two. I quickly came to realise that it was a sign of something else he enjoyed. Life. It was why I loved him. Well, one of the reasons.
‘Take away?’
‘Sorry?’ I blinked, dragging myself back to the coffee shop and the expectant face of the barista staring back at me.
