She looks thoughtful. “His last two girlfriends have reminded me a bit of you. But I’d never recommend him. He’s too much like my ex. I’m pretty sure he’s on something more often than he’s not.”
Jools would know: she’s from a family of loving but self-declared, permanently wasted hippies. Her childhood was somewhat chaotic, so her approach to adolescence essentially involved pedaling as far and hard in the opposite direction as she could—becoming the neat, organized, and fashionable adult she is today, with a penchant for stylish interiors involving no tie-dye or dreamcatchers whatsoever. She says it’s why she’s drawn to “normal” and “sensible” men, the ones with steady jobs and minimum baggage. Her most recent boyfriend was shaping up to tick all the boxes—banker, mortgage, no significant exes—until one night he confessed to moonlighting as a naked waiter and a growing reliance on class A drugs.
But every now and then, I am treated to a delicious glimmer of the person Jools used to be, before she became a fan of practicality and pragmatism. A person who believes in fate, trusts in gifts from the universe, and loves to indulge the idea of meant-to-be.
She puts a hand over mine now. Given the amount of handwashing involved in her job, I’m always struck by how staggeringly smooth her skin is. “So. When do we mention the elephant in the room?”
I blink at her. “What elephant?”
“What elephant. Max, of course.”
—
Max. We met on the first day of moving into university halls in Norwich. I was studying English literature, Max was studying law, and we bumped into each other in our shared kitchen. Neither of us was in there for a specific purpose—like making tea or filling up the fridge—but we were the first to arrive, and Max seemed as eager as I was to start making friends, to not be left behind.
If love at first sight exists, I’m sure I felt it right then. Max said afterward he felt it too. When my eyes met his, for a few delicious moments, instead of either of us speaking, our gazes simply danced.
“Hello,” he said eventually, like he’d had to remind himself how to speak. “I’m Max.”
“Lucy.”
He smiled. Casual in jeans and T-shirt, he looked as though he’d had a good summer. He was broad and tall, with skin that was deeply suntanned, and blond hair grown out enough to carry a kink.
I’d put a lot of thought into my moving-in outfit, eventually opting for a green dress that showed off my own tan, the likes of which I haven’t achieved since.
“What are you studying?” he asked, leaning back against the sink.
For a few ludicrous seconds, I couldn’t remember.What am I studying?
At my hesitation, Max laughed. I can still conjure up the sound of it, all these years later: easy and loose, as though he were the happiest person in the world. Straightaway, it put me at ease.
“Sorry. English literature. I’m a bit nervous.”
“Me too,” he said. He must have been being kind, because he didn’t seem nervous at all. “Hey, would a drink help? Got beers in my room.”
“Sounds good,” I said gratefully.
We decamped to his room, just down the corridor from mine—me on the single bed and Max sitting on the floor, his back against the wall. He’d already tacked up some pictures—friends, I noticed, he had lots of friends—and he’d had the foresight to bring a little fridge with him, so the beers were already cold. Over the next few hours, we got through all six of them.
Beyond Max’s closed door, we could hear other students moving in, parents leaving, the pump of music. The growing swell of conversation and the clinking of bottles. But neither of us suggested venturing out of his room to join in. Right then it was just us, and Max’s bedroom was the whole world. It felt beautifully illicit, hiding away in there together when we were supposed to be mingling and being our most outgoing, gregarious selves.
He was relieved to have finally left his hometown of Cambridge behind, he told me. He’d never known his dad, wasn’t close with his mum, had no siblings.
I decided it would be insensitive to regale him with the story of my parents’ fairy-tale romance, once he’d said that. But then he asked.
“It’s kind of a crazy story,” I said, fingering the label of my beer bottle.
Max leaned his head back against the wall, but kept his eyes on me.I was enjoying the feeling of it—him watching me. Intense, but in a good way. “Aren’t the crazy stories always the best?”
“Well, they met on holiday when they were twenty. Dad was supposed to be going to Mallorca, but the travel agent messed up and sent him to Menorca instead. So my parents ended up in apartments next door to each other.”
Max smiled.
“Long story short, it was love at first sight, and my mum fell pregnant with my sister on that holiday.”
Max straightened up a little. “Seriously?”
“Yep. Classic holiday romance.”
