Our Story: the new heartwarming and emotional romance fiction book from the Sunday Times bestselling author of Take A Look At Me Now

by Miranda Dickinson

  She shakes her head.

  ‘He might.’

  ‘It was always Chris. That was the deal. Dad and Sheila wanted…’

  ‘What about what you want?’

  ‘What about it?’

  I’m tired now. I can feel its weight pulling my shoulders, my head too heavy for my neck. I want to close my eyes and sleep, but I can’t leave Otty hosting Maudlin alone. We started this together: I’m determined to see it through to the end.

  ‘You get to choose, Otts. Stuff what anyone else thinks.’

  She curls back up on the sofa, a cushion cradled in her lap. ‘So, what’s the story with you?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yeah. I thought Molly-on-Reception was the latest flame. But you haven’t mentioned her for ages.’

  I’d kind of hoped she hadn’t noticed, but of course I underestimated my housemate’s ability for biding her time. ‘I saw her twice. First time it was all coy innuendo and come-back-to-mine eyes. Second time…’

  ‘You went back to hers?’

  I remember standing in Molly’s living room, pouring wine, excited by the promise of the evening. And then we’d eaten a meal she’d ordered in, during which time something changed.

  ‘Joe,’ Molly had barked.

  The sharpness of her tone had snapped me from my thoughts. ‘What?’

  ‘You’re not in the room.’

  ‘Sorry. Work’s crazy at the moment and Russell’s being a nightmare. Otty and I have to…’

  And that’s when I’d clocked the problem. Or rather, Molly had clocked it for me.

  ‘Otty again. You know, maybe next time you should just bring her with you. She’s practically been with us since you arrived tonight.’

  I can’t tell Otty that. It was just Molly reading stuff into it that was never there. Sure, I talked about Otty but I was talking about work, and that includes her. And the house – which includes her, too…

  Why can’t a guy have a really close female friend without the world assuming they’re in love?

  ‘I went back to Molly’s and we had dinner and then she asked me to leave.’

  Otty blinks. ‘Harsh.’

  I let my sigh carry the weariness from my body as I slouch back. ‘Want to know the worst thing? I wasn’t bothered. Pride not even dented.’ When I look at Otty, I can’t read her expression. So I press on, aware this is the first time I’ve admitted how I feel about relationships right now. ‘I can’t find the enthusiasm for it, you know? Dating. Not like I used to.’

  Her eyes remain on me.

  ‘It’s probably the work. I don’t have the capacity to accommodate someone else when everything is focused on the script.’

  ‘Except Daphne,’ she says. It’s so quiet I almost miss it. She looks away.

  ‘Daphne?’

  ‘You have space for her.’

  What? ‘Where did you get that idea?’

  ‘She told me. It’s okay, Joe, you’re allowed a private life.’

  ‘I’m not with Daphne.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, okay.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  Maudlin pushes between us on the sofa, seeping its bleakness into every exchange. I don’t want to give it room, but we’re already succumbing. When Otty looks back at me, her eyes glisten.

  ‘I saw you with her. The other night, when we left Ensign late. And then she said…’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘That she was with you.’ She screws up her eyes. ‘No – not with you, but that she would be soon.’

  ‘You don’t believe that, do you?’

  Her shoulders lift and drop. ‘You can do what you want, Joe.’

  ‘I’m not seeing Daphne, whatever she says. And for the record, she hugged me. Okay?’

  Surprised, Otty stares at me. ‘Okay. Sorry.’

  I’m stung, but I don’t know why. ‘Anyway, you date.’

  ‘I haven’t for a while.’

  ‘How come?’

  She picks at a stray thread on her sleeve. ‘Same as you, I guess. Too busy. Not into it. And the whole Chris thing…’

  ‘Doesn’t mean you can’t find someone.’

  ‘Easy for you to say. You have half of Ensign lusting after you.’

  I laugh because my housemate is clearly deluded. ‘Not Molly. Not Daphne…’

  ‘Er, yes Daphne. And Rona.’

  I stare at her. ‘Now you’re just making stuff up.’

