Kitabı oxu: «We Met in December»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue: Jess

Chapter One: Jess

Chapter Two: Jess

Chapter Three: Jess

Chapter Four: Alex

Chapter Five: Jess

Chapter Six: Jess

Chapter Seven: Alex

Chapter Eight: Jess

Chapter Nine: Jess

Chapter Ten: Alex

Chapter Eleven: Jess

Chapter Twelve: Jess

Chapter Thirteen: Alex

Chapter Fourteen: Jess

Chapter Fifteen: Jess

Chapter Sixteen: Alex

Chapter Seventeen: Alex

Chapter Eighteen: Jess

Chapter Nineteen: Alex

Chapter Twenty: Jess

Chapter Twenty-One: Jess

Chapter Twenty-Two: Alex

Chapter Twenty-Three: Jess

Chapter Twenty-Four: Jess

Chapter Twenty-Five: Jess

Chapter Twenty-Six: Jess

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Alex

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Jess

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Alex

Chapter Thirty: Jess

Chapter Thirty-One: Jess

Chapter Thirty-Two: Alex

Chapter Thirty-Three: Jess

Chapter Thirty-Four: Jess

Chapter Thirty-Five: Jess

Chapter Thirty-Six: Jess

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Alex

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Jess

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Alex

Chapter Forty: Jess

Chapter Forty-One: Alex

Chapter Forty-Two: Alex

Epilogue: Jess

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE
Jess
22nd December

Christmas and London are a match made in heaven. There’s a man on the street corner selling hot chestnuts by the bag, filling the air with the smell of cinnamon and vanilla. The ornate wooden windows of Liberty are glittering with lights and decorations. I stop to look at a huge tree swathed in ribbons and hung with a million dancing fairy lights and—

‘Watch out!’

A woman crashes into me, giving me a furious look and weaving past, muttering loudly about bloody tourists.

I am not a tourist, I think. I am – or will be, in just a couple of hours – an official Londoner. I step out of the way of the thronging crowds, pasting myself against a carved wooden window frame, and watch as a sea of people scurry past.

I add ‘stop dead on the pavement’ to my mental list of Things London People Never Do. I know that already, really, but it’s easy to forget when everything is so sparkly and festive. I pause for a moment and take a photo to share on my Instagram stories, because it’s just so ridiculously perfect and my life has been so beige and boring for months – it’s lovely to have something interesting to put on there. And then I take another of the street scene, because it’s just so … London-y and Christmassy and perfect.

I look at the flowers in the doorway of Liberty, thinking that it would be a nice idea to take Becky some as a thank you (again) for offering me a room in a house that would otherwise be completely out of my reach. There doesn’t seem to be a price anywhere though, which I think is weird, then I hear my Nanna Beth’s voice saying, If you have to ask, you can’t afford it. But they’re only flowers, surely. How expensive can a bunch of flowers be?

‘Can I help you?’ The girl behind the faux-Victorian wooden flower stall looks at me. She’s tiny and has huge brown eyes that match the expensive-looking Liberty of London apron she’s wearing.

‘I was wondering how much these are?’ I lift up a ready-prepared bouquet – deep red roses mingled with silver-grey foliage and white lilies streaked with lime green, still not quite open. They’re wrapped in thick, luxurious waxed paper and sealed with a gold Liberty sticker. They’ll make the perfect thank you present for Becky.

The girl chews her gum for a moment and looks at me, taking in the fluffy pink coat I bought for my big move (if I’m going to be a London creative, I thought I should wear something that suits my new job), along with my denim pinafore, blue tights and my trusty silver Doc Marten boots. When I got off the train from Bournemouth earlier I felt quirky and artistic, but now under her supercilious stare I think perhaps I look like a kids’ TV presenter.

‘Forty-seven pounds,’ she says. ‘And five pounds extra if you want our gift-wrapping service.’

Ouch. That’s a week’s worth of my new food budget. I put the flowers back in the stylish metal bucket. I think Becky would understand.

‘I like your coat,’ she says, as I start to slink off. I turn, surprised, and smile a thank you.

‘It’s from eBay,’ I tell her, patting my fluffy arm.

‘Cool. It’s really nice.’ The girl lowers her voice, conspiratorially. ‘I couldn’t afford the flowers either, if it helps. There’s a stall a couple of minutes away on Noel Street – he always has decent flowers.’

She waves her hand briefly in the air, but then another customer appears and she turns to them, greeting them with a cheerful smile.

‘Thanks,’ I say, in her general direction, but she’s not listening.

So I take my phone out. My sense of direction is absolutely hopeless, and I still can’t work out how people find their way around London. I’ve worked out bits of it, but I can’t seem to join them up. It takes me three tries, but I make it to Noel Street in the end. There I find a round-faced man wearing a Santa hat, singing along to Christmas songs from a Bluetooth speaker. His stall is piled high with fruit and veg, and – phew – surrounding it is a rainbow array of flowers, which look to my uneducated eye just as nice as the ones from round the corner at Liberty. Well, almost as nice. A bit gaudy maybe, but I can’t afford to be fussy on my new London wages.

Five minutes later I’m back on Oxford Street looking at the Christmas lights with a bunch of (considerably cheaper) red roses, their cellophane wrapping crinkling in my arms. The lights – strung from one side of the street to the other – sparkle against the sky, which ten minutes ago had been the usual English winter grey, but now has shifted to an ominous bruised purple. I’m trying to figure out if it’s easier to jump on a bus or get the tube to Notting Hill to meet Becky and my new housemates. I’m standing on a street corner peering at Google Maps again when the first hailstones hit me on the head. And – ow – they really sting.

In seconds the packed streets empty, as everyone ducks into the nearest shop or doorway to shelter, clutching their shopping bags tightly. Only the smug umbrella holders and the hardy few carry on, marching down pavements now clear of tourists and Christmas shoppers. The tyres of the red buses and black taxis hiss on the tarmac and the hailstones hammer on the metal awning over our heads. I’m crammed with a handful of shoppers in the doorway of – I look up to see a shiny brass plaque on the wall – NMC Inc, and then I frown at the screen of my phone once again.

‘Are you lost?’ a man says. He has Scandinavian-looking blond hair and a dark blue scarf wrapped round his neck. He’s got a bit of an accent and now he’s indicating my phone with a finger. ‘Where are you trying to go?’

‘Notting Hill,’ I say, feeling like I’ve stepped into a film for a moment. Christmas is everywhere and there’s a tiny split second where the noticing-things part of my brain is looking at me from the outside. The thing about being addicted to a certain kind of romantic movie is that you’re always half-expecting that your life might just suddenly take a turn for the better. And handsome Scandinavian types who look a bit like Jaime Lannister are pretty much up there on my list of good things.

‘I’m not sure which bus to get,’ I say. ‘Because I usually get the tube, but my friend said it was easy from here. Easy if you’ve got a sense of direction, I think. Which I definitely have not.’

And then I find myself telling this complete stranger, who has opened the Citymapper app on his phone and is tapping rapidly: ‘I’m picking up the keys for my new house.’ I can hear the little note of pride in my voice.

‘Nice,’ he says, smiling. He points to the bus stop on the opposite side of the road. ‘If you get the 94, it’ll take you straight to Notting Hill Gate. It’ll take a bit longer than the tube, but on the other hand, it’s a lovely view if you’re new to the area.’

‘Thanks,’ I say. I’m not doing a great job at trying to look like a well-established local, then. A fresh torrent of hailstones batters the canopy above us. ‘Might just wait a moment.’

‘That’s very wise.’

