‘I might come to you for advice more from now on. If that’s okay.’
‘I would love that.’ There’s so much warmth in Louisa’s voice. Has it always been there? ‘Especially if it ends with you being successfully coupled up. I know we’d all love to see that.’
The irony of Louisa being the one to say this is not lost on Alex.
‘Thanks, Lou. Now, one more thing: do I take the flowers to her house, or send them with a letter of apology?’
‘Take them to her house, but write the letter anyway, in case she doesn’t want to talk. That way she can at leastreadyour apology once you’ve gone. Letters have a way of percolating and thawing rage.’
‘Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.’
‘I am.’
‘Well, thank you. That sounds like a genius idea.’
‘It’s always worked on me,’ she says. ‘Now stop procrastinating and go and buy those flowers. Love you. Bye.’
Alex had always assumed that the ‘love you’ Louisa said before ending a call was a payback for whatever favour she was asking for on the call. But there’s no favour here. No doubt his therapist would say,You deserve to be loved even when you’re not doing something for someone.
Whatever. He’ll take it.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Jess
Jess has decided it’s fine. She hasn’t heard back from Nathan, and she hasn’t heard from Alex since the WhatsApp she ignored, so she’s just going to assume that it’s fine. Her work is done; she’s off the hook. She can go back to her previous life of interviewing bookshop owners, reviewing books, taking nice pictures, and revelling in the endorphin rush of social media likes and free novels landing with a thud on her doormat on a regular basis. And it feels good! She’s missed it. It’s work, but it’s not like traipsing through treacle, not the way that writing sometimes feels.
She puts on her feel-good playlist, tears open the latest packages, and organises the books on her shelf of proofs, in publication-date order, as always. It feels good to be back to her routine, back to what she knows, her muscle memory remembering what to do. She’s just opened her spreadsheet to log them – publisher, genre, date forthcoming – when her buzzer goes. She feels a crease in her own forehead form as she tries to think who could be at the door. Normally, she’d assume the postman, but he’s alreadybeen today – her newly reorganised shelf is evidence of that. As far as she remembers, she hasn’t ordered anything from Vinted in at least six days, so it can’t be that, either.
Reluctantly, she stands up from her chair and makes her way to the door. When she opens it, her stomach sinks. But part of her has to admit that she already knew who it was going to be.
‘Hello,’ says a person camouflaged behind the prettiest bouquet of flowers she has ever seen. A voice she recognises all too well.
It’s physically impossible for her to slam the door in Alex’s face. Firstly, because his foot is partly on the threshold, and while it might give her satisfaction to stub his toe, she might also break it that way, and she doesn’t fancy being sued. Plus, as annoyed as she is with Alex, it seems like a broken foot might not be a proportionate response to some ill-advised words.
But also, these are some beautiful flowers, and it would be churlish to refuse them. If nothing else, they’ll make for a pretty background for the bookstagram photos she’s about to take.
‘These are lovely,’ she says.
‘Glad you like them.’
Alex hands them over. She can’t resist burying her face in them and smelling them.
‘I suppose you better come in,’ she says. A smile on her face to soften the words. She wants him to know, though, that it’s going to take more than a multi-coloured bunch of daisies and gerberas to make up for what he said and how he behaved.
‘You’re too kind.’ A smile on his face, too. Not the dimpled kind. The barely-there kind.
‘I know.’ Jess pushes her glasses up her nose while she considers what to do next. ‘And let me extend that kindness by making you a drink. Tea?’
‘That would be great.’
This may be a mistake, she realises. Tea can take up to half an hour to drink. An hour, if you really want to drag it out and don’t mind the lukewarmness of it. Does she really want him here for half an hour? Or longer? On the other hand, if he does annoy her, then kicking him out when his tea is only half-drunk would be a punishment that fits the crime. Less harsh than breaking his foot. Also, less suable.
‘You sure you don’t want sugar?’
‘Very funny,’ he says.
‘Thank you.’
