Friends.
See you at seven?
A huge grin crosses my face. He punctuates.
Damn straight. I’ll bring you a hat.
Sure enough, as I peek out the window at two minutes to seven, I see Rory’s car pull up. That man is nothing if not prompt. It occurs to me that I have seen Rory more than anyone else this week, and each time has been kinda nice, bizarre considering how dull I thought he was at uni.
I grab my hat, scarf and gloves and run down to meet him, to save him coming out into the cold, and as he opens the car door, there I am jack-in-a-boxing my way around the pavement.
‘You’re keen.’
‘We’re going on a Christmas adventure.’
‘So you tell me. Are you imagining reindeer rides, penguins and icicles, that sort of thing?’
‘Yes!’ I bob my head up and down, aware that my answer is more of a squeak than a word.
‘You may want to manage your expectations.’
‘Never.’
‘You’ve been warned. Do you wanna hop in then? And please, tell me you were joking about the hat.’ I boing my way around to the passenger door. It’s been a fab few days, I’ve zoomed from having no job, mad financial worries and being concerned that I wouldn’t know what to do with myself now I no longer have my project to work on in the evenings, to having lots of jobs, a whole Christmas mission and what is appearing to be a social life, albeit only with one other person. Life is good.
‘This is a nice car.’ I slide my legs in. This car is what you’re meant to drive when you’re in your thirties. Luisa and Remi have one each. Whereas if my exhaust isn’t hanging on by a bit of emergency wire and there isn’t moss growing by my car’s windows then it wouldn’t feel like mine.
‘It’s a rental. I’m only here for a month but I wanted to be able to get between here and Bath easily and reliably.’
‘What did you come back for?’ Ouch, as soon as it’s out of my mouth I realise that sounds bad. Blunt old Belle. Either not thinking before I speak and pissing everyone off or overthinking and then never speaking. At what age are you mature enough to find a happy medium or am I going to be stuck doing this for ever?
Rory slides me a smile and starts the car. We coast through the Bristol traffic, out of Easton, across the city centre, up Whiteladies Road and over The Downs. All the way from my Bristol to posh Bristol.
Slightly embarrassed about my verbal faux pas, and aware of his lack of response, we put the radio on and Ifa-la-laandhow-still-we-seeeee-theeeee-lieuntil the Suspension Bridge comes into view.
It doesn’t matter how long I live here, it always makes my heart happy. I love this city at night, all lit up and glittering. I point to it, wondering if Rory shares my awe.
He nods and I can see his eyes light up at this great big architectural wonder. Surely this mark of our city makes every Bristolian proud when they see it, conjuring up feelings of home, of comfort.
‘I wondered if I could fly off that once when I had done too much acid.’ I break the awe and wonder.
‘Of course you did. Luisa is a saint among women. I assume she was the one who stopped you.’
‘Uh-huh.’ I nod my assent and look across at him again. He really does have quite a nice nose. ‘I’m not going to do it tonight though. I’m more grown-up now. I’ll never take that again. Last time, Dementors chased me up the stairs.’
‘Glad to hear it. Not about the Dementors obviously,that’sterrifying.’ He pulls up by one of those old kerbs by the bridge, the ones that are super narrow and have two steps to them and also make my heart happy.
‘Right? Proper scary. I had to choose between giving up reading or giving up LSD…’ I pause and flick him a look under my eyelashes and see him grin quickly before composing his face into serious again.
‘Mmm, I’ve heard reading can be like that. Makes you delusional and all sorts. Dangerous stuff.’
‘Right.’ We exchange a grin as we both unclick our seat belts at the same time and get out of the car.
‘I think I’m going to like my Christmas surprise.’ I’m genuinely enthusiastic as I glance over the roof at him, silvery in the glow of the streetlamp. He locks eyes with me and again I’m struck by the greenness of his. Even in the dark of a December evening.
‘Good,’ he says, the brilliance of his eyes not matched by his vocabulary.
He starts to walk away from the bridge. ‘Hang on, aren’t we going across it?’ I squeak.
