‘Fuck off.’ He pushes me away, splutters off my affection with a shake of his head and a boyish smirk.
I find my phone on the side, look at the missed calls from my mum, the late-night email that Sam had sent to ‘put our conversation in writing’ and everything seizes up. I feel the weight come back to me.
‘Coffee.’
Archie raises his eyebrows. ‘Is that a question?’
‘Sorry. Yes. Can I have a coffee?’ I remember my manners.
‘Yes, Ava, I will make us a coffee.’ He gets up, making no immediate attempt to cover up his body. He doesn’t need to. Archie and I have seen each other naked enough times to know what we’re hiding. I watch him, tall, solid, dark, and wonder if it’s appropriate to start this all over again, whether morning sex was a ‘casual’ affair or whether it turned this into something more.
He pulls on some pyjama bottoms and a hoody and opens the door onto the rest of the flat.
I take a moment to make his bed, and then perch on the edge of it, turning my phone around and around in my palm until I summon the courage to reply to my mother who is threatening to call the police if I don’t respond by nine.
I tell her I’m alive.
Archie’s flat is a novelty; it is his, and only his. He doesn’t have a roommate (or a parent) who can pop in and out at any moment and ruin the mood with a poorly timed question about the recycling. He feels like a proper adult, which is pretty humbling considering that he’s younger than me, a whole two years younger, but he’s the kind of person I would trust to do their taxes in time and has credit cards for the benefits not just for the overdraft facilities.
‘Sugar?’ He holds up a little glass container.
‘Two, please.’
‘Heathen.’ He scowls but dutifully scoops it in and then hands it to me with a little grin. We stand there, resting up against his kitchen cabinets, unsure of how to proceed.
‘Hey,’ he says after a moment. In its attempt to sound casual it sounds strange. ‘Some guys at work have been talking about this new Japanese restaurant, said it was amazing but really hard to get into so I put my name on the list and they’ve called me back… think you might want to go?’
I gulp down some scalding coffee and try not to wince. ‘When?’
‘Next Thursday.’ I feel my chest constrict with the weight of the thing I now need to tell him. The flight that Sam had promptly booked for Wednesday before I could change my mind, my month-long absence, the realisation that this fucked up littleholidayis, and will be, happening.
‘Ah.’ I look at my bare feet, the chipped nail varnish that has almost worked itself off of my toenails. ‘I’d love to but I’m actually going away for a bit,’ I counter and I see his expression change. It clearly wasn’t the response he had been expecting, not a yes but not an outright no either. ‘It’s a work thing.’
His brow furrows. ‘You don’t do “work things”, you’re freelance and barely that.’
I hesitate. We have managed to keep the fine prints of our lives almost entirely separate. It’s like we have the summaries – a synopsis of major events, jobs, bereavements, any outstanding STDs – but we don’t really talk about specific nuances. ‘It’s a book thing.’
‘Oh…’ His eyes shoot up a little and I can see him chew over the details. ‘Like a publicity tour?’ he guesses. I appreciate his optimism.
‘Not exactly. It’s my editor. We went for dinner last night… before I came here.’ I watch as something passes over his face, a hardening of his jaw, the acceptance that yet again he was an afterthought.
‘What’s the deal?’
‘She wants me to go back to Monpazier, to go back to where it all happened… you know, Ettie and that.’ It’s like his name’s taboo here, I lower my voice a little, like when anyone says the word ‘sex’ in public. I don’t like Ettie and Archie to co-exist, it feels wrong.
‘Oh shit, yeah.’ I can see the awkwardness fall back on his face.
‘Sorry, this is probably far too deep for a post-shag chat, huh? Rule of thumb, men don’t like it when you bring up your dead ex-husband.’
‘I’m not that bad, Ava.’ He looks genuinely hurt; I reach out and grab his arm.
‘No, I know, I’m joking, I do that when I don’t know what to say.’ He looks down at the connection, the entirely platonic show of support that we rarely show each other.
‘You don’t want to go?’
‘Of course I don’t want to but it sounds like I don’t have a choice. They say I need to find some sort of “conclusion to my grief”.’ I put on a voice and screw my face up in a poor imitation of Sam.
‘Bullshit.’
