Chapter 2
Rachel
‘Has the world ended?’ Josh whispers. ‘Is everything broken? Burning? Underwater?’
I can’t deny that from between the clashing chords of my hangover some notes of relief are breaking through. The world – as far as we know – has remained intact.
Still. No amount of existential solace is going to counteract the effects of that vintage magnum we stole.
‘All of the above,’ I groan. ‘This is my punishment, isn’t it, for thieving champagne?’
Josh kisses me, a deep, hotel-room kiss, palms gripping my hips. His skin smells faintly of musk and moss, the fading haze of the night before. I reach beneath the covers, move my hand down, feel him smile.
‘Well, technically, I thieved,’ he says. ‘You were just an unwitting accessory.’
‘We should punish you, then.’
‘Fine by me.’ In the lightless bedroom, his fingers skim my underwear. I shut my eyes, feel my heart begin to freewheel as his hand parts my thighs.
Then, a hammering on the door. We jerk away from each other, laughing.
‘Hello?’ Josh growls, rearranging the quilted bedspread to cover our rapidly heating limbs.
The door swings open. It’s Polly’s husband, Darren, wearing a wax jacket and flat cap. This look on him is a touch absurd, given that he’s usually to be found scuffing around in trainers and ripped jeans, and is wiry and loose-limbed in a nineties indie band, don’t-give-a-shit kind of way.
‘Hey,’ he says. ‘How come you guys got the four-poster?’
Josh tries and fails to smother a laugh. ‘What the fuck are you wearing?’
‘It’s nearly eleven, you pair of wastrels.’
We both just blink at him.
‘Time for the pre-lunch Long Walk.’
‘You say that like it’s a thing,’ Josh says.
‘It is. Well, today, at least.’ Darren strides into the room.
‘Go anywhere near those curtains and I won’t be responsible for my actions.’
Undeterred, Darren wrenches them open, flooding the room with light. The sky outside is so bright it looks white. ‘Come on. Be downstairs in ten minutes.’
‘Why are you like this?’ Josh says, shading his eyes.
‘You can’t fester in bed on the first morning of the new millennium.’
‘Actually, before you knocked on the door there was very little festering going on.’
‘Ten minutes,’ he repeats, making a trigger shape with his fingers as he stalks from the room.
‘Well, that’s obviously not going to happen.’ Josh leans into me again as soon as the door clicks shut, but, just as our lips meet, from downstairs someone else calls my name.
‘Why are we friends with these people?’ I groan, lying back on the mattress.
‘They were at the same party as us last night, right?’
‘Yeah. And they were drinking last-resort spirits. They should be worse than we are.’
‘It’s the kids,’ he realises. ‘All the adults feel like they’ve been dug up, but the kids have been bouncing off the walls since dawn.’
From downstairs, my name again, more urgent this time. Then, footsteps on the stairs.
‘Shit. Darren’s sent Polly up.’
‘Shit.’
I throw off the bed covers. ‘Come on.’
And so, for the second time in twelve hours, we find ourselves hiding from our friends. Only, this time, we’re squashed into a cupboard wearing just our underwear, surrounded by fur coats that I hope very much are synthetic.
‘This is all very Chronicles of Narnia,’ Josh says.
‘If it’s between the witch and a walk, I’ll take my chances.’
‘Happy New Year,’ he whispers, and I stifle a laugh against his bare shoulder as the bedroom door swings open.
To be sure there’s no chance of getting frogmarched through Kent, we remain cocooned in the wardrobe. Limbs tangled together, we are cramped but cosy in the gloom, albeit the mothballs are making my nose prickle.
We attempt a kiss, to reignite what we started in bed, but I pull away after a couple of seconds. ‘We can’t. Not in here.’
Josh smiles. ‘Come on. We’ve never done it inside a cupboard before.’
‘It’s full of clothes. They might be heirlooms or something. It feels disrespectful.’
‘More disrespectful than doing it in their wine cellar? And their bed?’
‘I think having sex in someone else’s wardrobe would be a new low.’
He laughs, pushes a hand through his dark muddle of hair. ‘Yeah, okay. That’s fair.’
I feel for his hand, wrap my fingers tightly in his. ‘Polly was saying last night we should try for a millennium baby. To sort of . . . mark the moment. You know – being a part of history, and everything.’
‘Yeah, I was just waiting to find out if the world’s nuclear reactors were still intact.’
‘But then Darren reminded us the millennium actually doesn’t begin until next year.’
He smiles, rests his head against the back of the wardrobe. ‘Of course he did.’
‘It’s a nice idea, though.’
He turns to look at me, his expression gossamer-soft. ‘Yeah,’ he whispers. ‘It’s a really nice idea.’
We have always wanted a family of our own. To cultivate something good from the cindered remains of our childhoods. But Josh says – and his eyes say, now – not yet, not yet. And I know this makes sense. We’re still only twenty-nine. We both need to be ready.
In the darkness, I feel for the writer’s bump on his middle finger, the soft knot of flesh raised by years of pens pressed too hard. ‘You’re going to live a long and happy life, Josh. I promise. I’ll keep telling you that until you believe it.’
His grip tightens around my palm, pulse gently pumping. I know, his hand says silently.
But he doesn’t, not really. And I cannot deny that there is a seed of doubt inside me too. Hard and dark, a tiny stone stuck fast that I can’t quite seem to dislodge.