If I Were You

Chapter 4 Amy

Two Years Ago

Today has been a blur. Flynn Waller is unlike the usual men I meet. In fact, he’s almost the exact opposite of the man I imagined I’d be with. Yet it just feels right, he feels right. I’ve been lost recently, in a funk I can’t escape, and he’s reached down and pulled me out of it.

I’m not even sure how this has happened. How I’m showering in a man’s surprisingly clean bathroom on a Saturday evening when I only met him last night. How I’m singing in this man’s bathroom. What is it about him that makes me feel like singing in the shower again?

‘You have the most insane voice,’ he comments when I step out in a towel, strangely shy as I scurry into his bedroom.

‘I don’t, I well, I used to … thanks,’ I say, slamming the door so I can change.

‘That’s the first time I’ve heard you flustered,’ he laughs, talking to me through the wood. ‘Seriously, sing that bit again about the baboon.’

Stepping into the over-sized tracksuit and top he’s lent me, I fumble a response.

‘A balloon. And no,’ I shout back.

I hear him start to hum a terrible, inaccurate rendition of the tune I’d been singing and can’t help grinning.

‘Up in my baboon ballllllloooooon.’

‘Shut up!’ I shout back, unable to stop a snort of laughter.

‘My baboooon balllooooooooon.’

Seriously, how did I get here?!

I’d left the bar last night ready to head home and lick my wounds all weekend. The Tinder date had been a disaster and the venue had only made things more painful.

I’d stood on the pavement adjusting my coat, feeling sad and small. Pulling out the scrunched-up napkin of numbers, I thought back to the man from the bar. There had been something behind his over-confident manner, something warm and intriguing that had reached inside me and connected. He seemed fun, impetuous. He seemed to know what he wanted: me.

I didn’t direct the cab home; instead, I found myself in a Tesco Express at midnight buying a bag of frozen peas for a cocky, posh boy who’d got thumped.

We stayed up for a couple of hours drinking wine. Flynn had this air about him that immediately put me at ease. Nothing seemed to ruffle him. There was no boring small talk, or chat about past relationships. We just talked nonsense, listened to music. He was so wide-eyed when I told him about a recent protest I’d been on: he made me feel like it really mattered. And he didn’t hit on me, even when, around 2.30 a.m., he leaned over to top up my glass and my whole head filled with the smell of him, his closeness. My breath hitched: I’d really wanted him. But then nothing happened.

He slept on the sofa at an utterly ridiculous angle, his legs dangling off it as he insisted I took his bed. Which smelt of detergent. Another surprise.

So the night turned into Saturday morning and he can’t have slept.

Just as I was about to make my excuses and head home for a weekend of nothing, he asked if I wanted to spend the day with him. There was a beat as I looked into his open face, with its purple bruise, and saw a wobble in his normally confident eyes. Intrigued all over again, I agreed, and his clear delight made me immediately glad I had.

What were my Saturday plans anyway? A trip to the supermarket, a phone call to a friend, a magazine, making myself dinner for one? This would be fun, different, and I’d been short on fun for a long time. Flynn was shocking me back to life.

I’d never met anyone who exuded so much energy, like a dog straining on a leash, ready to take off the moment you unclip him. We weaved through Bristol streets, talking aimlessly about nothing. I felt like I’d always walked the streets with him.

It’s so comfortable, so easy, and I wonder that this guy is single. Surely women are chucking themselves at him? When I tentatively asked about girlfriends he told me he was dumped a few years back.

‘Sucks.’

‘Yeah.’

He didn’t offer anything more and I stored the nugget of information away for another time.

I saw different parts of Bristol, a city I’ve lived in for almost twenty-four years, which suddenly revealed another side of itself. Narrow passageways, uneven stone steps, colourful graffiti. He took me to his favourite café, greeted the owner by name and ordered us enormous green smoothies, coffees and the most delicious breakfast.

He seems to know half of Bristol. We had to stop three times on the on the way back from brunch to greet people. I liked being part of that, relished him introducing me in his relaxed manner to his friends.