Obviously if this was one of those movies with woolly hats and kissing in the snow and hard-bitten businesswomen remembering the true meaning of Christmas, at this point we’d start a conversation, and he’d follow me onto the bus, and – well, you know the score. But this is not a movie, I am one hundred per cent single, and despite being as much of a sucker for a Richard Curtis movie as the next hopeless romantic, I remind myself that I am one hundred per cent not looking for anyone else. Because this is my new start, and my new life, and I am doing it On My Own.

The hail stops, and I try my best to stride across the road in the manner of an independent London girl living her best life, aware that the handsome Scandinavian person is watching and (obviously) thinking that I am the one that got away and wondering if he’ll ever see me again. What actually happens is I almost get knocked flat by a bloke on a Deliveroo bike, fumble to find my card to swipe it when I get on the bus, and when I do climb the stairs and sit down on a seat, I look across the road to see the handsome Jaime Lannister lookalike beaming with delight as his boyfriend appears from behind the door of NMC Inc in an expensive-looking coat, kisses him on the mouth and runs an affectionate hand through his lovely blond hair. Ah well. It’s just as well I’m not looking.

I sit wedged in against the window of the bus, wiping away condensation with my fluffy pink sleeve so I can stare out of the window all the way to Notting Hill. I watch as we pass Hyde Park, the huge trees’ bare, branches reaching up to the grey sky. The bus stops, disgorging passengers, and I watch as a woman dressed in a red coat with a fur collar climbs out of a shiny black taxi, her arms full of expensive-looking paper shopping bags.

And then we pull away and I watch as the buildings get smaller and the grey sky gets bigger, and the bus takes me to my new house and my new life. I smile at a woman when she gets on and sits beside me, and I don’t even mind that she opens up an absolutely honking tuna sandwich from M&S and eats it. Nothing is going to get in the way of this moment, because I’ve got a job in London and a room in a house-share I couldn’t even begin to imagine. I squish my hands into fists of excitement when I see the words Notting Hill Gate flash up on the information board on the bus. I press the bell – my bell – and my heart gives a little skip of excitement as the bus pulls to a stop. This is London, I think. And now, London is home.

CHAPTER ONE
Jess
22nd December, 15 Albany Road, Notting Hill

I pause for a minute outside the house and look up, still not quite believing that this terraced mansion is home. It’s huge, slightly shabby, and has an air of faded grandeur. Six wide stone steps lead to a broad wooden front door, painted a jaunty red that is faded in places and chipped away to a pale, dusky pink. Each window on the road is topped with ornate stuccoed decorations – the ones on our house are a bit chipped and scruffy-looking, but somehow it just makes the place look more welcoming, as if it’s full of history.

Next door on one side is freshly decorated, the black paint of the windowsills gleaming. They’ve got window boxes at every window, crammed full of pansies and evergreen plants. I can see a huge Christmas tree tastefully decorated with millions of starry lights, topped with a huge metal star. There’s a little red bicycle chained to the railings and a pair of wellies just inside the porch. This must be the investment banker neighbours Becky talked about. The mansion on the other side has been turned into flats, and there’s a row of doorbells beside a blue front door.

I rush up the steps and lift the heavy brass door-knocker.

‘You don’t have to knock,’ Becky says, beaming as she opens the door. ‘This is home!’

‘I do, because you haven’t given me a key yet.’ I love Becky.

‘Ah.’ Becky takes my bag and hangs it on a huge wooden coat hook just inside the door, which looks like it’s been there forever. There’s a massive black umbrella with a carved wooden handle hanging beside my bag.

‘Used to be my grandpa’s,’ she says, absent-mindedly running a hand down it. ‘This place is like a bloody museum.’

‘I can’t believe it’s yours.’

‘Me neither.’ Becky shakes her head and beckons me through to the kitchen. ‘Now wait here two seconds, and I’ll give you the tour.’

I stand where I’ve been put, at the edge of a huge kitchen-slash-dining-room space, which has been here so long that it’s come back into fashion. It’s all cork tiles and dangling spider plants and a huge white sink, which is full of ice and bottles of beer.

I think Nanna Beth would be impressed with this. With all of it. I’ve taken the leap.

‘Life is for living, Jessica, and this place is all very well, but it’s like God’s waiting room,’ she’d once said, giving a cackle of laughter and inclining her head towards the window, where a flotilla of mobility scooters had passed by, ridden by grey-haired elderly people covered over with zipped-up waterproof covers. The seaside town I’d grown up in wasn’t actually as bad as all that, but it was true: things had changed. Grandpa had passed away, and Nanna Beth had sold the house and invested her money in a little flat in a new sheltered housing development where there was no room for me, not because she was throwing me out, but because – as she’d said, looking at me shrewdly – it was time to go. I’d been living in a sort of stasis since things had ended with my ex-boyfriend Neil.

Weirdly, the catalyst for all this change had been being offered a promotion in the marketing company where I worked. If I’d taken it, it would have been a job for life. I could have afforded to buy a little house by the sea and upgraded my car for something nice, and I’d have carried on living the life I’d been living since I graduated from university and somehow gravitated back home when all my friends spread their wings and headed for the bright lights of London, or New York, or – well, Sarah ended up in Inverness, so I suppose we didn’t quite all end up somewhere exotic.

But Nanna Beth had derailed me and challenged me with the task of getting out and grabbing life with both hands, which is pretty tricky for someone like me. I tend to take the approach that you should hold life with one hand, and keep the other one spare just in case of emergencies. And yet here I am, an hour early (very me) for a housewarming party for the gang of people that Becky has gathered together to share this rambling, dilapidated old house in Notting Hill that her grandparents left her when they passed away.

‘I still can’t believe this place is yours,’ I repeat, as I balance on the edge of the pale pink velvet sofa. It’s hidden under a flotilla of cushions. The arm of the sofa creaks alarmingly, and I stand up, just in case it’s about to give way underneath my weight.

Becky shakes her head. ‘You can’t? Imagine how I feel.’

‘And your mum really didn’t object to your grandparents leaving you their house in their will?’

She shakes her head and pops open the two bottles of beer she’s holding, handing me one. ‘She’s quite happy where she is. And you know she’s all property is theft and that sort of thing.’

‘True.’ I take a swig of beer and look at the framed photographs on the wall. A little girl in Mary-Jane shoes with a serious face looks out at us, disapprovingly. ‘She’s keeping her eye on you: look.’

Becky shudders. ‘Don’t. She wanted me to come to Islay for a Christmas of meditation and chanting, but I managed to persuade her that I’d be better off coming when the weather was a bit nicer.’

Becky’s mum had been a mythical figure to all of us at university. She’d been a model in her youth, and then eschewed all material things and moved to an ethical living commune on the island of Islay when Becky was sixteen. Becky had stayed behind to finish her exams with a family friend, and horrified her mother by going into not just law, but corporate law of all things. Relations had been slightly strained for quite a while, but she’d spent some time in meditative silence, apparently, and now they got on really well – as long as they had a few hundred miles between them.

I look at the photograph of Becky’s mum – she must only be about seven. She looks back at me with an intense stare, and I think that if anyone can save the planet, it’s very possibly her. Anyway, I raise my bottle to her in a silent thank you. If she’d contested the will, Becky might not have inherited this place, and she wouldn’t have offered me a room at £400 a month, which wouldn’t have got me space in a broom closet anywhere else in commutable distance of King’s Cross, where my new job was situated.

