Chapter 32.
O n our last night, we go for dinner at a restaurant recommended to Ash by Gabi. It’s pretty tiny – there are just two lines of tables inside – but it is romantic, and rustic, and feels comfortingly and distinctly European. The walls are papered with vintage French posters. There are bottles of wine everywhere, and warm flickering candles, and plenty of dark corners for getting cosy in.
I’m surprised to learn it was Gabi’s idea to come here, given how infrequently Ash says they speak now.
‘She called me not so long ago,’ he says, dipping a chunk of celery into the vat of fondue between us. ‘She still does occasionally, if she’s having a crisis.’
‘What was the crisis?’
‘Toby.’
‘The Coachella guy?’
He nods. ‘She thinks they should live together. Terrible idea, obviously. I probably wasn’t as tactful as I could have been.’
‘Why is it a terrible idea?’
I can tell Ash still cares by how quickly his forehead furrows. ‘It just seems like every conversation they have is a row. And they don’t have much in common. He hasn’t got a job. Not sure if he ever has, actually.’ He pauses, then picks up his wine. ‘I mean, if you move in with someone, the starting point should at least be that you get on, don’t you think?’
‘Of course.’
‘Like, you should have fun all the time and a mad attraction and have similar life goals... right?’
‘Definitely. I mean, maybe you should say that to her.’
‘Yeah, maybe,’ he says, thoughtfully. ‘I thought I’d try... saying it to you first, though.’
I look up from my plate and frown, confused.
He takes in my expression and laughs. ‘Okay. I’m trying to ask if... you’d like to live with me, but clearly I’m completely cocking it up.’
‘Oh,’ I say, feeling a rush of pleasure and surprise.
Across the table, he grabs my hand. ‘I know it’s only been a few months, but... this doesn’t scare me, Neve. It feels right.’
A beat. Despite everything, I can’t disagree. Maybe moving in with Ash – properly committing – will be a way to finally banish Jamie from my mind, to break free from the past, to get back to who I was before all this happened.
‘Yes. Okay. Yes.’
His eyes gleam. ‘Seriously? You want to do it?’
I smile. ‘Well, I do need to check one thing with you first.’
‘Go on.’
‘What would you consider to be your most horrifying domestic habits?’
He takes a second to mull it over. ‘Okay, I only have one.’
I sip my wine. ‘Let me be the judge of that.’
‘Well, I’m a rubbish-squasher. I leave the bin till the lid’s popping off before I can be arsed to go down and take it out.’
‘Hmm. You do live in a top-floor apartment. So that’s not too bad, considering.’
‘You’re excusing my bin crimes?’
‘There are mitigating factors.’
‘All right. You? I bet you don’t even have one bad habit.’
‘Oh, I do. I stress-clean.’
‘Nothing wrong with that.’
‘Ordinarily, no. But some of it’s a bit... next-level.’
He smiles at me over his wine glass. ‘Examples, please.’
‘Well, the worst one is probably that I... steam my bedsheets. Once they’re on the bed. Like, every single crease.’
‘That sounds . . . labour-intensive.’
‘It’s a sickness,’ I admit.
‘Still. Hardly what I’d call horrific.’
‘But what if you’re waiting to go to bed and I’m steaming?’
‘Then... I’ll just have to present you with a more appealing alternative.’
I smile. Beneath the table, he grazes my calf with his foot. Above it, he squeezes my hand. He can’t stop touching me, and I feel the same way.
‘So,’ he says. ‘Bin-squashing and sheet-steaming aside, reckon we’d be good housemates?’
‘Yes. I do, actually.’
He leans across the table and kisses me, almost dislodging the pot of fondue in the process. Someone claps. My heart does cartwheels.