Chapter 21
FREYA
‘Mmm, something smells good,’ Lizzie tells me as we hug when she and Dan arrive.
‘Thank you!’
We (I) had to improvise quite a lot when it became apparent due to an afternoon of wonderful sex that we weren’t going to have as much time as we’d thought for the cooking and baking.
Today is the first time we’ve had sex since the team-building weekend – we’ve been taking things slowly (by unspoken agreement – I think we both felt the same way) – and it was unbelievable.
Like amazing. Just… It’s definitely ruined me for all sex with all other people for the rest of time, for a start.
I just don’t think you could have better than that.
And if I’m honest, I don’t think it was entirely because we do – clearly – gel physically; I think it was also because we now have an emotional connection.
‘Freya?’ Lizzie’s staring at me. Whoops. I’d drifted off into a little thinking-about-sex-with-Jake haze there.
‘Sorry. Little bit tired.’
Lizzie is still peering into my face. ‘You look very… happy,’ she says.
I have to make a really big effort not to swivel my eyes in panic.
I am not one of those people who likes to tell everyone (anyone) when they’ve had sex.
I am also not one of those people who believes they can tell when someone else has had sex, and I don’t really think it’s a thing – I think it just happens in books and films – but just in case it is a thing, I want to look as normal, non-just-had-afternoon-sex as possible, because I don’t want to be on the end of Lizzie wagging her finger and telling me that I clearly just got some.
‘I’ve had a nice week,’ I say.
Lizzie looks at me for a bit longer, and then says, ‘Good! So things are going well with Jake?’
I check over my shoulder that he and Dan are out of earshot and then whisper, ‘Yes. It’s all amazing.
I like him a lot.’ I actually think I might be falling in love with him but I really cannot say that out loud right now.
And if I do tell anyone, if and when I’m sure, obviously Jake would be the first person I should tell.
‘It’s really good. We’ve had some great conversations.
I think… I think I might have been slightly wrong about relationships. I think you were right.’
‘I was right. I’ve been thinking more about it but didn’t want to bombard you with my thoughts.
But since we’re on the subject… I think in all your failed relationships, you’ve been seeking reassurance and approval, like you never got from your dad.
And with Jake it’s different. You didn’t want his approval at all to start off with, because you loathed him.
But he gave it to you anyway, despite his initial loathing for you. ’
I stare at her. ‘I think you might be very clever.’
Lizzie smiles smugly. ‘Apparently I am, yes.’
There’s no time for further relationship analysis because Jake’s poking his head round the kitchen door asking what we’d both like to drink, and very specifically would we like to try the cocktails that he’s made, given that in all honesty he contributed nothing of any importance to the meal prep.
‘That isn’t true,’ I protest. ‘You…’ What did he do other than the sex stuff? ‘You were great with washing the vegetables. And chopping the onions.’ Ish. ‘And getting me cups of tea.’
‘I did get you tea. And I talked to you while you cooked.’ He sends me a crooked smile and it’s all I can do not to go over there and throw myself into his arms.
I content myself with saying, ‘You were an amazing sous-chef,’ and smiling at him.
We drink our cocktails in Jake’s small but perfectly formed garden, which is beautifully tended (by a gardener), and then we go inside to the kitchen where my sous-chef and I have laid the table with his very nice (and almost entirely unused) dining ware.
I feel unbelievably contented over dinner (starter, main course, pudding) as our conversation wends its way through topics big and small (yes, we do touch on politics at one point and thankfully feel our way to discovering that we all pretty much agree on all the big points, before Lizzie tells us that in this modern era of high-stakes and high-emotions politics we’re playing a high-risk game and could we please now get back to discussing biscuit-making, and Jake replies that if she’d been around earlier when he tried and failed to rub butter into flour he’d know that that is not non-contentious).
A couple of times we laugh so much that we’re almost falling off our chairs.
We sympathise with each other on almost everything and challenge each other just the right amount.
It’s your basic perfect evening with friends.
Lizzie and Dan stay until nearly two in the morning, before Dan drags Lizzie away.
After we’ve done our goodbye hugs, as they walk out of the door, Jake’s standing behind me with his arms round my waist and his chin resting lightly on my head, and as the door closes he leans down to drop a kiss into my neck. I turn in his arms.