‘Just going to get out of this jacket,’ Becky says, looking down at her work clothes; then she disappears for a moment and I’m left looking around. The house is old-fashioned, stuffed full of the sort of mid-century furniture that would sell for vast amounts of money on eBay – there’s an Ercol dresser in the sitting room and dining chairs that look like they’ve come straight out of Heal’s. I take a photo of the huge potted plant that looms in the corner like a triffid, and then I wander into the hall. It’s huge and airy, with a polished wooden banister that twirls round and up to the third floor where there’s a skylight – dark just now, because it’s midwinter, but I bet it fills this space with light in the middle of summer. There’s a huge wooden coat stand with a mirror by the interior door, and a porch with ceramic tiles worn through years of footsteps passing over them. The place must be 150 years old, at least. And – I push the sitting room door open – there’s enough space for everyone to collapse on the sofas in a Sunday-ish sort of way. The paintings on the walls are draped with brightly coloured tinsel and fairy lights, and there’s a Christmas tree on the side table, decked with multi-coloured lights and hung with a selection of baubles, which look—

‘Hideous, aren’t they?’ Becky’s voice sounds over my shoulder. ‘I couldn’t resist. They’re from the pound shop so I just went to town a bit. If you can’t be tacky at Christmas, when can you?’

‘I love it,’ I say, and I do. Becky disappears back into the kitchen and I can hear the sound of her warbling out of tune to Mariah Carey and the clattering of plates and saucepans. I stand in the hallway and look at this amazing house that I couldn’t afford in a million years, and I think back to about two months ago when I saw an advert for my dream job in publishing come up and wondered if I should take the chance and apply. And how Nanna Beth had said, ‘Nothing ventured, lovey – you never know what’s around the corner …’

An hour later and we’re in the kitchen and everything’s been laid out so it looks perfect for the housewarming party.

‘Stop!’ I put a hand up in the air.

Becky stops dead and I leap between her and the massive old oak table in the kitchen. Her face registers alarm as I reach into the back pocket of my jeans and then she rolls her eyes as she realises what I’m doing.

With my free hand, I reach across, straightening a plate and moving a piece of tinsel so it sits jauntily beside the jewel-bright heaps of salsa and guacamole. ‘There.’

Leaning over, I take a photo from above and step back, letting her put the tray of tequila shots down on the table.

‘Since when were you the Instagram queen?’ Becky tucks back a strand of hair that’s escaped from behind her ear. She’s had it cut into a sleek graduated bob, which makes her look like a proper grown-up, especially as she’s still dressed in her work clothes of grey slim-fitting trousers and a pale blouse made of silky stuff, which I would definitely have spilled coffee on within an hour. But she’s here at 6.30 p.m. looking as if she’s just got out of the shower, instead of having battled her way home through London traffic after a long day doing corporate law stuff. I’ve taken off my pink fluffy coat because it was making me feel like a dislodged tree bauble, or a pom-pom, in comparison to Becky’s minimalist chic.

‘Hardly,’ I say, fiddling with a filter and making the photo look nice before hashtagging it and hitting share. ‘I just thought it’d be nice to show everyone back home what it’s like living in London.’

‘And make a point of what a lovely time you’re having even though they all think you’re insane to give up a promotion in Bournemouth for a pay cut up here?’ she says.

I nod, and pick up a tortilla chip, breaking it in half. ‘That too,’ I admit, making a face. ‘And Nanna Beth is on there too – she’s got herself an iPhone contract. I’m her only Instagram follower so far.’

‘She’s going to be sharing selfies with all the hot doctors in the nursing home, isn’t she?’ Becky snorts with laughter.

I turn the phone so she can see it. @nanna_beth1939 has posted a string of photos of her new ground-floor flat in the sheltered accommodation unit she’s moved into.

‘Oh, bless,’ says Becky, taking my phone so she can have a closer look. ‘Look, she’s got that wooden carving you bought her in Cyprus on the mantelpiece.’

I peer over her shoulder. ‘Ahh, that’s nice.’ I’m hit by a wave of guilt that I’m going to be up here and she’s going to be down there. I’ve spent the last year living in her house, ever since Grandpa died, and it’s going to be weird not having her there every night when I get home from work.

‘She’ll be fine,’ says Becky, as if reading my thoughts. She clicks the phone off and puts it down on the table. ‘And it’s not as if you’re miles away. It’s a train ride, that’s all.’

‘I know. Just feels weird leaving her to the tender mercies of Mum.’

Becky makes a face. ‘Yeah, well, she’s not exactly … well, she wasn’t at the front of the queue when they were giving out the nurturing quota, was she?’

I snort. My mother is many things, but maternal is not one of them. I mean she’s lovely, in her own way. But I’m not sure she’ll remember to pop round every couple of days and check Nanna Beth’s doing okay in her new place. Anyway. I square my shoulders and think of what Nanna Beth told me when she’d pressed a roll of twenty-pound notes into my hand yesterday morning. It was time for me to step out into the big world and let her do her own thing. Slightly odd role reversal, I know, but our family’s always been a bit unusual.

In the kitchen, Becky’s still singing out of tune and lighting the tiny tea-light candles that are scattered around. Even when we were living in university halls, she managed to make her room look good.

There’s a clatter as someone opens the door, and a gust of air blows a couple of Christmas cards off the top of the fridge. I bend down and pick them up, catching the one-sided conversation that’s going on in the hall.

‘You said you’d be able to get away.’ It must be Emma, the girl Becky’s found to take another one of the rooms.

There’s a long pause and I hover by the kitchen door, wondering if I should pop my head round and say hello. Becky’s stirring spiced chicken and peppers, filling the room with a smell that makes my stomach growl. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.

‘What about me?’ Emma says. My eyes widen. I shouldn’t be listening in, but I’m a sucker for a bit of drama. I fiddle with my phone, trying to look as if I’m busy and not just eavesdropping. Emma’s voice is in that middle ground, somewhere between angry and upset.

‘I don’t care what she’s doing,’ she says, and this time she’s not keeping her voice down. ‘I’m not waiting around forever.’

Becky turns round, frying pan in hand. She raises her eyebrows and looks towards the door. ‘Uh-oh, trouble in paradise by the sound of it.’

I nod, and lower my voice. ‘What’s the story?’

Becky puts a finger to her lips. ‘Tell you later. But it’s very Emma. It’ll be all over and they’ll be loved up before you know it.’

A moment later, Emma appears in the room, her eyes sparkling in that suspiciously bright way that mine do if I’ve been crying and I’m trying to look like everything’s okay.

‘Hi, hello,’ she says, and leans over and kisses me on the cheek.

‘Sorry, just had to take a quick work call. You know what it’s like. They pay us nothing, and expect us to be on call 24/7.’

I smile in a way that I hope suggests I haven’t heard a thing.

‘Emma, this is Jess, the university friend I told you about. She’s taking the room on the first floor.’

‘Lovely to meet you, Jess. God I need a drink,’ says Emma, picking up one of the little shot glasses of tequila. I’m about to pass her a lemon slice, but she’s too quick for me. The whole thing is gone in a second, and she winces in disgust. ‘Ugh. Revolting. I hate tequila.’ She takes another one and downs it as well. ‘Cheers.’

I’m still holding the lemon slice in mid-air when the kitchen door opens again.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ says a low voice. I look up, and almost drop my phone in shock.

Standing in the doorway, taking up quite a lot of it, is a man. The kind of man that makes you feel like your stomach just fell through the floor. I mean I say that, but Emma’s scrolling through her phone and Becky’s running hot water over the fajita saucepan, so maybe they’re immune or something but – wow.

I press my lips together, mainly to check that my mouth isn’t actually hanging open. I suspect my eyes are cartoon circles though, and I can’t press them shut without looking a bit weird, so I just sort of stand there, making a kind of mental inventory.

