‘Have you still got your rolling pin, Nelly?’ Oliver says as he climbs into his side of the bed.
I reach under my pillow. ‘My rolling pin is ready. I’ll be watching out for any attempts at knocking down the wall.’
He chuckles. ‘On the way home, I was thinking of good conversation topics. Are you sleepy?’
The second he lies down, my body wakes up. My nostrils go wild at the scent of his aftershave, and my heart beats faster every time he repositions his pillow or shifts to get comfortable. My mind replays the memory of him in his fitted white T-shirt, his toned physique. I am glad a pillow wall separates us and that it’s dark, because I am bathed in a light sweat.
‘Are you okay, Nelly?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘You’re breathing very fast.’
Damn my traitorous body! I need to change the subject. This could be a good opportunity to find out what he’s hiding. ‘How was your evening?’
‘Fine. I enjoyed hanging around the flat tonight as opposed to staying out.’
‘Did you meet your friend?’
He goes silent, avoiding my question. I listen to the rain ticking against the window, the strange creaks of an old house, and a peal of laughter from the floor below.
‘This place comes alive at night,’ says Oliver, breaking his silence. ‘It’s relaxing to lie here, listen to the rain and hear the fun that is going on downstairs.’
‘It’s one of the many reasons why I love this place.’
‘Do you ever lie here and think about the servants who once lived in these rooms?’ His words light me up inside.
‘All the time.’
‘I would have been a footman,’ he gushes, ‘Opening doors, carrying all the coal upstairs and cleaning the silverware.’
I smile. ‘I would have been in my scullery maid era, scrubbing the floors and washing dishes.’
He chuckles. ‘I would be good at bowing and saying, “Yes, ma’am.” I also would have made sure you were doing your job properly.’
I giggle. ‘I would not take orders from you, Oliver.’
‘You would look good in one of those maid caps.’
‘Careful.’
‘Let’s talk about our favourite music,’ he says, changing the conversation. ‘I’m a huge Coldplay fan.’
‘Wow – me too,’ I say, in shock from behind the pillow wall. I can’t believe we like the same band.
An hour later, we are still talking across the pillow wall about albums and our favourite Coldplay songs. We have both agreed thatParachutesis our favourite comfort album; the song ‘Clocks’ is a timeless classic, and we had a lively debate about the best order for an imaginary Coldplay playlist.
Our Coldplay discussion comes to an end, which makes me feel sad. I hope we can carry on talking.
‘What shall we talk about now?’ he asks, making me feel like an excited child who has been allowed to stay up late.
This is an opportunity to find out more about him.
‘Miranda tells me your father lives in Cornwall…’ I remember her also telling me about his wealthy father and his playboy lifestyle.
‘Yes, Dad loves Cornwall. He and Mum used to go there a lot on holiday… before she got sick.’
‘I’m sorry, Oliver.’
