“Right,” she says quietly. “I get that. It was terrifying for Archie as well, when we got together. So terrifying that he almost blew it.”
“I know. I’m glad he didn’t. I’m glad you gave him a second chance. But this isn’t the same.”
“Why not?”
“Because you and Archie were just so right for each other. You and Archie were just so right for Lilly and Meg as well. It was the perfect fit, for all of you, and it was worth fighting for. Me and Zack? I’m not sure either of us wants anything serious. I’m not sure either of us is ready for that, and maybe we never will be. Maybe we’re better off staying as friends.”
Cally leans across the table and takes one of my hands in hers.
“I understand what you’re saying,” she says seriously. “And they are valid points. But come on, woman – what about the really hot sex?”
TWELVE
By the time Zack arrives, the house is in a state of extremely pleasant chaos. It’s full of teenagers and noise and clutter, which is exactly the way I like it.
Marcy, Sophie, Dan, Rose and Sam are all here, preparing for their night at the alleged music festival. James left earlier, planning to drive there for an hour or so later, along with Miranda and baby Evan. I offered to look after Evan for the night to give them some time off together, but he said they were happy just ‘dipping in’. I’m a bit disappointed – Evan is hard work but adorable, and a huge amount of fun to sit for.
I’ve made a feast of pizza and garlic bread, arranging it all on the kitchen table with a big bowl of salad and a range of sauces. I’ve been experimenting with ’nduja recently, because I’m wild and crazy like that, and am especially pleased with the spicy dip they are plunging the pizza crusts into.
Some of them are sitting at the table like civilised humans; others are lurking around holding slices in their hands, too hyped to be still. Dan is standing on his skateboard as he eats, which is not an unusual scenario. Someone has put music on their phone, and everyone is shouting over it. Like I said, chaos.
It’s so loud I don’t even hear Zack come in, only noticing when Bear barrels into the kitchen, tail wagging and nose twitching. I quickly push everything into the centre of the table to avoid a Labrador raid, and he looks up at me in disappointment.
His human follows him in, gazing around at the carnage and smiling. He’s wearing what looks suspiciously like pyjama trousers paired with a black T-shirt. I stare at him and he says: “What? You said casual. I was worried my jeans might be too posh! Have I violated the dress code?”
“Nah,” I say, “you’ll do. I’m surprised you’re not wearing your elf slippers.”
“So am I. I should have brought them with me really.”
Marcy springs over to give her dad a kiss on the cheek, leaving a trail of glitter on his skin from the butterfly face paint she’s wearing. She’s gone full festival girl and I hope she’s not disappointed when she realises she’ll mainly be sitting on a hay bale while middle-aged men sing about cider.
Their overnight gear is scattered around the room in random heaps of sleeping bags, backpacks and tents, and the whole place has the feel of a base camp for an especially badly planned expedition. Luckily they’re only going to a dairy farm a mile away, not scaling Everest.
I make Zack a plate of food, going heavy on the salad because I’ve noticed he eats disgustingly healthily – in fact he doesn’t eat much at all, and I always want to feed him up. I add a dollop of the ’nduja dip and a slice of margherita with fresh parmesan shavings.
“Try that,” I say, pointing at the dip.
He does as he is told, swirling a slice of red pepper into it, and the look on his face when he takes a bite is eminently gratifying.
“Oh, Lord,” he says, once he’s finished chewing. “That tastes so good it should probably be illegal.”
“We aim to please,” I reply, smiling. I love cooking for people, which is really lucky given the fact that I run a café. But I especially love it when a new recipe goes down well – it’s just very, very satisfying seeing people’s reactions. Unless that reaction is ‘yuck, that’s disgusting’.
There is a temporary increase in the hubbub as the youngsters prepare to leave – a last-minute flurry of ‘I just need my power bank’ and ‘is it going to rain?’ and ‘has someone got the marshmallows for the campfire?’
Sophie and Marcy are driving there with the heavy gear, and the rest walking with rucksacks. It seems highly unlikely that this operation will go smoothly, which is proved right as soon as they try to actually go. There are two false starts where someone runs back inside because they’ve forgotten the loo roll and then Marcy’s neck cushion, and one more when Sam realises he’s left behind his gin. Just when I think they’re finally done, Sophie dashes back through the door.
“What did you forget?” I ask.
“This,” she says, coming over to give me a hug. “Thanks for the pizza. Have a nice night!”
This, of course, is very sweet, and leaves me with even more of a smile on my face than Zack liking my ’nduja dip.
Once she’s skittered out again, Zack and I both stand still in the kitchen, listening out.
“Do you think they’ve finally gone?” he asks, head cocked to one side.
“I think they have… we can finally drop some ecstasy and have a middle-aged rave to the sounds ofNow That’s What I Call Music 15…”