Scruff of beard – check. Broad, muscular shoulders – check. Twinkly eyes – check. Bottle of tequila in hand. He’s wearing a grey shirt and a pair of jeans and he’s got a scarf hanging round his neck and …

‘Hey. You must be Jess,’ he says, stepping towards me. He reaches out a hand to shake mine, and then leans forward to kiss me on the cheek in greeting. ‘I’m Alex.’

He smells fresh, his cheek cold from the winter air against mine. I catch a faint scent of cedar wood and notice as he steps back that his sleeves are rolled up, showing off the sort of forearms that look as if he chops wood or does something outdoorsy for a living, only we’re in the middle of Notting Hill and that’s unlikely.

There’s a moment where I think I’ve forgotten how to speak, which is slightly awkward as I’m basically standing there like the human embodiment of the heart eyes emoji, suppressing the urge to put one hand to my cheek (because: phwoar, basically) and the other on his, to check he’s real (because: well, ditto). And then I remember that I’m sensible, level-headed Jess, and this is my new house and my new life and the number one rule that Becky told us all about in the welcome email was NO COUPLES. Which is absolutely fine, because I’m here to work and definitely absolutely not to fall in love at first sight with gorgeous men with cute beards holding tequila bottles.

‘Hi.’ I shove my phone back in the pocket of my jeans and try to force myself to do something practical, so I press my hands together in a workmanlike manner and say in an artificially bright voice, ‘That’s everyone, isn’t it?’

I turn to Becky, who’s halfway through what she’d later explain was a test fajita, a dollop of sour cream on her chin. She wipes it off, and tries to talk with her mouth full, so it comes out a bit muffled.

CHAPTER TWO
Jess
2nd January, Val d’Isère

‘You got room in your case for these?’

My oldest friend Gen throws a bulging Tesco bag at me and I miss the catch. It bounces off the bed of the room we’ve been sharing for the last week and falls to the floor. I bend down to get it and emit a groan of pain. Everything hurts, and my head feels as if someone has hit me with a snowboard. I shouldn’t have had that last cocktail last night. Or the one before. I stand up, holding the bag at arm’s length. It smells like something died in it.

‘What is it?’

‘Don’t ask.’ Gen shakes her head. She should be even more hungover than me, but she somehow manages to look glowing and healthy, her skin bronzed after a week on the slopes where mine is scarlet and wind-chapped. She’s tied her hair back with a band, but spirals of red curls have already escaped and are framing her face. She’s wearing an assortment of hideously clashing Nineties-style apres-ski clothes she found in a charity shop, and somehow it looks amazing on her.

I peer inside the bag and hold my nose. ‘Ugh, honking ski socks.’

‘If they ask if you packed your bag yourself, just say yes,’ Gen says.

‘And take responsibility for those?’ I shove them in a corner of my case. ‘They could probably walk home to London by themselves. Actually, I’m going to keep them,’ I say, teasing Gen. ‘When you’re a famous actress, someone will pay a fortune for them.’

‘Someone would pay a fortune for them now. There’s a whole market for smelly socks on eBay,’ says Sophie, who doesn’t miss a trick when it comes to money stuff.

‘That’s disgusting.’ I wrinkle my nose at the thought.

Being Soph, and therefore revoltingly efficient, she’s already got her bag packed, and is sitting cross-legged on her bed, back against the wall, scrolling through her phone. ‘Oh my God, Jess, that photo of us you’ve posted on Instagram is terrible. It looks like one of my legs is about to snap off.’

‘It’s not that easy to do a selfie on a ski lift,’ I say, peering at her screen to remind myself. ‘I was convinced I was going to drop the phone into a ravine.’

‘Then you could have got Fabien to zoom down off piste and rescue it,’ says Gen, making a dreamy face as she mentions our gorgeous ski instructor. ‘He definitely had the hots for you, Jess.’

‘Shut up,’ I groan. She’s been going on about it all week, and I still haven’t admitted to them that I’ve been daydreaming – and, if I’m honest, night-dreaming – about Alex, and accidental meetings in the kitchen where I’m dressed in a pair of cute PJ bottoms and a little vest top, my hair knotted up in a messy bun, just reaching into the fridge to get myself a glass of orange juice when his hands are on either side of my waist and he spins me round and looks at me with those incredible eyes and says …

‘Jess?’ Gen nudges me. ‘You’ve been on another bloody planet all week. Come on, spill.’

I shake my head and zip up my suitcase. ‘Just thinking, that’s all.’

My phone bleeps and I look down at it. Both Gen and Sophie pick up their phones at the same time.

‘Delay in coach pick-up,’ we read in unison. ‘You will now be collected from your hotel reception approximately two hours later than the scheduled time.’

‘Oh God,’ Soph groans. ‘We could have gone skiing this morning after all.’

‘Not without skis, we couldn’t,’ I point out, reasonably. ‘We handed them back, remember?’

‘Well, we can leave our bags here and go and have one last vin chaud at least.’

My stomach gives a warning lurch at the prospect. ‘D’you not think we had enough of those yesterday?’

‘And the day before, but one more won’t hurt,’ says Sophie, and we drag our cases down to reception and leave them behind the desk, collecting little tokens in exchange as they’re locked away.

Outside there’s no sign of the sun and the sky is thick with pale clouds, tinged with the faintest hint of violet. More snow on the way, it said on the forecast, after a week that had been absolutely gorgeous. The sun had shone so brightly that we’d sat at the piste café having lunch outside most days with our ski coats off, listening to the thudding bass of dance music, our skis standing upright in the snow. It feels sad to be leaving Val d’Isère, with its throng of holiday guests, swooshing past in their expensive-looking ski garb, heading up the chair lifts for another day of fun. We take a seat at the little wooden chairs outside the hotel and stretch our legs out in the sunshine. It’s strange to be back in normal clothes, after a week of clomping around in heavy ski boots.

Celebrating New Year – and New Year’s Day – in a ski resort has been amazing, but my liver feels like it needs to go on a rest cure. Not to mention my legs, which are aching so much I’m walking like a robot, and covered in bruises from a pretty spectacular fall when the aforementioned Handsome Fabien, the instructor we’d clubbed together to pay for, had tried to get us to go down a run that ended with ‘une petit noir’, except his idea of a little black run looked like a vertical drop. Sophie and Gen, who’d had more time on skis than me, managed to make it down in one piece. I’d landed at the bottom, on my bottom, followed unceremoniously by one ski clonking me on the head (thank goodness for helmets) while the other one sailed past, over the edge of the piste and into the trees.

The waiter brings our order – hot chocolate laced with cream and a dash of rum for me and Gen, vin chaud for Sophie.

‘It’s amazing that we’re all in the same place at the same time at the beginning of a year,’ I say.

‘Can’t remember the last time that happened.’ Sophie twirls a beer mat between her fingers, looking thoughtful. ‘Wonder what we’ll be doing this time next year?’

‘Maybe I’ll have had my big break,’ says Gen, who has been saying that since she started drama classes back when we were in primary school.

‘This is the year,’ Sophie says, sounding determined. ‘Rich and I are settling down. I’m going to be thirty. It’s time. And I’m knocking these on the head, too.’ She taps her glass with a neatly manicured finger.

‘You’re giving up drinking?’ I look at Gen, and Gen looks at me, and together we look at Sophie.

‘I don’t want to take any risks.’

‘You’re not even thirty. Nobody has children when they’re this age. You’re the only person I know who is like a proper grown-up, Soph,’ I say.

