‘Oh,’ she replies more brightly. ‘That’s nice. Come on then – grab some wine and let’s curl up.’
When we’re curled up on Liv’s bed (I’m down the end where they haven’t had sex, she tells me delightedly), she dishes the dirt.
‘I didn’t have the heart to ruin a good thing and try to put a name on what we’re doing,’ she confesses. ‘It felt like it was too soon and just … not the right timing. So I think I need to quietly see where it goes. We did sleep togetheragain today, and Ollie’s gentle and affectionate and kisses me loads during, and so … I’m going to be chill, you know? Not frighten him off too early.’
Liv doesn’t seem like the kind of girl to be chill, so I suspect she’ll be stressing about this every five minutes for the next five days, but we’ll see.
‘Do you think that’s sensible?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘If you don’t want to frighten Ollie off by trying to pin down a reaction from him, then don’t. See where it goes. Nice and slowly. I think Ollie’s really nice, really genuine. I don’t think he’s a …’ I can’t think of a phrase.
But Liv can, and in her near cut-glass accent says the words ‘fuck boy?’
‘Ha!’ I laugh, because it sounds so wrong coming from someone like her. ‘Yeah, I don’t think he’s that. But perhaps also he’s feeling as nervous as you are.’
‘Do you think?’
‘Yeah,’ I reply honestly. I remember Ollie on the stairs, admitting he couldn’t get a word in edgeways once Ben had arrived on the scene. ‘I think he’s cautious. Let him be cautious. Let him protect his heart. But you also protect yours too, OK?’
‘OK,’ Liv says, brightening. ‘I guess at the end of the day, that’s what we’re all trying to do, right?’
I think of my conversation with Ben over brunch. ‘Yes,’ I answer slowly. ‘I think you’re right.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘One more go. You’ll get it,’ Danny, the manager of the union bar, tells me a few days later.
‘Ihaveto get it. Or you’ll fire me on day one,’ I reply, attempting to pull yet another pint. I’ve had a couple of goes. I’m crap. I thought this would be a breeze, but the white foamy head on each pint I pull is the size of a tower block. The actual beer measure is minuscule.
Every time someone orders one, Danny rushes over, watches me like a hawk, places his hand on mine on the pump and guides me on how to do it. He winces as I get it wrong another time. I’ve been here about an hour. I’m surely getting it wrong too much to last the day.
‘Don’t fire me yet,’ I plead, making Danny laugh. I thought I’d ace this. How hard can working behind a bar be? Now that I’m eighteen I can work behind a bar, whereas all the other hospitality jobs I’ve had have been ferrying plates of food back and forth.
‘This is my first time pulling pints,’ I confess again.
‘You’ve said that three times,’ Danny insists. He’s in his twenties, doing a Masters in hospitality, and this job is a stepping stone to something much bigger eventually, or so hesays. For now, though, poor Danny is stuck here helping me waste a barrel of beer on practice runs.
Ollie enters, carrying a huge medical textbook under one arm and a rucksack in his other. He sees me, waves his hand back and forth, giving me aShould I come over?kind of signal. I nod encouragingly and then, just in case there’s any doubt, I wave him towards me.
Danny leaves me practising and goes to serve someone else.
‘How was your first lecture?’ I ask. ‘Mine start tomorrow.’
‘Lucky you,’ Ollie replies, his brown eyes shining excitedly. ‘Yeah, I really enjoyed it. Thank God. Lecturers are nice so far. Day one, though … you know – how hard could it be?’
‘What are the other students on your course like?’ I ask immediately.
‘Nice. Bit of a mix, but mostly very serious. How’s it going here? Well done on getting the job by the way.’
‘Thanks. Not sure I’ll be keeping it,’ I confess. ‘I’m struggling to pull pints.’
‘Oh, I’m no help, I’m afraid. Looks fun, though. Can I have a go?’
‘Maybe later,’ I say. ‘Don’t want to piss off Danny any more. He’s being very patient while we waste shitloads of beer. What can I get you?’ I ask, excited to serve my first proper customer.
‘Americano and one of those croissants,’ he says, pointing to a glass-domed cake stand.
‘Croissants are a bit stale,’ I whisper, glancing at Danny to check he’s not in earshot.