And then – without either of us saying anything about it – I stay the night, and it’s very, very good.
It continues to be amazing. I don’t want to think too much about the fact that I’ve never before actually managed a proper, functional relationship for any period of time, because I don’t want to jinx it.
My conversations with both Lizzie and Jake did make me think – hope – that I can manage a solid relationship, but the strength of my feelings for Jake and the enjoyment I’m deriving from his company make me a little terrified.
We remain suspended in our extremely-close-friends-with-out-of-this-world-benefits bubble until the night before the live show with Sonja.
Jake and I have just finished watching the last instalment of a big Netflix drama (yes, we’ve got to the point where we stay in sometimes and watch box sets, and, yes, it’s lovely).
‘Live show tomorrow,’ Jake says. ‘Do you think we should… discuss anything before we go on?’
‘Like what?’ I ask, alarmed.
‘Like what we’re going to say about us.’
‘Oh, okay.’ Phew. I don’t know what I thought he was going to say there, but a cold finger of dread had touched my spine for a moment.
‘I’m thinking…’ He pauses for a long moment, while I say absolutely nothing at all, because I’d very much like to hear his thoughts first. ‘I’m thinking it would maybe be better for us not to say anything about us.’
I nod. ‘I feel that way too.’
‘Not because I don’t want to shout our… friendship from the rooftops,’ he clarifies. ‘But because I don’t want to talk to Sonja about it.’
‘Yes, same. It’s like everything she touches feels toxic.’
‘Exactly. And…’ He hesitates again before continuing, ‘I would love this to become something longer term. I love you.’
It’s like the whole world stops for a moment and then resets itself, exactly right, like everything has suddenly fallen into place.
‘I love you too,’ I manage to say through lots of smiles and quite a few happy tears.
I pull out of the kissing that ensues to say, ‘I’m going to address a little elephant in the room. You might have won our challenge.’
Jake does a mock gasp. ‘Freya Cassidy. Romance writer and disbeliever in real-life happy endings. What are you saying?’
‘I might be saying that I would also love this to become something longer term.’
Really, really good sex ensues.
And then at one o’clock in the morning Jake leaves my house and gets in an Uber and goes back to his; we’ve decided that we should obviously travel completely separately to the studio tomorrow morning.
It’s going to be weird pretending that there’s no romance, or even friendship, between us, but it’ll only be for one morning; we’ll be fine.
One of the perks of being an author is that I do not have to get up at the crack of dawn if I don’t want to; if I have a lot of work on, I can write in the evenings instead of first thing, or through my lunch.
Or both. And I don’t have to catch flights at ungodly hours because I can take my holidays at random – cheap – times.
All to say that I basically never get up early.
When you’re appearing on morning television, you do have to get up early, because they like you to arrive in very good time so you can do various preparations.
So, when my alarm goes off, I do know that I need to leap straight out of bed, or at least within five minutes, but I just… can’t. I’m very, very tired. Okay. I need to. I’ll read the news on my phone quickly. That should wake me up.
I get sucked into an article about European royals with very long names.
(That’s the literal premise of the article: long names; why do I read this crap and very specifically only when I’m tired and struggling to get out of bed?) Then I do Wordle and it’s really hard today (and I do possibly nod off in the middle of it and only wake up because I handily mistakenly snoozed my alarm instead of turning it off).
I flick through my emails but am too tired to open any of them.
Then I rest my eyes for a second and get woken up the second time my alarm snoozes and oh fuck I am late.
I finally get myself into the shower and am woken up properly by the water, and get ready as fast as I can, but am obviously still late when I arrive at the studio.
I’m shown into a dressing room and Sonja immediately puts her head round the door and says, ‘Morning,’ before making a big show of checking her watch to see if it’s the afternoon yet before laughing uproariously at her own gag.
‘Ha,’ I say, already over this.
‘You being late has been good, actually.’ She comes into the room and closes the door behind her. ‘It’s given me a chance to chat to Jake one on one, get the low-down.’ She winks at me and I have to fight to maintain my smile. What does she mean? Has Jake caved and told her anything?
‘Great,’ I say (croak, actually).
‘Would you like a glass of water?’ asks Sonja, like the caring person she has demonstrated she certainly is not.
‘I have one here, thank you.’