Gen nods. ‘They’ll make the house untidy and you’ll have loads of plastic crap everywhere and you’ll end up being one of those people who pisses everyone off in Pizza Express because you turn up with a baby that screams the place down when we’re all trying to have a nice hangover meal on Tesco points.’

‘Thanks,’ says Sophie, drily. ‘I can’t believe you spent so many years working as a mother’s help. You’re literally the most un-maternal person I’ve ever met.’

‘I am not,’ Gen protests, unconvincingly. ‘I just don’t understand why anyone would want to subject themselves to parenthood.’

‘That’s what she means,’ I say.

‘I am still here,’ Sophie points out. ‘As in sitting right here. Anyway, I won’t have the sort of baby that screams in restaurants. If it does, I’ll take it outside or something. But I’ve got it all planned out …’

There’s a split second where Gen and I look at each other and make a face, and Sophie mutters something unrepeatable under her breath before we all laugh and she carries on. ‘I’ll get married this year. Then I want three kids and I want them before I turn forty.’ She’s actually counting this out on her fingers. ‘If I have a two-year age gap, that’s—’

‘Soph, you’re so organised.’ Gen snorts with laughter. ‘I don’t even have a bloody house of my own, and you’re planning everything out. I bet you’ve got a spreadsheet on Excel with all this stuff.’

‘Shut up.’ Sophie blushes a bit so we know that she absolutely does.

‘Anyway, changing the subject.’ Sophie purses her lips, but she’s trying not to laugh. ‘I’m so excited, Jess. I can’t believe we’re all going to be in the same city. We can do lunches and go to the cinema and lovely girly stuff.’

‘We can help you do fertility dances, or whatever it is you have to do to get pregnant,’ says Gen, helpfully.

‘Did you miss that class at school?’ I say, and Sophie snorts. ‘It’s not fertility dances that get the job done.’

We all snigger, like we’re thirteen again in science class with the biology teacher drawing pictures on the whiteboard.

‘Ooh, we could help you find a wedding dress, Soph.’ I’m imagining a montage of us, movie-style, all sitting around in the changing room of a wedding shop while she pops in and out with various different flouncy meringues on before she appears, radiant, in The Perfect Dress.

Sophie wrinkles her nose and looks a bit pink in the face. ‘I’ve actually chosen one already.’

‘No way.’ My vision evaporates.

‘Oh my God! I didn’t know it was official!’ Gen shrieks with excitement.

‘It’s not. But it’s so gorgeous I decided it had to be The One.’

‘Oh my God, this is so exciting,’ says Gen, clapping her hands together. ‘Have you got a photo of it on your phone?’

‘I thought marriage was a tool created by the patriarchy to suppress women?’ Sophie raises an eyebrow, keeping her phone curled tightly in her palm.

‘Yes, yes, it is, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a bit of dressing up, and that’s basically what a wedding is, isn’t it?’

Sophie opens her phone and scrolls down to show us a photo of the most perfect, understated, gorgeous dress. It’s absolutely her, and I can see why she’s fallen for it.

‘Let’s hope Rich doesn’t have other plans,’ Gen teased.

‘Yeah, he might have run off with the girl in the flat next door while I’ve been away,’ Sophie jokes, but we all knew there was no way that would happen. Rich and Sophie were the poster couple – the ones that were solid as a rock, the ones you could always rely on. Gen called them Mum and Dad sometimes, and I think Sophie secretly liked it. She’s always wanted to be settled down, ever since we were little and playing together at primary school. Rich is the perfect match for her, and it was always a matter of when, not if, they’d get married. She met him at university and they’ve been smug (not) marrieds ever since. I reach over and give her arm a little squeeze.

‘I’m so pleased for you, Soph. And I can’t wait to be on Aunty Jess duty.’

Gen pulls a face, but we both know she’s only teasing. She’s happy for Soph even though she wouldn’t like to be in her shoes. Her passion has always been acting, ever since the first time she stood on stage and played the starring role in Bugsy Malone in our primary school production. She’s worked her backside off to get where she is – she may not be famous, but she’s had a few decent roles in theatre productions off the West End, and it’s just a matter of time before she gets her big break. Gen believes in herself, that’s half the battle, I think.

‘And what about you, Jess?’ Sophie looks at me thoughtfully.

‘You’re not still in mourning after Neil-gate, are you?’

‘Gen,’ says Sophie, ‘if she was, she’s hardly going to tell us now, is she?’

I shake my head. ‘No, I am one hundred per cent definitely not in mourning over the end of my relationship with Neil.’

‘Even though your mum thought he was the perfect catch?’ Gen looks at me.

I shudder. ‘Especially not because of that.’

I hadn’t even been that upset when I found out he was cheating on me with someone else from the office – just slightly miffed that it was going to make work pretty awkward. After the initial shock of finding them together, I’d realised that I didn’t really feel anything. That was a pretty good sign that it had run its course.

‘Your mum just wants you settled down and happy,’ Sophie says, kindly.

‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘and she thinks because Neil dumped me for whatshername from accounts that I’m a complete failure as a human being.’

‘That’s not strictly true,’ says Sophie, trying to make me feel better.

‘Yes it is,’ says Gen, who knows my mother as well as I do. ‘She’s weirdly fixated on the idea of Jess getting married and buying a nice house and having two-point-four children and a dog. Probably because she did the opposite.’

When I split up with Neil Mum had been absolutely horrified that I’d ‘let him slip through my fingers’. I never knew my dad – she’s never talked about him, and there’s just a blank space on my birth certificate where his name should be – and she’s absolutely determined that my life will be far more conventional than hers. It’s weird.

‘What’s she saying about you moving to London?’ Gen says.

‘She’s hoping I might meet a nice man and settle down.’

‘Ironic,’ Gen snorts, ‘that your mother never did it but she wants it for you.’

‘It’s called transference,’ Sophie says, thoughtfully. ‘Or something like that. It’s about wanting to live her life through yours, vicariously.’

‘It’s called being a total nightmare,’ I say, scooping off some of the whipped cream on my drink with a spoon, and licking it.

‘Oh she’s not that bad,’ says Gen, who has a soft spot for my mother because she’s a fellow thespian. My mother’s an actress too, but she’s never made it to London. Instead she travels a bit, and she tries various schemes to keep money coming in, in between jobs working as a voice-over artist or being an extra on film sets. She’s never really been the maternal type. It’s lucky I’ve got my Nanna Beth to make up for it.

‘No,’ I concede. ‘I think it’ll be a lot easier to have a relationship with her when I’m ninety miles away in London than when she’s breathing down my neck the whole time wanting to know what I’m doing with my life.’

The strange thing about Mum is that despite being unconventional herself, she’s completely hooked on the idea of me doing a Soph and getting married, popping out a couple of grandchildren, and finding a nice house in the suburbs. It’s weird. It also means she was Not Happy when Neil and I split up, and she thinks my plans for a new life in London are impractical and faintly ridiculous. I quote. Not that I’m still chuntering to myself over her saying it, of course.

‘She’ll be wanting regular relationship updates,’ Gen says.

‘There won’t be any,’ Sophie points out, shooting a quick look at Gen, ‘because Becky has decreed that there’s to be no relationships in the house.’

‘She can’t do that.’

‘She can do whatever she bloody well wants if she’s renting Jess a room in Notting Hill for £400 a month. I’d take a vow of chastity for that.’ Gen takes a sip of her drink.

‘Yeah but even so—’ I watch Sophie giving Gen a fleeting look.

Sophie and Gen have met Becky a few times. They get on okay, in that way that friends do when you try and combine one part of your life with another part. I’m hoping that now we’re all going to be in the same place they’ll get to know each other a bit more, and even get on a bit.

