Chapter 27
I smile all the way back to London. OK, so, the first letter I sent was all wrong. I wanted change, but I was going about it in the wrong way. But it worked out in the end . . . really, it was just a cry for family and that’s what I found.
My phone buzzes. It’s Max again. I notice the shape of his name seems different. Max Madigan. I’m used to those letters spelling out excitement. Today I find myself tired at the sight of them lighting up my notification center.
Once again, it’s a message about something random and meaningless.
My heart sinks. If he wants to talk to me, why doesn’t he just talk to me?
! I finally bite the bullet and reply, If you want to talk about our situation, I’m available, but I don’t particularly want to chat about how creepy you found Paul from The Traitors right now.
He reads it and goes offline.
When I get back to Dami’s, Phil’s booming rendition of Marvin Gaye is vibrating the floorboards, and the sizzling smell of chicken and spices fills the flat.
Phil and Dami are making fajitas, together, which is a lovely sight.
I take off my shoes and stand in the hallway for a moment, breathing in the sounds and scents of warmth and safety.
I know I can’t stay here forever, but it’s so nice to feel at home somewhere I can also breathe, unlike Mum’s house.
“Becky, how was your old man!” Phil yells as soon as I enter the kitchen.
I grab a knife and start helping them chop peppers.
Dami shoots him a withering look and turns down Marvin Gaye. “Phil,” she urges in hushed tones. “I told you she might not want to talk about it.”
“Oh, sorry, sorry.” Phil puts a finger over his lips. “Sorry, Becky.” He turns around and slaps me on the back, then returns to cooking.
“No, it’s fine,” I reassure Dami, who is still glowering at the back of Phil’s head. Her face softens as she turns to me. “I didn’t meet my dad, though.”
“Oh!” Dami rushes over to rub my arm as I chop. “What happened? Are you OK?!”
“I’m good. I saw my sister.”
“The one you . . .” She trails off.
I finish her sentence. “The one I told to get lost, yes.”
“Was it OK?” She blinks several times.
“Yeah, we made up. She’s going to come and stay whenever I get my own place. And we might go and see our dad together.” It feels weird saying the word “our,” but I think I like it. “He doesn’t live there anymore,” I explain.
“Oh, that’s lovely!” Dami beams. “I’m so pleased.”
“It is, isn’t it,” I say. “I have a sister.”
“You have a sister.” Dami squeezes my shoulder.
“I always wanted a sister,” Phil adds as he throws more spices onto the chicken. “Brothers smell bad. And smear hummus on your best shoes.” He sounds as though he’s reliving a painful memory. When I leave, I’m going to miss Phil’s well-meaning but irrelevant commentary on my life.
Dami and I set the table and we lay out all the food. We’ve just sat down to eat when the doorbell rings. Dami and Phil shoot each other a puzzled glance.
“You expecting anyone, babe?” Phil asks as he starts loading up a fajita.
“No.” Dami gets up. “I swear, if it’s downstairs complaining about the noise again. We’ve been taking our shoes off by the door religiously . . .”
She returns a minute later with a strange look on her face. “It’s, er, Max,” she announces.
I almost choke on a piece of chicken. “Max?”
“He’s just taking off his shoes,” she says. She’s trying to communicate something with her eyes. I think it’s What’s he doing here? Is this a good thing or a bad thing? Should I have told him to go?
Max’s face appears behind her in the doorway. He’s about a head taller than her. “All right, Becky,” he says.
“I . . . hi,” I say lamely, pieces of chicken and pepper dropping out of my fajita. My heart rate picks up speed. Why is he here?
Damilola moves to make space for him in the room. “Max, we’ve just sat down to eat. Would you like to join us?”
“That would be great, thanks.” Max accepts without an ounce of awkwardness. He sits down in the last empty seat around the table. “Fajitas, nice.”
Dami shoots me another questioning look. I think this one is Are you guys together now and you forgot to mention it? How am I supposed to act around him? I return a look that says I have no idea. I barely know how to act around him myself.
“I thought you were in Paris,” I state.
“I was. Then I got on this thing called a train that brought me back to England,” he answers with a grin.
“Haha,” I say. “I meant, I thought you were there until next week?”
“Ngeghhh.” He shrugs. “Something else came up.” He locks eyes with me across the table. I can’t help heat rising through my body. Did he leave Paris for me? So he could speak to Fran? He must have broken up with her, now, otherwise he wouldn’t be here.
“So how was Paris, Max?” Dami asks politely.
“Did you eat any good les bugs?” Phil asks in a French accent and roars with laughter. “Never fancied la cuisine myself.”
The disdain on Max’s face is clear. He’s kind of a food snob. “No, no escargot on this trip,” he answers. “But a lot of wine.”
“What about galleries?” Dami asks.
“Did you go to that . . . oh, what’s it called, Dami?” Phil jumps in.
“The Louvre?” Dami fills in.
I can see the question causing Max physical pain. That anyone would forget the name of the Louvre, or think he was such a basic tourist as to go there. “Yes,” he says. “I went there after the Eiffel Tower and before the Champs-élysées, wearing my ‘I Heart Paris’ T-shirt and my beret.”
