“Of course.”
“It might freak you out.”
I smile. “Why?”
“Just a hunch.”
“Try me.”
“Okay. Well, we always used to talk about... getting married, and having kids, and... I know we haven’t done that lately, and obviously I get why. But I guess I’m just curious... if you still see that stuff in our future. I mean, I don’t know what you see when you think of us in five years’ time... ten...”
I swallow hard, an attempt to prevent my heart cleaving and my eyes filling up. But I know, actually, that I couldn’t play this cool if my life depended on it. When Max and I got back together, we agreed we’d be one hundred percent straight with each other, always. So that’s what I’m going to do. Screw it—the worst has already happened. “Of course. Every day. Getting married and having a family with you... I still want all that stuff, Max.”
He swears softly, then lowers his head, resting it in his hands. I put a palm flat against his back. He is breathing hard. “I thought you might not,” he says. “I thought I might have blown the chance of that ever happening.”
“The heart wants what the heart wants,” I whisper, with a soft shrug and a smile.
He looks across at me, his disquiet turning to curiosity. “How many kids?”
I let a beat go by. “Three. No, four.”
“Big white wedding, or... scarper off to a beach somewhere?”
“Both?”
“City or suburbia?”
“City. For now. Or then. You know what I mean. None of this is happening yet.”
He leans over to kiss me. “I love you so much.” Picking up his phone, he angles it for a selfie. “One for posterity?”
I kiss him on the cheek for the shot, and then we put Coldplay on and start unpacking the boxes. And every time I catch his eye, or our elbows bump, I feel happiness billow inside me as I think,Right here. Here is the guy I am going to grow old with.
—
Later, Jools rings me. Max is out of the room, having had to take a call from his poor working-at-the-weekend-to-prove-himself assistant. We’ve spent the last couple of hours on the living room floor flipping through photos from our university days, laughing at the red-eye, the grainy quality, the bad composition. Heads cut off, people looking in the wrong direction. Nothing was posed back then. Selfies were still new. We didn’t really care about our clothes. We were never curated—we were captured at our imperfect, carefree best.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Jools says. “Butthank youfor moving out.”
Sipping from my tea, I smile. “I mean, you’re welcome, but I’m going to need some context.”
“That girl who was moving in has changed her mind.”
“What?” It was all lined up for today—a friend of Sal’s who works in production at the actual atelier of a major fashion designer. Jools had been so excited about her moving in, insisting whenever I ribbed her about it that it was nothing whatsoever to do with the prospect of tapping the girl up for free clothes.
“Yeah, something about a last-minute move to Milan.”
“Like you do.”
“Yes, but then Reuben called that guy—the one who came to view it last year, remember, with the muffins?” Jools’s voice becomes slightly hectic and high-pitched. “You know—he turned up to view the roomafter you did and we had to send him away.Anyway, he’s just been round to see it again, and he’s—”
“Did he bring muffins?”
“Screw the muffins,” she says, “he isdreamy. His name’s Nigel. He’s going to move in next weekend. Apparently he used to be a professional pianist.”
I dunk a custard cream into my tea, hold it down for the regulation three seconds. “So, what does he do for a living? I mean, if he’s an ex-pianist.”
“He’s a financial auditor.”