‘She isn’t banning me from having sex with anyone,’ I say. ‘Just that there’s to be no inter-house relationship stuff.’

‘Just as well. You’ve got the whole of London at your disposal. You downloaded Tinder yet?’ Gen asks. She curls one of her ginger ringlets around her finger, then lets it go so it springs back into place. Gen’s never had a bad hair day in her life.

‘Ugh, no.’ I shudder. ‘The thing is I’m not really a Tinder sort of person.’

‘Mmm.’ Sophie nods. I wonder what she means by that.

I sigh. ‘Anyway the thing is there’s a bit of a problem with Becky’s whole plan. I mean, there’s being practical, and then there’s – well, do you believe in fate?’

Gen cups her chin in both hands and leans forward. ‘Tell me more.’

‘I totally do,’ says Sophie. ‘I mean look at me and Rich.’

I think about the two of them and catch a glimpse of Gen, who doesn’t say a word but there’s a split second when her nostrils flare, which is always a tell with her, and I know she’s thinking Sophie and Rich, the most practical couple in the world?

‘Come on,’ Gen urges. ‘Spill.’ She looks at Sophie and they look back at me.

‘It’s not – I mean it couldn’t go anywhere. I’m just being silly,’ I begin. ‘It’s, um, Alex.’

‘Ahhh,’ they say, and exchange another glance.

‘What d’you mean, ahh?’ I cup my hot chocolate in both hands, holding it in front of me defensively.

‘Oh, just Alex … as in the new housemate you’ve casually mentioned about fifteen times a day for the last week?’ Sophie’s eyebrows lift and she gives a snort of laughter.

‘No,’ says Gen, totally straight-faced. ‘Alex, as in the guy who’s training as a nurse and isn’t that amazing because he’s given up being a lawyer to do something that really matters …’

‘Shut up, you two.’ I can feel my cheeks are going pink, and put my hands against them so my face is all squashed up, and I make a silly fish face at them to make them laugh and hide my blushes. I feel like I’m about fourteen again.

‘Yeah, we wondered how long it’d be before you actually admitted to us that you’ve got a massive grade-A crush on him. I mean it’s been pretty obvious. But—’ Gen pauses to beckon the waiter, before asking, ‘how does that work with Becky’s no-relationships rule in the house?’

‘I’m pretty sure that’s not enforceable,’ says Sophie, her brow furrowing. She’s a stickler for rules and regulations and things. She takes out her phone.

‘Don’t google it,’ I say, warningly, and she puts her mobile back on the table, making a face because I’ve caught her out. ‘Becky’s totally right. It would never ever work. Plus, I’m starting a new job, and I’ve got a brand-new life to be getting on with.’

‘Yeah, and gorgeous men who wear nurses’ scrubs and walk into your life completely out of the blue are ten a penny in London,’ Sophie says.

‘Totally.’ Gen nods, earnestly. ‘That’s why I’ve been single for bloody eternity, and why you haven’t had sex since Sad Matthew.’

‘Don’t,’ I say, covering my whole face in my hands now. I’d had an accidental one-night stand with Matthew-from-school after Neil and I split up, and every time he got pissed he’d text long, drunken messages telling me how he thought we were the perfect couple, and how it wasn’t too late. In the end, I’d blocked him, feeling only about five per cent guilty. The rest of me was deliriously happy to have him out of my hair.

‘Anyway. You can’t let him just slip through your fingers.’ Gen looks up at the waiter and asks for some more drinks and a plate of chips to share. It’s half ten in the morning and my stomach contracts with horror at the thought.

‘He’s hardly going to slip through my fingers. He’s sleeping in the room next door.’

‘And Becky’s on the second floor. She’ll never know,’ says Gen, waggling her eyebrows. ‘You can just sneak into his room after dark. That’s quite romantic.’

‘Or creepy,’ said Sophie, pulling a face. ‘Honestly, I’m sure Becky would be fine. Maybe when she said no couples, she probably meant it as in no couples moving into the flat, not that you all had to take a vow of chastity when you signed the lease.’

I make a face. I think Becky was pretty bloody unequivocal about it. ‘I think that’s probably just as well. I think keeping a vow of chastity with him in the room next door might be pretty much impossible.’

I think of Alex reaching up to get something from the cupboard and the sight of his bare skin underneath his T-shirt and the way it felt when I was standing beside him and my arms were all prickly with goose bumps and I give a tiny shiver of anticipation. Maybe when I go back, the best thing to do would just be to get it out in the open. Ask him out for a drink. There’s nothing wrong with asking someone out for a drink, is there? And if it happens to lead to something else, well …

CHAPTER THREE
Jess
3rd January, London

I think there is a strong possibility that my body is going to be bent into this position forever. We’ve been on a coach for twenty-one hours, and I can’t remember who I am. When I stand up, everything aches. I took a travel sickness pill and I’ve slept groggily for so long that I have to count on my fingers to work out what day it is. Victoria Coach Station doesn’t look any more glamorous at 5.30 a.m. than it does in the middle of the day – in fact, it probably looks worse without people all around. It smells cold and damp and grey, but inside I feel a tiny fizz of excitement that I’m back home – that London, the city I’ve always loved, is home.

I’ve done what feels like the scariest thing of all in changing career when I was perfectly safe and secure. My stomach contracts when I think about it and all the things that could go wrong. It’s a bit of a weird leap from managing a marketing company to working as Operations Manager for a publishing house where I’ll be in charge of making sure books go from finished manuscripts to products on the shelves. It’s still weird to think of books as products, if I’m completely truthful. I look at the posters on the bus station hoardings – half of them are for books. Someone like me helped that to happen. It feels like a huge, pretty terrifying responsibility. I swallow and turn back to the girls, who are organising their bags.

‘I want ALL the details on what happens when you get back,’ Gen says, hugging me goodbye before she hops in an Uber.

‘Come for dinner next Friday?’ Sophie kisses me on the cheek. Rich’s waiting by the road to give her a lift home. Getting up at five in the morning to collect her from the coach is the most Rich thing he could do.

‘Sure you don’t want a lift?’

I shake my head. There’s an early morning bus in ten minutes, and I want to stand up while I wait, stretch my legs, and think about what I’m going to do when I get home. And then I beam with happiness at a flock of unsuspecting pigeons. I think this year is going to be pretty bloody amazing.

Even though I’m so tired I feel like a zombie I can’t help smiling to myself as the bus makes its way along the streets. London looks so pretty, dusted with the finest icing-sugar coating of frost. It sparkles on the top of stone walls and expensive-looking black railings, making the red telephone boxes look picture-postcard pretty. This is home. I squeeze my arms around myself, because I can’t quite believe it’s true. I feel warm and sleepy in my thick ski coat. My head leans against the cool of the bus window and I watch the city coming to life.

Two early-morning runners, clad in thermals with reflective stripes, zoom past as we wait for a traffic light to turn from red to green. Christmas trees still light up the windows of houses, which makes me happy. I always feel sad for the trees I see lying waiting for collection on the kerbside, piled up with heaps of black rubbish bags. When I have a house of my own, I’m going to have a tree in every room and the whole place lit up with millions of tiny, starry white lights. I think about growing up and how I used to decorate my bedroom, and how my mum couldn’t wait to take the decorations down because she hated the mess and how Nanna and Grandpa used to make up for it with a tree they always let me decorate, hung with trinkets I’d made at primary school and riotous rainbows of tinsel. And then as we turn down into Church Street, my mind skips forward, imagining this time next year, and all of us celebrating Christmas in the house in Albany Road. Rob could cook – there had to be an advantage to living with a chef, surely – and I’d be there, dressed in something clinging and sexy, and—

I look out of the window, and realise I’m at Ladbroke Grove. After I get off the bus, I grab my bag and bump it along the street, the wheels sounding loud in the early morning silence. And then I turn the corner, and there’s the street sign that announces I’m home. Albany Road. I live in London now, I say to myself quietly, stepping back to take it all in.

