‘I mean,’ Will said, becoming uncharacteristically serious, ‘I’m not going to lie, we were all worried about you, much more so than we let on.’
Oliver looked out the window, pondering this, and realised they were only a minute away from his flat. ‘Something else I’ve been thinking about…’ he said. ‘Could you help me move?’
Will glanced over at him, startled. ‘Move?You?’
Oliver cracked a smile. ‘Moving’s a bridge too far?’
Will shook his head, looking a bit dizzy. ‘You get off the plane, you fancy a man, you’re not talking to Sophie, and you’re moving? Did they put some sort of chip in your brain? Are you a robot now?’ He waved his hand in front of Oliver’s face. ‘Oliver, if you’re in there, blink twice.’
Oliver swatted his hand away. ‘It’s time, that’s all.’
Oliver and Will stared at the mess of the flat in horror.
‘Well, no wonder you would never ask me over,’ Will said, clapping him on the back.
Oliver examined the dirty floors, the piles of health forms required for his dance company, haphazard stacks of Sophie’s books, and one extremely dead cactus. The flat that had once been meticulously kept by him and Sophie had fallen into disarray as Oliver had stuffed his already busy schedule with odd jobs to cover her portion of the rent. Arriving there with fresh eyes made it apparent: he’d become one of the people highlighted on hoarder TV shows. There, another reality show to add to his repertoire.
‘Jesus,’ he said, after a long silence. ‘We need industrial bin bags.’
It took the two of them a few hours to make the place more presentable, but Oliver continued on past that, packing away anything he didn’t need immediately. It wasn’t the most organised move in history, but at least he was trying.
Somewhere around the three-hour mark, Will let out a noise that could only be described as a mix between a squeak and a gasp.
‘All right there?’ Oliver called from his position half-under the sofa, reaching for his favourite jumper that had somehow got wedged between the back leg and the wall.
‘You should probably come and see this.’ Will’s voice was strained. Oliver hoped he hadn’t found any dead pests.
‘I swear, if you make me touch a spider—’ Oliver froze, still only half upright. Will was holding a sizable envelope.
‘Is that—?’ Oliver started, grabbing it from him.
The red letters on the front spelled outManhattan Ballet. Oliver swallowed, hard.
‘Are you breathing?’ Will asked.
‘Think so,’ he managed.
‘Can you open it?’
‘Think so,’ he repeated, frowning at the envelope as though it had presented him with a difficult riddle.
‘Just tear it,’ Will said, impatient.
Oliver did, pulling out a thick sheet of paper. ‘All right… I…’ He read the important bit a few times, to be sure. ‘I got in. I got into Manhattan Ballet.’
‘Well done,’ Will said, hugging a motionless Oliver from the side.
‘Hmm,’ he said, squinting to read the sentence again. Yes, that was certainly what it said. How odd, that he didn’t feel pure joy. ‘It is good. You’re right.’
‘Are you… in shock?’ Will asked carefully.
‘Probably,’ he agreed. That was the explanation. ‘Wow,’ he said, looking at his friend’s smile and replicating it, ‘this is incredible.’
‘You don’t know if you’ll take it, do you?’ Will asked, peering at him. He didn’t sound altogether surprised by what should have been a ridiculous statement. Will, of all people, should be certain Oliver would take the job. He’d heard enough about it over the years.
‘Of course I’m going to take it,’ Oliver snapped without thinking. ‘It’s bloody Manhattan Ballet. People don’t say no to them.’
‘Well…’ Will said, ‘are you going to tell Sophie?’
