“I can’t do that,” I laugh. Good God, I hope he doesn’t think that’s why I was telling him.
“Why not?”
“Because we’ve only known each other a month.”
“So?”
“So – people don’t move in together after a month.”
“Why not?”
Why not? It’s a good question. I don’t know.
“Because it’s only a month,” I say, for want of anything better.
“I know. But what an incredible month, hey!” he laughs, pulling me towards him on the sofa and sliding his hand up my top.
“Be serious James,” I laugh.
“I am being serious.” I believe him. “I never thought I’d meet someone like you,” he says. “I can’t believe how you’ve made me feel this past month. I didn’t think it was possible to feel like this about someone. You’ve made me come alive. I want to be with you. I know that. So why not? Move in with me. I’d much rather you did that than live above a brothel in Balham,” he laughs. “Or set up camp in a lock-up in Wimbledon. Although,” he grins, “that would be handier than Balham as it’s just down the road from me!”
“I don’t know,” I say, cuddling up to him. “I feel the same. After Alex I thought it would be a very long time before I met someone else. And now you’ve come along. And you make me so happy. But I’m scared. It’s so fast. I don’t want to do the wrong thing. I don’t want to risk what we have right now by rushing things.”
He smiles at me.
“I know,” he says, pulling me close. “Just say you’ll think about it.”
“Okay. I’ll think about it.”
“Great. Now, where were we,” he says, sliding his hand back up my shirt.
“Do you think a month is too soon to move in with someone?” I ask Caroline the following week.
“It depends who it is really,” she says, shutting the lid of the kiln. We’re firing twenty six mugs from a birthday party at the weekend. “I moved in with Dave after three weeks. But we had known each other for a lot longer than that, I suppose. Why? Are you thinking of moving in with James?”
“He’s asked me to. But I’m not sure. I don’t think he’d planned it or anything. I was just telling him about some of the dives I’d been to look at to rent and he suggested I move in with him.”
“I thought you were staying with your friend Katie.”
“I am.” I programme the kiln while she wraps up some finished plates. “But it was only ever meant to be temporary. Katie and Matt are getting married in September. They don’t want me hanging around playing gooseberry.”
“Well, if you’re looking for somewhere to live, and you’re not sure about moving in with James, then what about the flat above this place?”
“What about it?”
“I own it.”
“Really?” I had no idea.
“Yes – or rather, Dave and I own it. And it just so happens that I’m looking for a new tenant. Amy, who has lived there since I opened the café, has just moved in with her boyfriend. It’s not huge but it’s big enough for one – and a regular visitor,” she adds, raising her eyebrows.
“Well, it’s the perfect location for me, obviously,” I say. “But it really depends on what you’re asking for it. I’m kind of living off my savings at the moment. I have my job here, obviously, but that’s only part time, and I won’t get anything from the magazine until my feature is published.”
“Well Amy paid us £500 a month, but I wouldn’t mind taking a bit less until you find your feet – or decide to move in with James.”
“How much less?”
“How does £400 sound, all in?”
“It sounds fantastic, but are you sure you wouldn’t rather find someone who can pay you the full £500?”
“No. To be honest I’d rather have someone I know living there. I knew Amy before she moved in; she’s been a great tenant, and I’m sure you would be too. In any case, it’s not like I’d have far to find you if you weren’t!”
“That’s true. In that case you’re on.”
“Great. I could give you a quick tour now if you like?”
CHAPTER FIFTY ONE
I love you, not for what you are, but what I am, when I am with you.
‘Love’, Roy Croft
“Have you seen my blue jacket?” I ask Katie on Saturday morning.
“Not since you wore it the night we celebrated your commission,” she says, biting into a piece of toast smothered in marmalade. “But I wouldn’t worry. It’s not like you’re going very far. And in the meantime if I find it I can borrow it!” she grins.
