Chapter 28
As it gets later, the question of whether Max is going to stay over starts hovering in the air.
“God, is that the time?” Dami looks at her phone. “I’ve got to go to sleep.”
“Mmargh.” Phil makes an indistinguishable noise of agreement. He looks like he’s about ready to pass out.
“Yup, suppose I’d better be getting back to ole Brixton,” Max adds. He stretches and yawns.
“Uh, I mean, you can crash here if you like, obviously, Max,” Dami offers politely.
Dami and Phil nod. “That’s cool, mate,” says Phil.
Dami jiggles Phil’s leg to rouse him from the sofa. “Night then, folks,” Dami says as they head upstairs. A few seconds later the sound of Phil’s electric toothbrush buzzes through the house.
“So, bedtime.” Max reaches for my hand and squeezes it.
I flush. This evening has been ridiculously wonderful. How long have I imagined spending an evening like this? Actually being with Max like proper boyfriend and girlfriend again? Having job prospects? Not feeling left out, left behind. I’m living under a beautiful spell.
There’s a part of me that wants to ask him what’s been going on. It’s on the tip of my tongue to have a go at him for being cryptic before he definitively ended his relationship with Fran. But he did do it, and that’s what counts, right?
“Let’s go upstairs,” I say.
It feels totally bizarre going to bed with him.
It’s not like it was in Paris. Paris was a wine-fueled dream a world away from our actual lives.
Having him here in Damilola’s bedroom—in what I have come to think of as my bedroom—brushing his teeth, washing his face, and walking around in his underwear when I am stone-cold sober, feels utterly absurd.
He sits down on the bed next to me and I burst out laughing.
“What? What’s funny?” He climbs under the covers.
“Just . . . this is weird.” I climb under the covers too. “Don’t you think it’s weird?”
“I guess.” He sounds a little defensive. Max has a brilliant sense of humor until he thinks someone is laughing at him. Even though he laughs at basically everybody on the planet.
“I don’t . . . ,” I correct myself. “I don’t mean it’s bad weird. It’s good weird.”
Max doesn’t say anything. He must be finding this odd.
He’s had another girlfriend for the last two years and we’ve not dated since we worked at Scintilla.
I know Max likes to be entirely in control, and never let anything unsettle him, but there’s no way even the most cool and collected person wouldn’t need to adjust to this.
I don’t say any of that, though. I just turn out my bedside lamp and lie down facing him. Max mirrors my body language and we stare at each other across the bed.
“Night, Becky,” Max says softly.
“Night, Max,” I reply.
There’s a moment’s hesitation where I wonder if he’s going to move any closer.
But then he turns out his light and we’re plunged into darkness.
Briefly, I wonder if it’s OK that we’re not having sex.
Or touching each other. Should we be? I attribute our lack of contact to this being so new and strange, despite Max’s claims that it isn’t.
We’ve been friends for so long now that navigating being in a relationship with one another won’t come back instantly, will it? Even though we’re obviously right for each other and meant to be together. There’s bound to be some sort of slightly awkward transition period.
I lie listening to the sound of his breathing as it goes from conscious and jagged to slow and rhythmic.
I wonder how he can fall asleep so quickly.
Maybe he really doesn’t find this peculiar.
Maybe this is totally normal for him. Maybe because deep down we both always knew this would happen .
. . If you look at it that way, I suppose he’s right, it shouldn’t be weird at all.
Still, I already know I’m too buzzed to get any sleep tonight.
I spend the whole night lying awake thinking about how wild it is to be in Dami’s house, in bed next to Max.
The next morning, I’m scrolling mindlessly on my phone with the frenzied zombie stare of someone who has barely closed their eyes, when I see an email from Shout Box inviting me for an interview.
“Oh my God!” I squeal, forgetting how early it is. Suddenly I’m wide awake despite not getting a wink of sleep. My body is flooded with adrenaline. I gently shake Max. “Max! Max!”
“Mmm.” He rolls over, rubbing his eyes.
“I got an interview! On THURSDAY!”
“Mmm?”
I give him a second to wake up. “A real-life interview for a real-life job I actually like the sound of and could actually be good at!”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, it’s at the entertainment agency I was talking about last night.
The one Margaret gave me the reference for.
I’d be marketing and doing lots of stuff I already know how to do but .
. . for films and stuff. Actual, proper films and TV shows.
Look at this list.” I sound breathless as I’m talking.
I scroll through the long list of productions they’ve worked on, some of which I know Max has seen and liked.
“That’s cool,” he says. It’s not disingenuous, but there’s a noticeable lack of animation in his voice. Then he gets out of bed and goes to the bathroom.
His reaction is a bit disappointing. All the enthusiasm I’ve shown for Max’s career over the years flashes through my mind.