‘This is Amy,’ he’d say immediately, including me in all the exchanges. My fingers tingled wanting him to take my hand. We still hadn’t kissed.

There aren’t many photos in his flat, a wash of neutral colours and blank prints. Nothing for me to guess at. I think of the posters on my walls, the prints: what conclusions Flynn might reach. A feminist? An activist? A Quentin Tarantino fan? My walls reflect the parts of my personality I most want to project. What does this neutral space say about Flynn?

If we do stray into more personal territory he always manages to shine the spotlight back on me. He has a mum, stepdad, no siblings. His dad isn’t around. I’m not sure what the history is there. His mum travels a lot; I get the sense they are very wealthy; he went to boarding school and loves sport. I know I like him because I bite down my rant about the ethics of private education. He runs an events business, loves dogs, all animals, is frightened of spiders and can’t sing. I still don’t know if he wants to kiss me too.

I phone my sister Laura in the bedroom as I get dressed after my shower, whispering into the mobile as she laughs at me and calls me a dirty stop-out.

‘I’m not. OK, I am. He’s gurt lush, Laurs. I don’t know what to do. Tell me!’

‘Amy, you always know what to do. You tell everyone else what to do.’

‘Not this time,’ I hiss, genuinely thrown by the butterflies in my stomach, the sheer amount I want this man.

‘Go and kiss him!’ Laura offers.

‘I can’t just go and kiss him!’

‘Of course you can, Ames, it’s the twenty-first century. We’re allowed to do that now, we don’t get arrested for it. Kiss him! Kiss him!’ she chants.

I want to laugh but in a small voice I say: ‘What if he doesn’t like me?’

‘What’s not to like dickhead? You’re hot, you’re clever, you’re cool! Go!’ and she hangs up.

I stare at the phone, unable to process how quickly she chucked me off the call. I need her to hold my hand and walk me through this. Since Dad, I seem to have lost so much of my confidence, not that Laura would believe that. She still thinks I’m the over-confident little sister with dreams of stardom she left back in Bristol.

When I return to the living room Flynn is sitting on a cushion on the floor, back against the sofa, long legs sticking out, a cafetiere freshly brewed on the low table in front of him.

‘Coffee?’

I don’t feel hot, clever or cool. I feel awkward and bumbling and out of my depth. ‘I should go,’ I say, tongue too big in my mouth. ‘I’m going to go.’ My heart’s not in it but the words are forthright, my armour, as ever.

He nods slowly. ‘Fair enough. I suck at making coffee.’

The scent hits me, warm and inviting, and the scene looks so welcoming I want to take my words straight back. But I like this guy and I’m not sure I want to be friend-zoned. He isn’t giving me any vibes.

Then he stands up, smoothing his wrinkled T-shirt, and steps over.

My breath catches as he stops in front of me, forcing me to lift my chin to meet his eye. We stare at each other for a long moment and there’s a look, something I haven’t seen before, a question. And then his face clears and I almost think I imagine it.

‘So,’ the word comes out strangled and I snap my mouth closed again, not wanting him to sense how nervous I am around him. I can’t think of anyone who has ever made me feel this way. I want this man, feel my whole body lean towards him, my skin wanting to touch his.

He inches a little closer and I find myself holding my breath now, not wanting to break this moment.

‘So,’ he repeats, a lazy smile moving across his face.

‘So.’

His voice is lower, barely there, ‘So.’

‘Are we going to keep saying S—’

He closes the gap between us. The unexpected shock of him, the way his mouth swoops to meet mine, the crush of his arms on me. His hands make my stomach flip over a hundred times. Oh my god. This is electric. This is like nothing I’ve ever felt. Holy shit.

Not friend-zoned.

He pulls back. ‘So,’ he exhales, hair sticking up, cheeks flushed. I raise my own hands to my face, heart leaping in my chest.

We both breathe out. And then go again.

I leave at the end of the weekend and by then Flynn Waller is my boyfriend. Numerous times my boyfriend.