I told Katie about the flat as soon as I got home from work on Monday. She tried to persuade me to stay. She even roped Matt in on the effort – though his pleas were far less convincing, I have to say. He probably can’t wait to get rid of me. He’ll have his bathroom back, for starters. Poor bloke has had his toiletries relegated to the windowsill, to make room in the bathroom cabinet for all mine and Katie’s combined lotions and potions. And he must be sick of wearing creased shirts to work ever since we gave up on the canvas wardrobe – when it collapsed for the fifth time – and squashed all my clothes into their wardrobe alongside all of their clothes.
“I’ve got to get myself sorted,” I told her. “I can’t live with you and Matt forever. You don’t want me hanging around when you’re married. Besides – I’m not going far. I’ll be round for my tea every night!”
She’s come round to the idea now. In fact, I think she’s looking forward to it. She’s been doing more of the packing that I have. Although, I’m sure half the stuff she’s packed isn’t even mine. She keeps holding up random items and saying “I think this is yours, B,” and chucking it into one of the cardboard boxes currently lining the living room floor, regardless of whether it actually is or not.
I think she may be using my boxes as her own personal skip. I’ll probably get to the flat and discover out-of-date takeaway leaflets and freebie newspapers amongst my stuff, her ancient floral pyjamas with the hole in the bum, the bottle of fake CK One that’s gone off.
James is helping me move.
He has come around to the idea too now, once I’d explained that I don’t have a contract with Caroline – that I can move out whenever I like – whenever we’re ready.
He knocks on the door at 11am, just as Katie is climbing off my suitcase. She had to sit on it to get it to shut…
“Hey!” I say, kissing him on the lips. We do that now, you know – whenever we greet each other. It’s sad, I know. But I love it.
“James’ removals at your service,” he says, flexing his muscles.
“Fabulous. Thanks for doing this.“
“It’s no problem. I want to help. In any case, I’m going to be spending a lot of time at your new place so it’s only fair that I help you move in.” He looks at me expectantly and I smile my agreement.
Any minute now I’ll wake up. Someone will pinch me and I will wake up, on the sofa in Leeds, with a Penand Inc catalogue in my lap and a big sleep dribble working its way down my chin.
“So, what’s going?” James asks.
I’m not dreaming. This fantastic guy really is helping me move into my new home. This fantastic guy really is my boyfriend.
I nod towards the boxes stacked up by the door.
“These boxes here and the suitcases in my bedroom. I just need to shove the last of my clothes into a couple of Katie’s holdalls.”
“You mean your clothes didn’t fit into two suitcases?”
“Don’t be silly!” Katie laughs. “Hi James,” she says, squeezing his arm affectionately.
They’ve met each other a few times now.
They met for the first time when Katie was helping me out with the Monday evening shift again and James popped in to bring me my shorthand book which I’d left in his flat. Don’t ask – it’s like a foreign language – or Morse Code – dot dot dash dash. I don’t stand a chance. He stayed for a cup of tea – and painted a mug �
��just to see what all the fuss is about” and then he left, at which point Katie told me she was going to ditch Matt at the altar and marry James instead, describing him as “absolutely scrummy and absolutely lovely”. Exactly.
And then they met again when we all went to The Hedge for a drink on Wednesday evening. We asked Emma to come too, but she was going on a date, which was definite progress, we decided, so we didn’t push it.
And then James came round for dinner last night. Katie cooked a big lasagne (I helped – I grated the cheese). And we all got drunk and played Monopoly – me and James versus Katie and Matt. Katie and Matt had Mayfair and Park Lane. And Oxford Street. And Bond Street. And Regent Street. James and I had Old Kent Road and Whitechapel. And the Waterworks. But I wouldn’t give up – not before I’d sold off all our houses and hotels, re-mortgaged all of our properties and taken out a £10,000 bank loan.
“Remind me that I’m in charge when we buy our first place together,” James said. And I didn’t even flinch. Katie did though – she stared at me with big “oh my god” eyes and kicked me under the coffee table. It bloody hurt too.
