‘Let’s sayyes,’ he says.
‘And?’ Lily says. The weight of expectation feels crushing. There is only one correct answer here. Luckily, the right answer also happens to be the true one.
‘Yeah, it’s great,’ he says. ‘I really liked it.’ He doesn’t mention that when they got back from their weekend, he went straight to bed with the book to finish it. That if he hadn’t been so busy – so distracted – all weekend, he would have been itching to do nothing but lie on the sofa, flicking page after page until he reached its satisfying resolution. Or that if he’s really honest with himself, he’s a little envious of the writing, of the ability of the author to evokea depth of emotion in the pit of his stomach that he certainly hadn’t expected.
‘Well, well, well,’ Jess says, letting him know with another gentle foot nudge that she is playfully teasing. ‘Character growth. I like it.’
Lily laughs, then slurps her tea and makes a show of draining the dregs.
‘I better be going,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to hold you back from working your magic on this book.’
Internally, he breathes a sigh of relief. He had looked forward to being back in Jess’s company, just the two of them. Working together, and who knows what else. Getting to know her. He’s enjoying being in her flat, observing her in her natural habitat, letting his eyes wander over towards the books on her shelves, the pictures on her fridge of herself with various authors he recognises from bookish social media, the corner of the room where she sets up her Instagram flat lays – right by the window, where she has explained to him that it gets the best natural light. Once upon a time, he would have rolled his eyes at her rainbow bookshelves; he would have said that colour is a ridiculous way to organise novels. But he has to admit – it looks good. Plus, it is just about possible that Jess is changing him. Is that terrifying? Perhaps a little. But it’s not unpleasant.
Meeting Lily is a valuable and important part of the Jess jigsaw puzzle, but he’s glad she knows not to overstay her welcome. Apart from anything else, it speaks well of her and shows a degree of self-awareness he admires, even if he can’t always emulateit himself. In turn, having a friend like Lily speaks well of Jess, too.
‘Think I passed the test?’ he asks Jess after the door has closed and he’s counted seventeen seconds.
On the table, Jess’s phone lights up.
I thought you might be exaggerating about how hot he is.
She blushes from her cheeks all the way up to her ears and then, disappointingly, puts her phone face down to protect herself against further incrimination. ‘Looks like it,’ she says, not quite meeting his eye.
He makes a show of checking his watch – a reminder that time is ebbing away. ‘We should probably do some work.’
Jess looks disappointed. She was clearly hoping for further distraction. But she nods, and says, ‘You’re right.’
She’s just out of his reach, sitting across the table from him so he can’t kiss her without some uncomfortable leaning – and that’s better for everyone; it’s certainly better for the book deadline. When he writes at home, he puts his phone in another room, temptation out of sight and out of reach. Sitting just far enough from Jess is his best approximation of that in this situation.
He should not have used the phrasefalling in loveon the train. It’s true, and they both know it, but the fact that he’s said it implies some kind of commitment, some kind of intention on his part. And he’s not there, not ready for that. His mind knows it. And yet neither hisheart nor his body are inclined to agree, and he knows that Jess would be well within her rights to imagine that they are now a couple, or at least hurtling towards the stage where they can call themselves one. If he hadn’t saidfalling in love, he’d be able to claim that they had got their mutual attraction out of their respective systems in Godalming and it was time to focus on the work in hand. But hedidsayfalling in love, and now it feels as though he is leading her on. Which is the last thing he wants to do. It feels like a giant mess, one he should probably discuss with his therapist. But at the root of it all is the simple fact that he finds Jess very attractive and that he enjoys her company; if he felt able to entertain the thought of a relationship, it would be a no-brainer to be with her.
But as excuses go for slowing down, the deadline is all he’s got.
‘Remember your ice dancers?’ he says, somewhat feebly. ‘The tension being good for their art?’
He can’t read her face. If he had to guess, he’d say that she is crestfallen but also touched that he’s remembered her convoluted story, her initial reluctance to follow through on their feelings so that their passion and chemistry would feed into their writing instead. And also, perhaps, that he is out of the woods, that she won’t be angry that he is slowing them down.
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I wish I’d never mentioned that.’
‘No, no. You were right. It’s a good plan – to channel our energy into the task at hand. We can get to know each other. We can talk. That might be a healthier way into this anyway.’
He can’t believe these words are coming out of his mouth – that he’s the one suggesting talking first, when if he’s honest, he’d be happy for that to come later. Maybe this, too, is character growth?
‘You’re right,’ she says, nodding earnestly, perhaps trying to convince herself. ‘Talking is probably healthier. We don’t really know each other.’
He wouldn’t have put it quite like that. Over the last few weeks, and especially the weekend away, he has felt them growing closer as they’ve analysed his book and compared it to other works of literature. He’s always felt like books are a great way into someone’s personality. There’s a reason why book clubs are so popular, why people who attend the same one often find themselves becoming close, feeling they are kindred spirits. For a while, in DC, he’d found one of his own to join – a co-ed group, as they say over there, men and women together. He’d long been jealous of his sisters’ and girlfriends’ book clubs; he had never come across one that welcomed guys. The spirited discussions, the wine and the cheese, even the occasional weekend retreat – it had been delightful, and a great way of making friends and having discussions about the real stuff of life – the deeper questions, the things that keep him awake at night.
Under the table, Alex’s feet find Jess’s. He wants to communicate warmth and connection, make sure Jess does not feel this slowing down as a rejection. She smiles at him, a little sadly, and nods. ‘We should get started on the book,’ she says, and they find their rhythm again over the next couple of hours. Incompaniable silence, she reads his first drafts of new scenes; he reads hers. He is, frankly, impressed with what she has done. She has learned his style, his turns of phrase, the rhythm of his sentences, and written in his voice, but with additions of humour and light-heartedness. Exactly, he suspects, what Nathan was hoping for. Not for the first time, he is sorry he ever doubted her. In contrast, his first drafts are nothing to write home about. He is almost embarrassed about them.
‘These are good,’ he says, when he’s finished reading and looks up to find she has too, and she is watching him. ‘Really good.’
She bites her lip, maybe suppressing a smile. ‘You think so?’
He searches out her eyes, makes sure she is locked into his. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m glad,’ she says, and then, to break the tension, or hide a grin, or maybe go and do a secret celebratory dance, she offers him a tea and disappears back into the kitchen. Which reminds him of earlier, when she came back sad after speaking briefly on the phone.
‘Were you okay earlier?’ he asks when she’s back in the room with a couple of mugs. ‘When you left the room to take a phone call? You didn’t seem quite yourself when you came back.’