‘Watch it!’

A man looms out of nowhere on a bike and speeds off, his wheel lights flashing. He’s muttering something and I don’t think it’s very polite, somehow. But nothing is going to take the tarnish off this moment. The house is in darkness and I climb the stone steps, lifting the suitcase up so it doesn’t make a noise. I’m aware that it’s early and I don’t want to wake anyone up. I stand at the huge red-panelled door for a moment.

I turn the key in the lock and open the door slowly. There’s a sidelight on in the hall, and a pile of junk mail on the wooden dresser. Hanging on a hook there’s a battered straw hat covered in tinsel. There’s a tired-looking plastic Christmas tree, and three empty wine bottles that look like they’ve been dumped on the floor by the door, waiting to go out in the recycling bin. The house smells of stale beer and leftover pizza, like a student flat. I guess the New Year celebrations must have been ongoing. I creep upstairs and open the door to my room. Becky has made up the bed (I love her so much for that at this moment that I could run upstairs and hug her, but something tells me she wouldn’t appreciate that) and the curtains are drawn.

I dump my case and my bag, and sit down on the edge of the bed for a moment. I feel completely wide awake, and as I sit there I realise that next door, with only a wall between us, is Alex. And – I hear a clonking noise, and the sound of footsteps – I realise he’s awake. I could go and say hi. That would be perfectly normal, if he’s awake. I mean admittedly it’s – I check my watch – quarter past six in the morning, but maybe he’s an early bird. I might just pop to the loo, and if I happen to bump into him … well, that’s just coincidence, isn’t it? Totally normal coincidence.

(Yes, I’ll check my face in the mirror while I’m in there, wipe the eyeliner smudges from underneath my eyes, and fluff up my hair. I do that every time I go to the loo. Doesn’t everyone?)

I open my bedroom door, and his door opens at exactly the same time. My heart gives a massive thump against my ribcage. This is meant to be.

And then Emma walks out, and heads towards the bathroom. She doesn’t turn around, so she doesn’t see me, and as the bathroom door closes I recoil backwards into my room like a snail into its shell, then floomp onto the bed with a groan. Why on earth is Emma coming out of Alex’s room? If they’ve swapped bedrooms, that means he’s across the other side of the stairwell, and I’ve been stealthily listening to her getting ready for work. She’s exactly the sort of person who would get up at six a.m. She’s probably done yoga already, and now she’s going to drink some green juice and meditate before she does an hour of paperwork then goes into the office. She’s a proper grown-up.

And then I realise that I’m still desperate for the loo, so I stand up and open my bedroom door, just as Emma walks out of the bathroom.

‘Oh! Jess. Hi,’ she says in a whisper, smiling with her perfect teeth. ‘Have you just got back? Did you have a lovely time?’

‘It was amazing,’ I say, and then I open my mouth again to ask if they’ve swapped rooms in my absence, and close it when I realise that she’s walking past me, in a kimono-style dressing gown made of some sort of swishy silk material, and heading for the bedroom at the end of the hall. Her bedroom.

I lean back against the door of my room, and it sinks in. Emma, our beautiful housemate, has spent the night with Alex.

CHAPTER FOUR
Alex
3rd January

Oh. My. God. My head feels like someone used it as a punchbag. I reach down the side of the bed where Past Me has thoughtfully left half a bottle of Coke. It’s completely flat and tastes like crap, but it washes down the double dose of ibuprofen and paracetamol I’m hoping might crack this hangover. What the hell was I thinking last night? Today’s going to be a killer – a twelve-hour shift in A&E, full of half-pissed Christmas casualties (and that’s just the staff). Oh bollocks – and I’ve just remembered that effing assignment I was supposed to do last night on Modern Nursing Practices and the Something of Something.

I rub my chin. And I need to get my beard sorted before I tip over into looking like someone who’s been lost in a cave for a month. God, I should’ve been working that essay last night and yet instead I found myself sharing a bottle of red with Emma. And another one. And – I open one eye carefully, because it feels like someone’s shining lasers in my direction – how the hell did I end up in bed with her, when I’d made a resolution that the last time was the Last Time? Capital letters, no going back.

I stumble to the bathroom and stand under the shower for ages, trying to wash off the hangover and straighten my head out. I didn’t even mean to start something with Emma. In fact – I run my hands through my hair and groan again – it’s probably best to not think of it as a something at all. Definitely not the sort of something that would get in the way of Becky’s no-couples rule. After all, we’re just two people, who’d ended up in a bit of a situation, and who were looking for the same thing. People do that sort of thing all the time.

Not me, admittedly, because I’ve never been a one-night stand sort of guy, but then – well, that all got screwed up last year when Alice walked out and I swore I was going to focus on work and absolutely definitely not on relationships. Not that I was planning on being a player or anything – that’s not me, either. Just that I was going to focus on work, and studying, and leave the complications out of it. That’s why Becky’s no-relationships rule didn’t make me flinch, even if it did seem a bit weird. To be honest with you, I’d have taken a vow of chastity for the next five years if it meant I could get a place like this for the ridiculously low rent she was willing to take.

Just as well she didn’t make me take one, mind you. I switch off the shower and think back on how it all happened as I’m drying myself off.

I’d been working a late shift, and when I’d got home at eleven the house was empty. Rummaging through the fridge, I’d found a beer, cracked it open and sat down at the table, scrolling through my phone. The thing was just about falling over with a million notifications from friends – half of whom I hadn’t heard from in ages because of the whole Alice thing – sending mass WhatsApp invites to New Year’s celebrations. The old me would’ve been up for it, but the new Alex – wrecked after a night working supply as an HCA on A&E – couldn’t think of anything worse. As I went to put my phone down, another notification had buzzed through. It was a text from Jonno:

We’re in the Pig and Bucket. Come and find us when you’ve finished playing doctors and nurses. Fizz on ice.

Oh, piss off, I thought, and chucked the phone across the table. The joke was wearing a bit thin at this point. I’ve heard a million and one variations on the doctors and nurses theme, countless boring jokes about male nurses, and I still get the odd bemused message from former uni friends who’d heard through the grapevine I’d given up a perfectly good burgeoning law career to retrain as a nurse.

‘Hi,’ Emma had said, and I’d looked up. I had to admit she looked pretty bloody amazing. The cut of the dress emphasised the curve of her waist and cinched her breasts up so they were balanced, like two scoops of ice cream, spilling over the top of her dress. I looked away rapidly. Note to self: do not look in direction of chest. I stared down and picked at the label of my beer. She threw her keys on the table and sat on a chair, looking disconsolate.

‘Bad night?’ I asked.

‘Shitty.’ She screwed up her face. ‘I hate New Year. Too much enforced jollity.’

‘D’you want a beer? I think there’s a couple left in the fridge.’

She nodded. ‘Yes please.’

I got up, fetching one for her and another for me out of the fridge, and cracking them open.

She hooked a long strand of hair back behind her ear, and took a sip of beer from the bottle. ‘I knew it would be a disaster. Work friends, and a load of people I didn’t want to see. Well, one person, to be completely honest.’ She grimaced again. ‘My ex.’

