And giggling, they walk into the shop.
“Right, come on then, babes, let’s get you home and into bed. Do you remember where you live?” I say, placing a hand on Harry’s chest.
“I like you,” Harry says instead of answering my question.
“Lead the way, then.” I open a can of beer, peach flavour, and tuck the other two under my arm. Harry’s right, it’s delicious.
We walk along the streets of Bath, in what I hope is the right direction. It’s buzzing with people on their Saturday night out. Students, and couples, hen and stag dos, folk in fancy-dress costumes, others in formal eveningwear, and groups of friends celebrating the rugby. I spot several individuals with Bristol shirts and caps on, but thankfully, nobody else recognises Harry.
I don’t want him causing a scene, exclaiming how much he hates Mathias Jones, and regretting it like fuck the next morning.
He pauses outside a set of flats with a big blue painted door. There are no fewer than three Ring doorbell cameras fixed to the quoins.
“Why have we stopped? Are you gonna be sick?” I say.
“This is Lionel’s house,” Harry stage whispers, though I’m pretty sure they heard that back at Casks.
Shit.
“Come on, then. Homeward we go. We’re not stopping here.” I pull on his arm, but it’s like trying to move an anvil.
“Should we knock?” he says.
“No, no, no. Absolutely not.” I glance over at the doorbells and see the red motion-sensor lights activated on each one. It’s so cringe. I have to stand behind Harry and try to push him along.
“Should I tell him how I feel?”
I cup his face in my hands. “Girl, no. I need you to come home with me right now, and we can talk about this when we get there.”
“Why?” Harry says simply.
“Please. I’m doing this for you.” I can’t think of what else to do, and I’m still holding his cheeks, so I kiss him.
Harry’s eyes close, and when I pull away it takes him a few seconds to catch up and open them. “I like you. Did I tell you that already?”
“You did,” I say, and this time he lets me guide him up the road.
We end up walking up a gigantic hill, almost to the peak, before Harry stops outside a tall Georgian townhouse in a row of identical buildings. It was built in the same period as Hooke Manor, and there are similarities in the architecture, like the elegant sash windows and the decorative quoins and the soft honey colours of the Bath stone bricks.
There are five floors to Harry’s building if you include the basement and ground floors, and of course Harry lives on the third floor, right at the top with no lift.
After a few failed attempts, he key-codes us into the foyer, and we trudge up the many, many, many steps of number thirty-eight Darcy Street. Not only is he technically in the penthouse, but each floor’s ceilings are at least twice the height of standard ceilings, and it feels like we’re climbing up Jacob’s Ladder.
Finally, we reach the top, and Harry unlocks the door, falling into his narrow corridor and only just catching himself before he crashes into the living room. There are shoes scattered all over the hallway, covering the original brown and red floor tiles.
“Welcome to Chez Ellis,” he says. “I will be right back.” And then he stumbles to what I assume is the bathroom.
I take the time to mooch around the rest of his flat, taking it all in, drinking in the clues about how Harry lives his everyday life. The walls are painted white, and the furniture is vintage, but bland, and I instinctively know Harry didn’t pick it out for himself. It’s probably a rental that came fully furnished. The sofa is an insipid taupe colour, and the dining table has six chairs, which IMO is slight overkill for a one-bed apartment.
He has framed travel posters on his walls, and on his G Plan sideboard—the only nice looking piece of furniture—rugby balls are balanced on display stands. The kitchen houses developer-chosen bog-standard units and lightingfixtures. He has a fruit bowl on the counter with apples, bananas, and oranges, but his cupboards are filled with high-sugar, high-fat snacks. Chocolate Rice Krispie Squares and Jaffa Cakes seem to be his go-to treats. Every five metres or so, I spot another carbon monoxide detector. I imagine his mum buying him armfuls and insisting he place them around.
His bedroom door is wide open at the other end of the hallway, and I find myself moving into it with no control over my limbs. It’s a spacious room with white walls and an ivory carpet. It has a fireplace and what appears to be a built-in wardrobe in one of the alcoves, and in the other is a set of drawers, which a TV rests on top of. His sheets are white textured cotton, and there’s a welt on the left side of the bed where he’d obviously just fallen out this morning and not righted the duvet. On the floor beside the bed lies a crumpled T-shirt. I’m pretty sure I know why that’s there. It’s cute. I wonder if he thought of me at all.
“You’re still here,” Harry says from behind me, having returned from the bathroom.
He’s naked again.
I’m coming to realise that Harry Ellis is the type of guy who is extremely comfortable with his appearance, but is super insecure in other areas of his life.