He didn’t stay over. I have a single bed, if you recall, and the one and only time he has ever stayed over I rolled over and pushed him out of it.
“Hey Katie,” James says. “How does it feel to have wiped the floor with us last night?”
“Pretty good, as it happens,” she grins, flicking the kettle on. “Tea?”
“Yes please. So… what was that you were saying about Becky’s clothes?”
Great. Now they’re ganging up on me.
“Let’s just say the sheer weight broke my wardrobe.”
James looks suitably shocked.
“It’s a canvas wardrobe,” I protest. “It wouldn’t hold Barbie’s clothes, never mind mine!”
“Now then, girls,” James laughs, bringing one of my suitcases out of the bedroom and pretending to keel over from the weight of it.
As he takes it out to the car Katie hands me a gift bag.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“It’s just a little something to decorate your new home.”
I remove a parcel from the bag and tear off the paper.
It’s a picture frame from Potty Wotty with an old photograph of Katie, Emma and I at my 21st. There are three stick figures across the top and the word ‘friends’ in colourful block writing across the bottom.
“I did it myself,” she tells me proudly.
“It’s great. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that picture.”
I show James as he comes back in for the next load.
“Look James, Katie made it for me as a housewarming present.”
He glances at it briefly before picking up a box.
“It’s lovely.”
“I have something for you too,” I tell Katie. “To say thanks. I’ve left it on the coffee table though. Open it when I’ve gone. I’ll probably cry otherwise.”
“Okay.”
Between us we load the rest of the stuff into James’ car and then I hug Katie.
“Thank you so much for everything Katie. You’re a great friend.”
“You too. Call me if you need anything. A chat. A cup of sugar. Anything.”
I laugh at this. “Well, I don’t take it in my tea and I’m sure you didn’t mean for baking, but thanks!”
I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s stupid. It’s not like I’m going far. Only 3.6 miles, in fact. I made James clock it in the car. Maybe it’s living on my own that’s worrying me. I’ve never lived on my own before. What if I hate it?
“You’ll be fine,” James says, reading my mind. “You’ve got me now.”
And he’s right. I do.
CHAPTER FIFTY TWO
Sharing one umbrella
We have to hold each other
Round the waist to keep together.
You ask me why I’m smiling –
It’s because I’m thinking
I want it to rain forever.
‘Love Poem’, Vicki Feaver
It’s not a huge flat. In fact, it’s a very small flat. But it’s mine. And as much as I loved living with Katie and Matt, it’s nice to know I can spread my stuff out as much as I like and not have to feel guilty about it.
It’s furnished – which is rather handy, given that what I currently own is limited to a flat pack bookcase (bought on the way over here from Argos) and a semi-dilapidated canvas wardrobe (kindly donated to me by Katie – more out of her sense of humour, I’m sure, than any need of mine). And it’s spotless – thanks to the feather duster and vat of Domestos that Caroline came over with yesterday.
She insisted. She is a week overdue. She has tried a hot curry, and castor oil, a long walk and several other home remedies that are supposed to induce an overdue baby. Cleaning was the only thing she hadn’t tried yet. It didn’t work. But on a good note, I do now have the cleanest flat in London.
There’s a living room with a throw-covered sofa bed, a coffee table and a television; a small but fairly new fitted kitchen and a bathroom with no bath but a power shower. And it has a small double bedroom with fitted wardrobes and a pine chest of drawers, which until yesterday came complete with free blobs of Blu-Tack and patches of faded wood – presumably where Amy had stuck pictures of her cat/boyfriend/nieces and nephews. The Blu-Tack has gone, but the patches of faded pine remain. I make a mental note to cover them up with pictures of my dog/nephew/friends. I’ll leave one free for a piccie of James …
The first thing I do is make the bed. I treated myself to some new bedding yesterday – cream with big pink flowers to brighten the place up a bit.