  ‘She asked me if you were single last week.’

  ‘That’s… terrifying.’

  Otty laughs then – a real laugh – and it’s such a gift in the strange atmosphere we’re in that I laugh, too. ‘She’d eat you for a snack.’

  ‘Man, she would. Nothing left of me but still-quaking bones…’

  Otty leans her head against the sofa’s back and I do the same, both of us gazing up at the corniced ceiling as if the stars were visible beyond it. As if the universe were slowly turning in the sky above our heads. The ceiling is rotating a little, but that’s just alcohol spinning my brain. We fall silent for a while, an unfamiliar air between us.

  And then I hear Otty’s sigh.

  ‘It’s a disaster.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘All of it. Chris and my family and… I don’t know, maybe I should just call it a day.’

  ‘Call what a day? Not your job?’

  ‘No,’ she laughs, as if I’ve just suggested she gives up breathing. ‘The love thing. Maybe I should just accept defeat, get three cats and become a mad spinster cat-lady. I’d save myself years of heartache.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘I don’t think it is. Love doesn’t work for everybody. Why push myself into something that’s only going to fail?’

  ‘Bollocks, Otts. You just haven’t found the right person…’

  ‘No. No. Don’t spin that “he’s out there if you keep looking” line. You might have options, but I don’t. And I don’t want to waste my life chasing a mirage. If the only person who wants me is Chris bloody Wright then I hereby choose the three-cat single life.’

  She isn’t joking now, is she? Indignation wells up within me. She can’t think like that. She has no idea how wonderful she is. And tonight I might just be drunk enough to say it.

  ‘Chris is not the only person who wants you.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘I mean it.’

  ‘Oh and you know this because…?’

  I twist a little so I’m facing her, every nerve firing within me. ‘Because I do.’

  It’s a sucker-punch of emotion, a sudden sobering revelation that shakes me. I feel the room drawing in around us, a dolly shot pulling the entire world towards two lonely souls on the sofa.

  Otty is looking at me now.

  Is she smiling? I can’t tell. I don’t want to see but I need to know…

  And then, she kisses me.

  It’s there before I know it – and over before I can respond.

  Otty pulls back, shock and surprise and horror and amusement passing across her face in alternate waves. She makes to speak – but I’ve already made up my mind.

  I want this.

  I stop thinking. My hands find her face, my fingers tracing the curve of her cheek to the contour of her jaw. Her eyes search mine as I edge towards her. It’s new and startling but as old and certain as time. I feel the warmth of her skin as her hands rest on my arms and move, slow as a sleeping breath, up to my shoulders. My heart crashes in my ears, Otty’s breath hot on my lips in the delicious pause before we meet…

  In that moment, I am exactly where I want to be. And I don’t ever want to leave. The die is cast, the decision made.

  We stop fighting.

  And we give in.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  OTTY

  The first thing I see is light.

  Just a white blur at first, shifting and dancing through water as I blink. I feel like I’m emerging from a frenetic tumble of movement and noise into stillness. I blink again.r />
  The next thing I see is that nothing is where it should be.

  The window isn’t at the foot of my bed; it’s to my left. The sheets are different. The space doesn’t seem to be my space.

  I turn my head and see clothes that aren’t mine draped across the back of a chair, a pile of books I don’t own on the desk that doesn’t belong to me, either. I try to sit up, but that’s when the pain hits.

  The crushing ache sends my head back into a pillow far lower down than I’m used to. I can’t think past the pain, or reach round to drag the fragments of consciousness together to make sense of it all. With one hand clamped to my forehead, I reach out the other to anchor myself to the expanse of mattress beside me. My fingers find the ridges of the fitted sheet, the slight indentation cool where the duvet has been thrown back. As if someone was there until a little while ago…

  Joe.

  Joe’s bed.

  This is Joe’s bed.

  I sit bolt upright, suddenly numb to the screaming pain in my head. The books are Joe’s, the clothes his, too. I glance down at the side of the bed and recognise one piece of clothing he definitely doesn’t wear.

  I snap my eyes shut. I don’t need to see any more.

