Page 53 of I’m Dreaming of a New York Christmas

‘It was lovely to meet you,’ I said, trying – and failing – to extract myself from the beanbag.

‘Don’t get up, hon. It was very nice to meet you too.’

I collapsed back into it, admitting defeat with a limp wave.

‘Good luck with the next caption contest!’ Saul said, as the three of them exited the apartment. Ethan turned to me before he shut the door, pressing his hands together in an apologetic gesture. I downed my remaining champagne in response.

Once the door was closed, I placed the glass down next to me, shifted my weight to the opposite side and rolled out of the beanbag like a limbless walrus, landing with a bump on the floor. I stood up and brushed off a few more rogue polystyrene balls, looking around the room properly for the first time. It was a single open-plan space – much airier than my flat in Bath – with high ceilings and two long windows I could well imagine would normally flood the space with light, if it weren’t approaching four o’clock on a murky December afternoon.

The walls were painted neutrally, but were full of artwork, illustrations and posters advertising exhibitions, gigs and comedy shows. Judging by the style of them, most of them – if not all – were Ethan’s own handiwork. A giant yucca plant looked very happy in a corner next to one of the windows, adorned with a simple strand of festive fairy lights and a selection of 2D felt baubles that looked handmade. Two full-height shelves filled with books framed an enormous bed, which was made neatly with white linen and a patchwork, waffly throw artfully draped over the end. Opposite the sleeping area was a mid-century modern desk, the surface of which was almost completely full of screens, sketchbooks, pens and pencils – everything seemed to have its place. A classic Eames office chair was snugly tucked in between two drawers that clung to the underside of the desk. That bloody beanbag hadn’t been needed after all. I could well imagine the drawers were full of cartoony treasures, but I resisted the urge to have a look.

In the corner next to the home of the offending beanbag was a small cupboard in the mid-century style of the desk, on top of which was a vintage record player. I opened the cupboard door and peeked inside, discovering – as expected – a decent vinyl collection, all meticulously organised. On every available surface were quirky, mismatched table lamps; I just knew that Ethan rarely used the Big Light. I exhaled with a combination of contentment and envy; the place was perfect, and I wished I could live in it.

By the time Ethan came back, I was sitting on the sofa, my glass topped up with booze to numb my embarrassment about everything that had just occurred. He pressed the door closed behind him quietly, and leaned against it, covering his entire face with his hands.

‘Urrrgghhh!’ If cringes had a sound, his guttural groan was exactly it.

I passed him his glass, which I’d also topped up. ‘Here, I think you need this.’

‘Yes, yes,’ he said keenly, taking the vessel, downing the liquid in one and filling both glasses back up with the final dregs of the bottle.

He finally sat on the sofa next to me, but with enough of a gap between us that one of his parents would have fitted in it with space to spare.

‘I can’t believe that just happened,’ he said, not able to look at me.

‘Me neither,’ I said. And, after a few more beats of psychological recovery, ‘I got stuck in the beanbag.’

We collapsed into fits of laughter, recounting every element of the comedic scene that had just played out.

‘What did they say when you saw them out?’ I said, between gasps of hysterics.

‘Mom was a bit distracted by whatever’s going on with Rick’s pants, but Dad was very much impressed by your captioning prowess. The way he was talking about your status as a contest finalist, anybody would think he’d just met a celebrity.’

‘And we should probably give an honourable mention to… “Eethy”, was it?’

He made the cringing sound again. ‘I’m never gonna get over this.’

‘I get it; my family calls me “Flo-mo” and other equally annoying rhyming variations.’

‘Cute. Seriously, though, I’m so sorry about all of this. I can safely say this is the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me.’

‘Even more so than Rick thinking your boss was your date?’

‘A million times worse. A billion times.’

‘Well, I feel honoured to have witnessed it. Well, to have caused it, I guess. Sorry about that.’

He scooched a little closer, turning to face me. ‘Hey, no apologies necessary. Sure, it was incredibly embarrassing – like, at one point I thought I might actually throw up – and my folks are never going to let me forget it, I’m sure. But, given the choice, I wouldn’t have changed anything that led up to that moment.’

‘No?’

‘Nope.’

He took one of my hands and squeezed it, as if trying to erase the last half an hour and transport us back to the moment he’d inserted his key in the lock. My body was happy to play along, my consciousness rewinding as my face leaned towards his.

The brash sound of the apartment buzzer immediately undid our time-travel experiment, Saul’s voice crackling through the ancient intercom. ‘Sorry, son, I left my sweater up there! Could you bring it down?’

Ethan melted off the settee and grabbed his dad’s jumper from the bed. ‘I’ll be back.’