James is in charge of unpacking boxes.
“What the hell is a ‘Thirst Quenching Hydra-Balance Mask’?” he shouts from the lounge. He’s found the bathroom box.
I push the quilt into the cover, grab the corners and shake it.
“It’s for your face,” I shout back, fastening the poppers.
“And ‘Exfoliating Skin Polish’ – what does that do?”
“It makes your skin all soft and smooth. At least it’s meant to!” I take a pillowcase from the top of the chest of drawers.
“Yeah?” he says, appearing in the doorway, with a big grin plastered all over his face.
“I think maybe I ought to check if it’s working.”
He grabs me around the waist and tickles me. I try to wriggle free and drop the pillow from under my chin. I flick him with the pillowcase.
“Hey. I’m trying to make the bed,” I protest.
“Oh yeah? And I’m trying to get you into it,” he laughs.
No prizes for guessing who wins this particular battle.
CHAPTER FIFTY THREE
Emma has come over for the night. Katie’s come too. And Fiona.
We’re all huddled together on my one sofa and a beanbag (a gift from Em which she carried all the way here on the tube.)
It’s a proper girly night, with lots of wine, bad food and Sex & The City.
I’m a bit embarrassed to admit this, but it’s the first night I’ve spent apart from James in three weeks.
I’m even more embarrassed to say I miss him.
Emma is still moping. Sort of. She’s trying. She’s been on a few dates. She went out with her colleague’s brother. But he was too short, apparently, and he blinked too much. And she went out with a guy who has just moved into the flat below hers. But he told too many jokes, she said, and wasn’t serious enough. And she went out with a guy she met in a service station on the M4 on the way home from a teachers’ conference. She quite liked him. But he never phoned to ask her out again. I’m sure the fact that she told him all about her ex boyfriend – promptly bursting into tears when she got to the bit where they broke up – had absolutely nothing to do with it. She says she’s giving up on men.
She asks me about James.
“I think I might be in love,” I say.
Katie and Fiona look up from the DVD player where they are try
ing to find the episode where Big buys Carrie that ridiculous duck clutch bag and she tells him she loves him.
“Really?” they all say simultaneously.
“Yes,” I say, surprising myself almost as much as I appear to have surprised my friends. Of course, I don’t think I’m in love. You’re either in love or you’re not. And I am.
“Wow,” Emma says. She drains her glass of wine and pours herself another.
Wow indeed.
“That’s fabulous,” Katie says. “Shall I invite him to the wedding?”
I think about it for a moment. A fraction of a moment.
“Yes. I think maybe you should. If that’s okay?”
“Of course it is!”
And then, as though one of us declaring she thinks she’s in love is a normal, everyday occurrence – like saying the post is here, or that the kettle has boiled, Katie and Fiona turn their attention back to the DVD.
“That’s great Becks,” Emma says. “I’m really happy for you.”
And then: “Has he got any nice friends, d’you know?”
“I thought you said you were giving up on men,” I laugh.
“I did. But I’ve changed my mind. I can’t stay single forever, can I?” she says, sounding much more like the Emma we know and love.
“In that case I’ll ask him. I’m supposed to be meeting some of his friends in the next couple of weeks. I’ll find out if there are any single men among them!”
“Excellent. Have you found it yet girls?” she asks Katie and Fiona, just as Katie clicks play on the remote and plonks herself down on the beanbag.
“Pass the Pringles, B.”
“I love this episode,” I say, taking a handful before putting the lid back on the tube and tossing it to Katie. “I just love that she tells him she loves him after he’s given her that ridiculous duck bag.”
She fast-forwards through the credits.
“It’s such a dilemma, isn’t it, when to tell someone you love them?” I say, undeterred by the silence I’m greeted with. I’m dreadful to watch television with. If I’m not chattering away about something completely unrelated, I’m giving a running commentary that’s neither necessary nor wanted.
The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights Page 149
