‘But if it ruins everything, then I’m moving in here,’ I insist. ‘I’ll be sleeping on your sofa for the foreseeable, until I live it down –ifI ever live it down.’
‘You can have the second bedroom,’ she says. ‘The sofa is for men who disappoint me.’
‘Deal,’ I say with a laugh.
‘Wait. Does this mean I technically won the bet?’ JJ asks.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The three-dates-and-I’ll-flash-the-security-guard-and-get-you-a-book-deal bet,’ she says. ‘Technically, I’ve found you someone.’
‘That’s one hell of a technicality,’ I say with a laugh.
‘Well, I didn’t think guy number one, whatever his name was, even counted,’ she insists. ‘So Andy is number three by my count.’
‘Tell you what, let’s not count our chickens,’ I suggest. ‘Let’s see if I actually have the balls to tell him how I feel.’
‘More wine,’ she suggests. ‘Wine always helps.’
As JJ tops up my glass, my mind is racing ahead. It’s not that long until Andy is back. I can just see him walking through the front door, suitcase in hand, tie loosened, smile tired but warm. Then there will be me, standing there, trying not to hyperventilate as I say something that will change everything.
I love him. I’m in love with him.
It’s like someone just turned the lights on in a room I’ve been wandering around in in the dark. Yes, it’s scary, but for the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel like a blank page or a plot hole I can’t figure out. It feels like a story waiting to be written. One where the boy next door might be the leading man after all.
And now I know that? I have to tell him.
But first, more wine…
10
I watch myself in the mirrored lift wall as I play through what I’m going to say to Andy for the millionth time. I have a few versions on the go, of how I’m going to have the conversation with him, and I can’t say I feel all that confident about any approach.
One idea I have is to be direct, to blurt it out the second Andy walks through the door, although the thought of doing that terrifies me, and it will probably freak him out too.
Idea two is to bang on all about my bad dates, then slowly weave into the conversation that he was right about what I wanted and, oh, I’m only just having this thought now, honestly, but isn’t he kind of describing himself? And then hope he comes to the realisation too and takes it from there.
Then there’s idea three, where I make him his favourite dinner – lasagne – and I open a bottle of wine, and I hope that by some miracle it all comes out naturally.
I suppose I’ve opted for idea three, given that I’ve bought all the ingredients to make the lasagne, so it’s ready for when he walks through the door later this evening.
But once the food is out, all bets are off. I’ve no idea what I’m going to do.
I adjust the bag of shopping that’s digging into my shoulder. There’s a lot riding on this lasagne.
I’ve gone full wife-material – at least I’ve tried to. I’ve got fresh pasta sheets, the expensive mozzarella, the fancy tomatoes in jars that cost more than double what the ones in the tins cost. Cooking for him is safe territory. I do it all the time, I know that he loves what I make, so it’s an easy way to butter him up. Plus, eating will work as a prop, giving me a reason to keep my mouth shut when I don’t know what to say, or my hands busy when the urge to throw myself at him kicks in. Yep, I’ve had a week or so to think it over, and my imagination has well and truly run away with me. I’m officially fantasising about Andy, not only about the idea of a future together, but about him. I’ve been looking at photos of the two of us on my phone, truly allowing myself to fancy him, to think about kissing him, about his hands on my body. I’m down the rabbit hole now; there’s no turning back.
The lift dings and the doors open on to our floor. I step out into the familiar corridor, giving my shopping bag one last yank for the home stretch. The hard work hasn’t even started yet.
I walk through the door and drop my bag down. I’ll get the food on, tidy up and then change into something nice. Not so nice it raises suspicions, but the kind of effort he would be crazy to say no to. I’ve probably only got a couple of hours before he’s back, so I’d better get a wriggle on.
As I walk into the open-plan living space I’m stopped in my tracks, because there’s someone here. A woman.
Not like a delivery person waiting for a signature or a maintenance person finally here to fix the extractor fan in the bathroom. A woman-woman, sitting on the sofa, smiling.
She’s got a decorative cushion behind her back, her bare feet tucked under her, her phone in her hand like she’s in her own living room.
She’s tiny, in a delicate but adorable kind of way. Honey-blonde hair so bouncy it practically gives me a twirl as she turns to look at me. She’s wearing a soft peach dress that looks expensive in that ‘oh this old thing?’ way and a tiny gold necklace with a charm that looks – I think – like her zodiac sign, but I don’t know them well enough to tell you which.