  How did I end up in Joe’s bed?

  My mind is a stubborn blank, my hangover too fierce to salvage any memory that might remain.

  Think, Otty!

  Okay.

  My eyes fall on the corner of the duvet pulled back in the space beside me. If Joe had tucked me in, he wouldn’t have left it like that. And it’s the wrong side for me to have thrown it back myself. I let my gaze travel from the duvet to the space where the fitted sheet is crumpled, up to the single pillow. The indentation in it makes my heart drop.

  Right.

  So maybe we crashed out together, Joe too tired to think of doing the gentlemanly thing and taking my bed when I was in his. Perfectly understandable. Completely innocent and sensible.

  Except that doesn’t explain the item on the bedroom floor. Or the lack of items I’m wearing…

  Who am I kidding? It’s obvious what happened.

  Why can’t I remember it?

  Tears flood my vision and I turn my head into the pillow to sob soundlessly. I don’t know how I got here and I don’t know what happens now. And if Joe isn’t here, where is he? Did he wake before me, realise what we’d done and get himself as far away from me as he could? We had such a good thing here, in this house, living and working together. How did we throw that all away?

  It hits me then, wave upon wave of revelation. What if we don’t survive this? What if we can’t write together? What if I lose the home I love? What if I lose Joe? Whatever else has happened, he’s my best friend. What if this ends us?

  I don’t know how long I stay there, paralysed by fear and pain. I can’t hear Joe and I’m pretty certain I’m alone. Which makes everything better and worse at once.

  And then I see the photograph.

  It’s identical to the one stuck to the fridge in the kitchen with a Blame It On The Writer magnet. We’re in Purnell’s on the day of the season one completion lunch, crazy-posing for Rona’s camera. Cheeks pressed together, locked in a wild embrace, wearing identically idiotic grins. I didn’t know Joe had another copy. It’s propped up on his desk against the stack of thesauruses and dictionaries I’ve never seen him use, right next to the spot where his laptop lies. We look so happy…

  A memory arrives unannounced, startlingly bright in my mind. Lying in darkness, a single trail of moonlight seeping from the gap in the curtains illuminating my hand where it lies against Joe’s naked chest. I feel the warm brush of his breath on the top of my head, the gentle stroke of his fingers on my hair, the soft, sure pad of his heart against my ear.

  I stare at the photo, trying to match that image with the newly arrived memory. Is it possible…?

  My breath stalls. What if this isn’t the disaster it might be? What if Joe wants this?

  The way he stepped in when Chris came back, and how he spirited me away from the aftermath of my family’s row at the cricket yesterday – were those the actions of a friend or…?

  And before that, all the weirdness when I dated Jas. Was it the awkwardness of the situation or the beginnings of something else?

  And all the hours we’ve worked and lived and argued and cried and laughed together; every easy silence between the words; every moment we’ve settled into the familiarity of being Otty and Joe, here, in this house of light and welcome. Has every moment been leading us to this?

  Otty and Joe grin back at me from the photo, eyes bright.

  I want to draw them close to me and never let go.

  But until I see Joe, I won’t know what happens next.

  A hot shower will clear my head, I hope.

  Once safely there, I stand in the stinging flow of water, the steam obliterating my view. When it’s done I go back to my room, my still-made bed accusing as I pull on a T-shirt, jumper and jeans and rub a towel against my head as I walk barefoot down the stairs. I’m stepping onto the cold hall tiles when a sound makes me freeze.

  A drawer banging shut. The clink of a teaspoon in a mug. A muted buzz of music from the radio.

  Joe’s here.

  I steel myself, surprised to feel a shot of excitement. This could work. I already love Joe as a friend – could I love him as more? I drape my towel on the elegant carved newel post at the foot of the stairs and run a hand through my hair. The single memory of last night sparkles again in my mind. It almost takes my feet from under me.

  That’s when I decide: I’m going to tell him I want this; that I think I might be falling in love.

  It’s shocking, but it’s real. We could be great together. Maybe that’s why I’ve lost my enthusiasm for dating: maybe it wasn’t that I was short of potential dates, but just that none of them were Joe. The revelation is so crazy I could laugh out loud, but my hangover dismisses that option as soon as it arrives.

