‘Nah, not really. Look if you’re going to come over, come.’ I know girls are meant to love chatting on the phone for hours, but I do not. Thirty seconds is ideal, three minutes if I love you. Other than that, nope. Luisa and Marsha are the only exceptions to this rule. I prefer video where I can see people’s faces, decode their reactions as I speak.
‘Ha! Okay, I’m on my way. I’ll be there in thirty, Miss Wilde.’
Exactly thirty minutes later, the buzzer goes. I adjust my top as I hit the button to let him in. My tummy rumbles and I know the flat still smells of burnt saucepan. I hear his feet on the stairs and I pull down my top to cover my tummy a bit more. Then pull it back up in case I’m now showing too much cleavage. Argh. This is why I like to have my evenings to myself.
Then I remember his cry in the hospital.
Then I remember his laugh from half an hour ago.
He knocks on the door. Right by my ear. Hey, hello, come in. I practise sounding calm and together in my head and then pull the door open.
He is there. Right there. Those green eyes. Are they contact lenses? No one has eyes like that! Is he that kind of man? Possibly. Grown-up Rory is kinda suave with his beautiful clothes, his accent now hinting at his new international life Way too urbane for a screw-up like me. I step back to let him in, stumbling over my feet as I do so, disconcerted that he is going to see my flat. That I haven’t moved on that far from uni whereas he has crossed the globe.
‘Come in, come in.’ I try to cover up my embarrassment with a big smile and notice he is holding a brown paper bag, a grease stain like a small island on its side. Dear God, please don’t make me sit here looking at takeaway food whilst sniffing eau-de-pulse-brûlée.
‘I brought food, I hope that’s okay.’ That very much depends upon whether he has brought enough for me or whether I’m expected to sit and watch him eat it.
‘No, no that’s fine,’ I say a little weakly as my tummy growls again. Thanks, body.
‘Just in time.’ He smiles. That has to mean we’re sharing. I want to punch the air. ‘It’s from Thali.’ He names the restaurant around the corner and my mouth waters. ‘I love their food and this has been calling my name since I landed,’ he adds.
‘I can definitely answer a few questions about my dad in return for a Thali. Did you get their salad, oh, and their coconutty dippy thing?’
‘Ha, yes, but it’s not your dad I’m here about,’ he says as I lead him to the kitchen.
‘What?’ I spin around and, in the tight space of the kitchen, send the bag flying. He keeps it secure in his hands as it does a round 360, then swings pendulum-like for a little while. I close my mouth and look at him, my heart beating loud enough to wake the dead. He smiles.
‘I didn’t come over to talk about your dad.’
‘But everybody always wants to talk about my dad. Plus, you said it was sensitive. That can only mean him!’
‘Shall we eat?’
‘Before I successfully knock dinner out of your hands and onto the floor, you mean?’
‘Yup.’
‘I should have warned you coming into a kitchen with me qualifies you for danger pay.’
‘I think I learnt at uni that generally being in your orbit qualifies for that.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Joke, obviously. Sofa or table?’ he asks as I wave plates at him.
‘I’m a sofa person but don’t want to piss my flatmate off more than usual and we both know I’m going to spill this. Quite frankly the only safe way is to put a bib on me and make me eat on the front step.’
‘Step it is then.’ He walks over to the front door, turns, grins and then heads back to the table and starts unpacking the bag as I lay down plates and cutlery. ‘We didn’t get a chance to talk much yesterday.’ He looks at me and I carry on faffing with forks, avoiding his eye.
‘Yeah, they’re big personalities. It’s easier just to remain quiet, wait it out.’
We both sit at the table, my tummy shrieking in excitement. There is Keralan chicken, spiced potatoes, coconut rice, all manner of dips, and my favourite salad, lush!
‘Tell me about yourself, what have you been up to?’ Why does he want to know about me? His eyes are serious as he looks up from his food and catches me watching him. He doesn’t break the silence, merely looks at me assessingly, waiting for me to answer.
‘What do you want to know?’ My tone is more aggressive than I intend but he doesn’t acknowledge its harshness.
‘What are you doing these days?’
