Chapter 32
‘Just checking, you told me it’s not a date, right?’ Morgan says drily from her position on my bed, leaning back against the wall, looking very cool and nonchalant.
‘Of course it’s not a date,’ I say impatiently. ‘But you know me, I like to look nice all the time, not just for a date.’
A smile creeps across her face. ‘I don’t know, man,’ she says, throwing her hands up. ‘It kind of feels like a date.’
‘I’m just doing something nice for someone who was nice to me. Not once but twice. Double nice.’
‘And also, you think he’s cute, right?’
‘Undecided,’ I lie. ‘I regret mentioning it to you if you’re just going to shame me for maybe having a little crush on him!’
‘I’m not shaming you,’ she says gently. ‘I’m just being naughty.’
‘Naughty I can tolerate.’ I pull a slinky slip skirt in a vibrant fuchsia pink out of my wardrobe. ‘This with my turquoise top? Or is that too much? Too clown?’
‘I don’t know what makes me say this given that I’ve never met him, but this guy seems like someone who isn’t going to judge you for being, as you put it, too “clown”.’
Now it’s my turn to smile. ‘I think maybe you’re right. Clown fashion it is.’
Before I head out the door, I pick up a bright red-and-blue crocheted hood from my pile of winter accessories as defence against the cold.
It will serve the dual purpose of establishing whether Laurie is the kind of person who doesn’t want to be seen in public with a red-and-blue crocheted hood, and therefore is not the kind of person I can have a crush on.
On the way to the restaurant, I keep checking my phone to see if Laurie has cancelled on me, and have to repeatedly remind myself that he doesn’t even have my number.
I mean, I’m sure he could locate an email address for me if he really wanted to flake, but that’s how little we know each other, how unconnected we are.
When I get there, though, I see his large, slightly awkward figure waiting for me on the corner.
‘Hi,’ I say, reaching up to him to give him a hug, and although he’s a little awkward, there’s warmth and enthusiasm too.
He smells nice, sort of clean and comforting, like a basket of laundry.
Not expensive and decadent like Felix, just .
. . lovely. ‘It’s just here,’ I say, leading us towards the warm glow of the front windows.
‘I hope it’s OK.’ I smile at him over my shoulder in a way that I hope is confusingly seductive, easy to dismiss as friendly if needed, but also very cute and gorgeous. Overthinking it? Moi?
‘It looks perfect. And you look . . .’ He pauses. ‘Well, I like your, er . . . balaclava.’ He gestures at my headgear. ‘Very avant-garde.’
‘Thank you, Laurie,’ I say brightly, holding the door open for him.
We’re seated at a cosy table in a little alcove with a good view of the whole restaurant, perfect for nosy girlies like me, although on this occasion I sense my attention will be pretty focused on my dinner date.
I’m actually quite excited to properly talk to him and look at him in unchaotic conditions.
Not that it’s a date, of course; I’m just doing something nice for someone who was nice to me.
But I have to say, he is looking rather nice this evening.
I covertly look at him over the top of my menu, watch him twitch his nose as he contemplates what to order, watch his thick eyelashes bat slowly, gently.
Ah, yes, there it is. The unmistakable feeling of a crush.
I order us the cheapest bottle of wine because although Dad’s guilt money goes some way, it doesn’t go that far.
‘Cheers,’ I say, clinking my wine glass against his.
‘Cheers,’ he repeats a little stiffly, eyeing me with . . . not suspicion, but maybe caution, like he thinks I might be making fun of him, or the situation. But I’m not. I’m really not. I’m just happy to be here.
‘Thank you for listening to my section on the podcast, by the way. I’m glad you think it’s . . . good, I guess?’
‘With a name like that, how could I resist?’ He smiles, and that soft, sweet, lopsided smile makes me feel happy I suggested this.
‘I forgot you liked that song,’ I say, even though I hadn’t forgotten at all.
‘It’s funny . . .’ he says, clearing his throat.
‘I can’t help but think of you when I listen to it now, not just because of the podcast, but because it sort of .
. . sounds like you, in a way. All . . .
carefree and fun and exuberant.’ He doesn’t look at me when he says this, which is how I know he’s giving me a very sincere compliment.
‘Thank you . . . I aspire to be all of those things,’ I say, trying to act cool and nonchalant when in this moment I am very much neither.
Usually I like throwing myself into a crush with complete abandon, but Laurie feels so .
. . serious, so high-stakes somehow, that it’s giving me nervous butterflies as well as excited ones. ‘So, how’s the newspaper these days?’