  I’m ready as I’ll ever be.

  Joe is by the coffee machine, his back to me. Without his T-shirt I can see the subtle changes in his musculature when he moves, the tension and release as he scoops fresh coffee into the filter and snaps it into place. He brushes coffee from his hands and I see the gentle dance of his shoulder blades. I feel as if I know them, although empty blanks hang where memories should be.

  I could love him…

  And then he turns. He stops dead, eyes wide.

  ‘Hi.’

  A smile plays on my lips. ‘Hi.’

  ‘I… um… I’m making coffee.’

  ‘So I see.’

  Say it.

  ‘How’s the head?’

  ‘Not my best friend.’

  He pulls a face. ‘Mine either.’

  Please say it.

  ‘Sit down. I’ll get you some tablets.’ He bumbles to the cupboards, opening the wrong door first before finding the cupboard where pills and first aid stuff is bundled in with rolls of bin bags and the packets of dishcloths and air fresheners he told me his mum brings on the rare times she visits. ‘Er… ibuprofen or paracetamol?’

  I hide my smile. ‘Whatever’s nearest.’

  He grabs a packet, half-slams the cupboard door and fumbles with the foil-backed blister pack, swearing under his breath when it refuses to yield.

  ‘Give it to me if you like.’

  ‘Sure.’ He slides the packet across the kitchen table like a Wild West saloon barkeep despatching whiskey shots.

  ‘Thanks.’ I take two tablets, jumping when Joe bumps a glass of water on the table next to my hand.

  Say it now.

  Joe remains silent.

  I take the tablets and drink, taking my time to be calm. It was always going to be awkward seeing each other after last night. Whatever happened, Joe must have woken up next to me and gone through the same tumble of thoughts as I did.

  ‘Joe,’ I say, my hammering heart making the dizziness worse. ‘Talk to me.’

  I see th
e muscles across his back tense. Then he slowly moves to the table and takes the seat next to mine. Our hands are inches apart on the weathered wood. I look up and meet his gaze.

  ‘Morning-after mortification,’ he says, with the ghost of a grin. ‘Never thought I’d have that with you.’

  I smile back. ‘Me neither.’

  ‘So, about last night…’ He shakes his head at the old-worn phrase.

  ‘It was unexpected,’ I begin. ‘A shock, at first. But the thing is…’ I remember the way you held me, stroking my hair… ‘I had time to think this morning and…’ I looked at that photo of us in your room and we look so happy… ‘I think I might…’

  ‘Otts…’

  I want to be happy with you…

  ‘The thing is, Joe, I think…’

  I might be falling for you…

  ‘It was a mistake,’ he says.

  My thoughts career headlong off a cliff, suspended in the air for a second. In limbo there, I struggle to get my bearings, but then I’m tumbling after them. ‘What?’

  ‘Biggest mistake, eh?’ His laugh is strange, more a shot of sound than a release of humour. ‘It’s so obvious. Working together, sharing this place, the high of the job, all that confusion at the cricket yesterday. And alcohol… We drank a lot last night…’

  I stare at my fingers and watch Joe withdraw his, curling them into his palm. I’m slipping, his words clashing with the imagined conversation that’s still playing in my head.

  ‘I… I guess we did…’

  ‘Hey, it’s okay. I don’t regret it.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  He folds his arms. ‘Not that I remember much.’ I see a flash of uncertainty. ‘Do you?’

  I was deluded to think this was anything more than a drunken mistake. I’m shattered but I’m damned if I’ll let him see it. Self-preservation is what matters now, the instinct that’s always saved me in the past. I will not let Joe Carver break my heart, wreck my career or take my home.

  ‘Total blank,’ I say, shoving a bright smile centre-stage. ‘I’m guessing I was amazing.’

  Joe’s expression is oddly taut. ‘I’m guessing I was, too. So – we forget it happened?’

  ‘I think we should.’ My heart hurts. ‘I love you as a friend, Joe. I don’t want to change that.’