To my annoyance, Lenny comes trotting over to us on Oliver’s command and squeezes himself through the railings. Without hesitation, Oliver and I instinctively bend to grab Lenny at the same time, and the unthinkable happens. We bang heads.
He lets out an ‘OUCH’, and I yelp, waiting for the flash of white light. My chest tightens, my breath catches, and I wait.
There is nothing – no white light. No vision.
13
Oliver is holding Lenny and looking at me. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes,’ I mutter, rubbing my forehead. My mind is in freefall.
When I touched Oliver, I saw nothing. No flash of light and no vision. There was no doomed love story. Just a void.
Something is wrong.
I stare down at my hands and see they’re trembling. Pain is radiating out of my forehead, and my stomach has gone on a nauseating spin.
What is going on?
The ground tilts. I grip onto the railings for support. This is strange, as I have bumped heads with people before and seen a vision. My brain frantically searches for an example. Miranda’s face rushes to the front of my mind. We bumped heads after I’d told her about my decision to have Oliver as a flatmate and she’d tried to give me one of her hugs. I had seen Frank and his pram. A wave of nausea washes over me. I must have a concussion. That’s why I can’t see anything.
‘Nelly, say something,’ says Oliver. ‘You’re worrying me.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say, reaching out a trembling hand to stroke Lenny. ‘Totally fine.’
He blinks. ‘Right. Let’s get you and Lenny home.’
My legs feel like they have turned to jelly as we climb the stairs. I can’t believe I didn’t see anything when our heads touched. My stomach rotates, and I stop, clutching my belly. ‘I can’t be sick,’ I tell myself. ‘This is not a good start to a flat-sharing relationship.’
Taking a deep breath, I carry on walking.
Once we get back inside the flat and close the door, I can smell a gorgeous aroma that reminds me of the wholesome casseroles Aunty Polly used to cook when I still lived with her.
‘Go lie down, Nelly,’ instructs Oliver, pointing to the sofa. ‘I’ll bring you a bag of frozen peas to put on your head.’
‘I’m fine,’ I protest. This is a lie, but I’m curious to see what he’s cooked.
On entering the kitchen, I gasp. It looks like Oliver has been cooking for half the town. The oven hob is covered in dirty saucepans, and the kitchen work surface is strewn with vegetable peelings, empty sauce cans, and bottles of herbs. The sight intensifies the pain in my head.
‘I will wash and clean up,’ he assures me.
I can’t take my eyes off the chaos and mess. Turning my attention to the kitchen table, I let out a silent groan. It has been set for two. If I sit directly opposite him, one of his legs might nudge or kick mine under the table. I will have to sit further back from the table and hope that food doesn’t topple off my fork and onto my lap.
He’s looking at me. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’
‘What?’
I watch as he glances back at the table. ‘There’s not much space, and with how long my legs are, we’ll end up playing footsie under the table. I can’t break your no-touching rule twice in the first half-hour of the flat share.’
‘You remembered my rule?’
He smiles. ‘I didn’t when we banged heads. I’m sorry about that. You look awfully pale.’
‘I’ll feel better after food,’ I say, optimistically.
‘Let’s do trays,’ he suggests, and relief floods through me.
I stand behind the kitchen table while he serves. He keeps glancing over his shoulder at me. ‘Do you need a bag of peas?’