“Sounds great, mate,” Phil says, not aware of Max’s sarcasm. Damilola gives a half-hearted smile, not quite sure of Max’s tone either. Max has this way of making fun of you as if he’s having a joke with you, and you’re never quite sure which it is.
We continue to make small talk through the rest of dinner. I’ve lost my appetite and nibble at my first fajita, eager to get Max alone. The only bit of conversation that captivates my attention is when Dami mentions that Angie is selling her house.
“She is?!” I repeat in shock.
“Mm-hmm.” Dami makes an awkward noise in her throat. I can tell she regrets letting it slip. We’ve skillfully avoided mentioning Angie since I’ve been here.
“But she loves that place! She spent so long on it!” Angie has lived in that house for four years. She’s always making new additions to it. I can’t imagine her being apart from it.
“I guess she doesn’t want to stay there anymore. What with all the memories. And she probably can’t afford to keep paying the mortgage on it without Jacob.”
I can’t think of anything else to say. I suppose it makes sense, but it seems so sad. I never even associated Jacob with that house. I know it was his house as well, technically, but it’s all Angie. The brickwork, the garden, the modern chic glamour . . . Even the plugs feel like Angie.
These past few weeks have been so surreal that there have only been moments where it hits home that this is all happening.
That I set all this in motion, with a crisis caused by a tarot reading.
That I am a real person, with real impact on other people and their lives.
And now Angie is leaving her beloved house.
“She’ll make a killing,” Phil comments, oblivious to the spiraling happening in the seat beside him. “What with everything she’s done to it. It was a crap pile when they got it.”
Dami clears her throat.
“I mean, er, it was a real fixer-upper. It must have gone up tons in value.”
“True,” Dami agrees. She flicks me one last loaded look and we say no more about it. I know Angie and I aren’t in a great place right now, but after hearing this I have to contact her. I text her under the table.
Hey. I heard you’re leaving the house. I’m sorry. I know you love that place. It must feel strange. Here for you if you want me. Love you. x
After what feels like a thousand years of watching Phil chomp his way through a mountain of chicken meat, we’re done. Normally I would offer to do the washing up but I’m so desperate to talk to Max I excuse us as soon as Phil takes his last bite and drag him into the other room.
“What are you doing here?” I demand.
“What do you think?” He gives me that knowing look that feels as if his eyes are communicating directly with my innermost thoughts.
“You missed Yorkshire puddings?”
“Exactly right.” His eyes roam all over my face, which is blushing furiously. I try meeting his eye but it’s like looking at the sun.
“So you spoke to Fran?” I say.
“I spoke to Fran,” he confirms. “It was always you, Becky.”
It was always me.
The memory of wandering around Paris all alone without so much as a text message, and then being plagued for more than a week with random chitchat as if nothing had happened between us, niggles in the pit of my stomach.
But his presence washes all of that away.
He’s here now. He’s here telling me it was always me. He’s here leaning in . . . to kiss me?
Our faces move closer together, when Dami coughs at the door. “Ahem . . . are you staying, Max? Do you want dessert?”
“That would be great, thanks.” Max pulls back and puts his arm around me.
Dami smiles. I want her to look at me, so that I get some hint of what she’s thinking—I know she’s had her doubts about Max—but she keeps her eyes on Max.
“OK, great,” she says brightly, and disappears back to the kitchen.
Surely her doubts will dissipate now Max and I are official. Things won’t be like they were before.
“Shall we?” Max points to the kitchen. All I can think about is the fact that his arm is still around me.
“Yes, uh-huh,” I answer.
We go back into the kitchen. I feel a lot more relaxed now, and stuff my face full of chocolate sponge pudding.
I even find myself having fun. I am having dessert.
With my adult friends in their adult flat.
Max put his arm around me as my adult boyfriend.
For the first time in forever, I feel like I have a real seat at the grown-up table.
Phil is halfway through treating us to his rendition of “Respect” when my phone lights up with an email that is the cherry on top of a near-perfect evening.
Becky,
I just wanted to let you know I gave you a good reference for the job at Shout Box. You’d be perfect for it. Why, every time I walked past your desk you’d be engrossed in some film or another. And your impression of Michael Myers that one office Halloween party has certainly stayed with me.
Good luck. Once you find the thing you want to do, I know you’ll be as brilliant as you were when you first joined WWYW.
Margaret
I squeal and nearly knock my plate off the table. “Oh my God!” Everyone stares at me quizzically.
“Margaret gave me a good reference! She didn’t screw me over!” I put my hands together as if in prayer. “I knew she had a soft spot for me after all! Oh, thank you, Margaret, you beautiful, beautiful camel-covered angel.”
“Becky, that’s amazing!” Damilola exclaims.
“Well done, mate.” Phil pats me on the back.
“Ah, Margaret, I’m going to miss hearing about that old sour-faced lemon,” Max jokes.
I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I have a slim shot in hell of actually getting this job. I eat another bite of pudding and grin to myself for the rest of the night.
Dear Margaret,
Thank you for putting in a good word. I owe you one. Let’s call it even for the sandwiches ;)
Becky