I remind myself that he’s paying rent. He can do whatever he likes.
‘It’s a bit embarrassing as I only drank…’
‘Two and a half pints,’ I say, finishing his sentence for him.
He groans. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Jamie told me.’
‘I’ve never been great at drinking. How about a cup of tea?’ he asks with a reddening face.
I nod. ‘Milk, no sugar, and make sure it has a bit of colour.’
He staggers into the kitchen, clutching his aching head. After a good ten minutes, he comes back with a mug of tea. ‘I’m sorry, Nelly.’
As he approaches, I survey his tousled hair, his white shirt, untucked from his faded blue jeans, and the top two shirt buttons, which are undone, revealing a triangle of tanned chest. It’s a struggle to drag my eyes away and focus on him, handing over my mug of tea. A fluttering sensation in my chest distracts me, and our fingertips touch.
I wait for the light and the vision.
There is nothing.
He’s staring at me. ‘Are you okay?’
I blink several times. Why didn’t I see a vision? I haven’t banged my head again.
‘Nelly?’
He makes me jolt, and I spill hot tea over my thighs. ‘Ouch,’ I cry, putting down the mug and rising from my chair as the heat seeps through my jeans. Oliver rushes into the kitchen, grabs a tea towel and races over to me. ‘My fault,’ he says, handing it to me, ‘I made you jump.’
Silently, I agree with him about the spillage being his fault – he needs to do up the buttons on his shirts when he’s inside my flat.
As I wipe my jeans with the tea towel, my mind goes into freefall – why didn’t I see a vision? Has my curse disappeared? Excitement takes hold of me. My twenty-four-year-old curse might have gone, and I could be free.
He’s pointing to my bookshelves. ‘Do you mind if I have a little browse?’
‘You haven’t done so already?’
‘I’ve been so hungover. Anyway, I’m curious about what a fellow anti-romance person reads.’
He wanders over to the bookshelves. Reaching out, he points to one. ‘Norwegian Wood. Interesting but melancholic.’
‘My kind of read.’ I force myself sit back in my chair and sip my tea when all I want to do is get excited.
He points to another. ‘Atonement. Good but tragic.’
‘It’s realistic.’
I watch him point to another book. ‘The Bell Jar. It’s a classic but?—’
‘I enjoyed the symbolism of the mental confinement.’
He chuckles. ‘Nelly, we’re going to be great flatmates once I stop causing accidents.’
After he returns to the sofa, I watch him place the flannel over his head and lie back. ‘You need some books by a cool author I know.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Oliver James – you heard of him? He has terrible hangovers and needs some sympathy.’