God I could sympathise there. I’d been avoiding all social gatherings where there was a chance I’d bump into Alice for ages now. It made the whole division of friendships thing quite easy, mind you. Alice got pretty much everyone, and I got – well, most of them were work colleagues, so it wasn’t a major deal. And I’d made a couple of good friends on the course, which really helped …

‘Sorry, you were saying?’ I said, realising I’d drifted into my own thoughts. ‘So you work with him? That must be awkward.’

Emma pulled a face. ‘Sort of. He’s in the same building, and our companies work side by side, so he’s always sort of – there. Which is how I ended up in a relationship with him. But he’s still very married, despite his insistence that he was going to leave her.’

‘Oh God, that old line.’

‘Yeah. Exactly.’ She fiddled with her keys, spinning each one round on the ring, before putting them carefully back on the table. ‘Anyway, much as I am over him – and I am …’

As she trailed off, I raised my eyebrows, giving her a look. ‘Really?’

‘Totally. But you know what? Not the sort of over him that I want to spend my New Year’s Eve watching him with his wife, drinking champagne and casting glances in my direction. I’m not some bit on the side, which is what I told him in the first place. Anyway.’ She took another swig of beer, then got up, heading for the fridge. ‘It’s almost midnight. We can celebrate here, instead.’

She pulled out a bottle of champagne. I’d seen it in the fridge and wondered who owned it – my guess was right. Emma looked like the sort of person who’d drink posh champagne. Becky was a tequila girl, Rob would have to be around at some point to have left champagne in the fridge, and so far he hasn’t been, and Jess hadn’t moved in yet. The champagne was an expensive brand, the kind we used to open to celebrate successes in the office. Now I was on a student loan though, and living on my savings, it was beer all the way. Cheap beer, at that.

‘Want some?’

I nodded. ‘Yes please.’

She found two glasses and popped the cork. ‘Let’s put some music on. Alexa, play some New Year’s music.’

‘Here’s a playlist for New Year’s music,’ said the speaker. Ed Sheeran started playing and we both shouted ‘Alexa, stop!’ at the same time, laughing.

‘I’ll find something on my phone,’ Emma said.

A couple of glasses – and some debate over Emma’s dodgy taste in music – later, we decided to go through to the sitting room to watch the New Year celebrations on television at midnight. As if by agreement, we both flopped down on the sofa. Emma kicked off her heels and curled up her legs underneath her. In the background, a band was playing music at Edinburgh Castle with a horde of familiar TV faces standing at the side of the screen, trying to look animated. They were clearly freezing cold.

‘So what about you?’ Emma said. ‘I know you said you were living with someone before. Are you still friends?’

I gave a groan and stretched my arms out above my head until various joints creaked. I really needed to get to the gym. ‘Not really,’ I replied.

‘Hard, isn’t it? I don’t know many people who stay friends with their ex.’

‘Yeah.’

Emma poured another glass of champagne for us both. ‘The thing is, Alice signed up for the lawyer boyfriend, lots of money, and a nice house.’ I looked around at the tattered Seventies décor and raised my eyebrows at Emma. ‘This isn’t exactly her sort of thing. We had a place in Stoke Newington – a nice little flat. It was pretty much all mapped out – two-point-four children, dog, cat, move out to the suburbs eventually …’

‘Ugh,’ Emma said, making a face. ‘That sounds like hell.’

‘Everyone says that,’ I said, spinning my glass round on my knee, slowly. ‘Thing is, I think I’m a bit of a romantic at heart. I wanted the whole thing.’

‘That’s quite sweet,’ Emma said. ‘Even if it’s my idea of hell. I don’t even like being responsible for a potted plant.’

‘Yeah, well, we were engaged and everything. Then we had some family stuff happen, and I realised that actually I didn’t want to carry on doing law. I wanted to do something that made a difference. That’s how I ended up getting into nursing.’

‘That’s fair enough.’

‘Yeah. Not for Alice, it turned out. She’d had our future all mapped out, and my giving up the well-paid job with prospects for a career in a failing NHS wasn’t on her to-do list.’

‘So when you gave up on law, she gave up on you?’

‘Yeah,’ I said, and took a large swig of champagne. ‘Pretty much.’

Emma reached over, putting a hand on my leg. ‘I’m sorry. That’s pretty brutal.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, and looked down at Emma’s hand, which hovered there for a second. And I’d like to say that we carried on watching the television and then went to our separate beds after the bells struck midnight and that was that. But no. Turned out I was only human, after all, and that after a bottle of champagne and some sort of dodgy liqueur from the back of the kitchen cupboard, and some pretty direct flirting from Emma, my resolve to stay celibate and focus completely on my studies was – well, it wasn’t as steely as all that. And afterwards, when I was lying on the bed watching her fastening her bra and slipping the impossibly tight red dress back on, Emma had turned to me and smiled.

‘Nobody needs to know this ever happened,’ she’d said.

‘Not a soul,’ I’d agreed. ‘Becky would murder us, for one thing.’

‘Nice though,’ she’d said, and given a wicked little smile that had made me want to pull her back into bed.

Bloody hell.

And then last night it happened again.

I wipe the mirror in the bathroom and look at myself through the condensation. Still look like the same old me – bit knackered, perhaps, because I’ve been up shagging half the night – but no, definitely still the same old Alex. I raise my eyebrows at Mirror Me and suppress a snort of laughter. It’s the most out-of-character thing I’ve ever done. I try and imagine the faces of Jack and Lucy when I tell them. Jack and Lucy are my two best friends back home in Canterbury (who conveniently got off with each other a couple of years back, meaning that now they live together and I can see both of them in one go when I go back to visit). They’re always telling me to get on dating apps and have a rebound shag to get over Alice. Well, I guess I’ve done it. Didn’t even have to download Tinder.

I wrap the towel round my waist and head back to my bedroom, opening the window even though it’s freezing cold outside. It’s ridiculously early in the morning and the house is almost completely silent, but I can hear noises, I think. Sounds like someone’s moving boxes in the room next door. Jess? I check the calendar hanging on the wall. God, yes, it’s the third. She must’ve arrived overnight – I put a hand over my mouth – God, I hope she didn’t arrive when we were …

No. We’d have heard the door, wouldn’t we? She must’ve arrived when I was in the shower.

I pull on jeans and a clean T-shirt, running my hand back through my hair to shove it into place. Even if Jess had heard, she wasn’t likely to say anything. It didn’t have to be a big deal. Even if I have to have a conversation with Becky about the whole no-couples thing … well, it’s not like we’re actually a couple.

This is all completely new ground for me, though, and it’s weird. Jack and Lucy always took the piss out of me for being an old romantic, but the thing is, what happened with Alice really took the wind out of my sails. I loved her, and I thought we were going to do the whole married, house, kids, dogs thing – especially the dogs, I’ve always wanted a golden retriever – but it floored me completely when she told me it was over. I was a complete mess for ages, but I’ve got a grip now. I’m just not putting myself in that place again for a long time. Relationships are not for me.

I’m glad Jess is back. Now the house is full, it feels sort of … complete, somehow. I’m sure she said she’s not starting work until the second week of January. Maybe I’ll see if she fancies coming for a walk tomorrow, to find her feet a bit. It’ll be nice to have a friend who’s a girl, and not a girlfriend. I miss Lucy’s point of view on things – since she and Jack got together they basically come as a package.

I lace up my boots and I think about Jess chopping limes and chatting to me in the kitchen. Grudgingly, I have to admit to myself that in another life, Jess would be completely my type. She’s funny and she’s interesting, and I love the fact that she’s doing the same as me: taking the plunge to try something new and start life over again. It’d be good to have a partner in crime. It makes it seem less terrifying, somehow.