All the freezing-cold galleries I stood around in until my feet hurt, pretending I liked the bizarre photography I didn’t really get.
The countless celebratory drinks we’ve had after he landed a job.
The hours spent looking through film after film and helping him decide which shot he liked best. The cheerleading, the interest, the support.
And all I get is “that’s cool”? I know I’m not exactly a globe-trotting photographer like he is—it’s just an interview, I haven’t even got the job—but this is a big deal for me.
Then I shake myself. I’m being stupid. Of course Max is supportive of me.
He’s listened to me complain about We Work, You Win more than I’ve listened to stories of his work successes.
He’s always there to hear me moan about my awful dates and laugh about them with me.
He’s always there to cheer me up when I accidentally eat my mum’s fancy yogurt and she goes batshit crazy. Max is there for me more than anybody.
But I can’t help thinking of what Dami said the other night, about partners taking the bad with the good, rather than just wanting the bad .
. . Max is very sympathetic when things are going badly for me.
But can I think of a single example of when he’s encouraged me or been pleased about something going well?
Is it possible that Max is more interested in Messy Becky, Drunk Becky, Sad Becky, Desperate Becky than he is in any other kind of Becky?
He comes back into the room, fully dressed.
He smiles at me and my paranoia dissipates.
Of course Max doesn’t want me to be miserable.
This is Max. I can’t think of any examples of him being pleased about things going well for me because .
. . well, hardly anything has in a long time.
He was probably just sleepy because he’d only just woken up.
What kind of reaction do I expect when someone is barely conscious?
“Are you leaving?” I ask.
“Yeah, I’ve got to get back to the flat to sort a few things.” “Fran?” I ask.
He nods.
“Yeah, she’s just collecting her stuff. There’s not that much as she’d only brought some of it. But it just felt like a dick move to not be there, you know?”
I nod.
“Then, the magazine guys are pretty pissed with me for leaving early,” he says. “So I need to go and cobble together what I’ve got and convince them I really did get enough material.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling instantly guilty. He left Paris for me and now he’s in trouble. I don’t ask any more questions. “Well, good luck. Hope it all goes OK.”
“Bye, Becky.” He picks up his camera bag and heads toward the door. “Call you later?”
“Yeah.” I wonder again if it’s weird that we didn’t kiss, last night or this morning. And again, I tell myself it’s fine, that it will just take time to adjust.
He leaves. I sit on the bed soaking up the silence.
Last night I felt so happy, and this morning I feel oddly unsettled.
I’m not sure if it’s the lack of sleep or that Max is gone or what.
But eventually I make myself get up and start preparing for my interview.
My Interview. I try to remind myself to be excited, to bring back the energy I felt only fifteen minutes ago seeing the email pop up.
I was twenty-four the last time I had a successful interview. Twenty-four. I can barely remember it. I can’t for the life of me recall what I was asked or how I responded. I just remember staring intently at Margaret’s furry gloves.
I google some bullshit interview questions.
How would your coworkers describe you? .
. . Inconspicuous? What is your greatest professional achievement?
Avoiding my turn on the kitchen rota three times in a row?
Tell me about a time you demonstrated leadership skills?
One time someone did a really foul-smelling shit in the sixth-floor loos and I sent an all-staff email warning everyone to give it an hour?
I cannot think of a recent good answer off the top of my head.
I spend all of Tuesday and Wednesday scraping together passable achievements from when I first started at the company, and thinking about how best to phrase them.
Phil helps me do mock interviews in the evenings.
By the end of Wednesday night I’m as prepared as I’m ever going to be.
The night before the interview, I’m watching more Sopranos with Dami and Phil, trying to take my mind off how nervous I feel, when my phone buzzes. I assume it’s Max, but I look down to see Angie’s name. She replied to me. The sight of her name on my screen again is wonderful.
Hey, thanks <3 Heard you have a big interview tomorrow. Good luck. Ax
ps love you too x
My face breaks into a huge grin. With everything she’s got going on—that’s partially because of me—she still cares about how my interview goes.
Dami peers coyly at my phone and smiles. I assume she knows it’s Angie. She must have told her about the interview and they probably discussed at length whether Angie was feeling ready to reply to me.
“I think I’m going to go to bed,” I announce, even though it’s only ten o’clock. “I’m shattered. And I want to get a good night’s rest.”
“Yeah, you wanna be fresh,” agrees Phil, without looking away from the TV.
“Night, babe.” Dami reaches for my hand and squeezes it as I pass her. “If I don’t see you in the morning, good luck!”
“Thanks. Night.”
But when I get upstairs, I don’t go to bed until I’ve worked out exactly what I want to say to my friend.