‘Oh, not so bad. I mean, there’s some behind-the-scenes nonsense I don’t entirely approve of,’ he says, glancing at me but not elaborating, as if I obviously know what he’s talking about.
Probably some high-level Quad Media stuff, the kind of thing Felix was always stressing about.
‘But I like it. It gives me something to focus on that isn’t maths. ’
‘I can’t imagine having to think about maths all day . . .’ I say, feeling a bit sick at the prospect.
‘Lots of people feel like that,’ he says lightly. ‘But I probably feel just as confused when I look at a painting or a sculpture as you do when you look at an equation. It’s . . . it’s not that maths is harder than what you do. It’s just different.’
‘I hadn’t really thought about it like that.
’ I shrug, but I realise he’s right. ‘And anyway, you don’t need to feel confused.
It’s just a question of different ways of looking at art.
Different theories, different experiences, different tastes.
And . . . well, at least with some contemporary stuff, I think some of it is about being comfortable with not understanding it.
Knowing that there are some things you can’t know, can’t understand.
That when people make art, it’s sort of .
. . for them, not for you. Does that make sense? ’
Laurie nods. ‘It does. I think maybe for me, being clever and knowing things was a way to defend myself against feeling out of place or awkward . . . socially, I mean. So it’s possible I have a tendency to avoid anything that makes me feel like I’m on the back foot or a bit baffled.’
‘I wonder if maybe . . . instead of being baffled, you let yourself feel curious . . . maybe that would be something?’
‘Maybe it would,’ he says, his big brown eyes softening, sparkling a little. ‘I think maybe my new year’s resolution should be to give in to curiosity more.’ He flicks his eyes down so he’s not looking at me when he says it. ‘Like tonight, I suppose.’ Oh, hello!
He raises his glass to his mouth, and I decide to use these few seconds of silence to ask something I’ve wanted to know for a while. For no reason, obviously. Just curious. ‘So, is Charlotte Sherman your girlfriend?’
Instantly he coughs, covering his mouth with his big paw of a hand. ‘Sorry, just wasn’t expecting you to ask that right then . . . or so early in the evening.’
‘Sorry!’ I say lightly, with another shrug. Because of course I am just curious. No big deal to me.
‘You’re very, you know, direct . . .’ he says, catching his breath. ‘I can’t say I’m used to that.’
‘I am what I am.’
‘And in answer to your question, no, she is not my girlfriend. Not any more.’
‘So . . . she used to be?’ I ask, my curiosity (nosiness) piqued.
‘We gave it a go. It didn’t work out. I think she’s struggling a bit with that.
’ I brace myself for him to tell me about some ‘crazy’ thing she did, some ‘insane’ way she expressed her desire to still be in a relationship with him, because that’s what boys do.
But he doesn’t. He just leaves it at that.
Or rather, diverts the conversation onto yours truly.
‘And . . . Felix Balfour?’ he asks, giving me a meaningful look. ‘Still not your boyfriend?’
‘Decidedly not my boyfriend,’ I say firmly. ‘And never was. Just a . . . a silly fling. I thought it would be more fun than it was.’
‘Hm,’ he says tightly, in lieu of anything more illuminating.
‘What’s your beef with him anyway?’ The more time I spend with Laurie, the surer I am that Felix’s account of their past is not 100 per cent the truth, but I’d still like to hear it from Laurie.
Laurie shakes his head. ‘I’m fed up of talking about him – he takes up too much social oxygen as it is.’
‘That’s one way of putting it . . .’ He’s certainly taken up a lot of my social oxygen this year. ‘So,’ I decide to quickly change the subject. I felt like we were really getting somewhere before. ‘You were in Hatton Hall last year?’
‘Yep,’ he says, nodding his head in a way that denotes ‘up the road’, which is exactly where Hatton is.
At QAC, Hatton Hall is the cool halls, the one everyone seems to be in except you.
It’s the only catered hall, and that communal eating lends itself to a greater feeling of sociability.
It’s also one of the cheapest, despite being catered, with the highest number of people to a flat and the fewest facilities.
I smile. ‘That surprises me,’ I say gently.
‘Yes . . . it’s not very . . . me, is it?’ Laurie says, suddenly a little bit less serious. ‘I can’t say I loved it. Parties almost every night, almost never quiet – it felt like everyone was on a sports team except me. I ended up going home a lot, just to get a good night’s sleep.’
‘Where’s home?’ I ask, sipping my wine and realising I barely know a thing about him. In terms of facts, at least. But if we’re not talking facts, I have to say, I feel like I do know him. Or maybe that I understand him.