15. Cole
Cole
Friday night rolls round and my kitchen is filled with the smell of tomatoes and garlic.
The lasagne is cooking on low in the oven and the wine is breathing on the side.
I can’t shake off the slight nerves that are jangling in my stomach.
It feels like the stakes are high and I don’t really know why.
I can’t wait to have Sloane in my space. I live in a large, airy flat near the river that used to be a warehouse. It’s all exposed brick and open spaces, which suits me down to a tee. It also houses my studio, where I do my design work and a bit of painting when inspiration strikes.
Bang on time – i.e. twenty minutes after I told him to get here – Freddie arrives and lets himself in.
He’s had a key for years, and lived here briefly when he was in between flats.
I never asked for the key back, so he just lets himself in when he comes by.
There are so many of these little shorthands in our friendship, and I always feel a little ping of happiness when I hear his key in the lock.
“Smells amazing!” he calls, arriving in the kitchen with a Tesco bag in hand. “I brought dessert!”
He plonks the bag down and I peer into it.
“You brought Rolo yoghurts?”
“Rolo desserts ,” he corrects.
“You brought Rolo desserts?”
“Yes, I figured that our American might never have tried this childhood staple. I won’t hear your snobbery about it. You know it’s a god-tier dessert.”
“I spent an hour and a half making lasagne – including béchamel sauce from scratch – and we are chasing it with Rolo yoghurts , Freddie?”
“They’re desserts , Cole. Look at the packet. I didn’t have a lot of time, ok? And I wasn’t sure what Sloane would like. I also brought wine, if it helps?” He pulls out a bottle of Barolo and my irritation wanes a tiny bit. It’s a very nice red.
“You are ridiculous,” I say, taking the wine and admiring the label. “Only you would bring an ultra-processed pudding aimed at children to a date night.”
He gives me an impish smile.
“I could go get something else?” he offers, just as the doorbell goes.
She’s here .
“Don’t worry,” I sigh. “Sloane may as well know what she’s in for when it comes to you.” I stride over to the door and buzz her in.
She arrives moments later and the atmosphere in the flat shifts instantly, as if the walls themselves heave an inward breath as she appears. She’s in a scarlet, flowy jumpsuit, her creamy skin framed by tiny sparkles.
Her full lips match her outfit and her hair is up in a messy bun, jet-black tendrils framing her slender neck. Her bluey grey eyes are lined with black, dramatic cat flicks at the edges. She looks like she belongs on a stage, not standing in the entry to my flat in Wapping.
Freddie’s mouth is hanging open as he looks her up and down, and after a beat where no one talks, she pulls a face.
“Is it too much?” She glances down at her outfit and instantly we both rush to correct her.
“You look stunning?—”
“Fucking hell, babe?—”
We talk over each other and she laughs.
“Ok, ok,” she says, with a warm smile before holding up a bottle. “I brought some fizz. It’s only Prosecco, but it’s a good one. It’s still cold, if you want to pop it now?”
I take it from her and grab some glasses.
“Dinner will be twenty minutes. I’ll get these sorted if you want to make yourself at home.” I gesture to the sofa, and Freddie offers her an arm.
“An escort to walk ten paces? My, my, what a gentleman,” she drawls, putting on a Southern accent, much to Freddie’s delight.
“Only the finest for you, princess,” he replies in an exaggerated lilt, tipping an imaginary cowboy hat. She laughs, shaking her head.
“Ok, please never attempt that accent again. It was borderline offensive.”
Freddie grins and I hand them both glasses as we all take our seats.
“This place is beautiful,” Sloane remarks, taking in the flat. “You own it?”
I nod. “Been here for a few years now. My grandfather bought it when they started converting the old warehouses in the ‘80s, then left it to me in his will.”
“Oh, I’m sorry for your loss. Were you close?”
“Very. He was more like a dad than a grandfather, really.” I leave it there, not wanting to get into the rest of it over the first glass of Prosecco. My parents have been largely absent since they left me in my grandad’s care at the age of fifteen. Last I heard, they were living in Singapore.
“He clearly had great taste in real estate.”
I nod.
“My dad’s an arsehole,” Freddie supplies cheerfully, reaching over to top up her glass.
Sloane laughs. “Mine too.”
“Yeah?” He clinks his glass to hers. “Mine walked out for cigarettes when I was a baby. Never came back. The biggest cliché of them all.”
“God. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I've got the best mum in the world. She more than makes up for it.”
“He’s not wrong,” I say. “Carol basically adopted me too.”
Sloane looks between us. “She sounds awesome.” Something crosses her face – just for a second – before she reaches for her glass. “Did you guys recover from Slick Love ok? Or are you still finding oil in places I don’t want to know about?”
“Don’t you?” Freddie quips, giving her a smirk.
“Don’t I what?”
“Want to know about them? Because I want to know about all your places.”
I roll my eyes. “This is the problem with dating like this. Now I have to be exposed to Freddie’s absolutely terrible chat. I can’t believe you’ve been getting laid all these years based on lines like that.”
He has the good humour to fake some outrage.
“How dare you? I’ve got great game. More importantly, I have the skills to back it up. Right, Sloane?” He winks at her, and she can’t help but chuckle.
“You’ve got skills, I’ll give you that. But your chat is terrible.”
“You wound me, woman.” He clutches his chest dramatically.
“She’s here, isn’t she? So you can’t be all bad,” I offer.
The timer pings on my phone.
“Dinner smells amazing,” Sloane calls as I rise and duck into the kitchen and get the lasagne out to rest.
“I did a cooking course in Italy a few years ago, and lasagne is the recipe I loved the most,” I reply, returning to the sofa.
“Because it’s layered, just like you?” deadpans Freddie, causing me to elbow him. My elbow merely bounces off his abs as he laughs.
“No, I like it because there is order. There are component parts that are all delicious, but when they come together, they're spectacular.”
There’s a beat of silence as I reach for my wine.
“A beautiful melding of different flavours and textures, then,” adds Sloane, with a sparkle of mischief.
“Fucking delicious is what it is,” declares Freddie, leaning over the table to top up everyone’s fizz. “But just wait till you see what I brought for pudding.”
An hour later, we’ve all stuffed ourselves with lasagne and garlic bread. The red wine that Freddie brought paired beautifully, and I’m pretty sure I outdid myself on the béchamel.
“I can’t move,” Sloane groans, patting her stomach. “I may need a lie-down.”
“Cole’s got a super king,” says Freddie. “Just saying.”
“You can’t help yourself, can you?” I say, shaking my head.
“Nope!” He replies, popping the ‘p’.
“So, what do you boys do for fun? Because I know you’re not regulars at Salt.”
“Well, I like to read and run,” Freddie explains. “And I work out a lot – but that’s actually more for my brain than my body. I have ADHD, and it helps me regulate my energy and be able to focus.”
I feel a rush of pride for him. Just a couple of years ago, he was a bit embarrassed by his late ADHD diagnosis.
He was incredibly hesitant to tell people in case they thought he was making excuses.
I remember telling him it wasn't an excuse; it’s the reality of how his brain is wired. I think he’s made peace with it now.
“I mean, I didn’t think a body like yours came without a few hours in the gym,” Sloane grins, as Freddie visibly puffs up with pride.
“Oh, you’ve been thinking about my body, have you?”
“Calm down, pretty boy. You might have left an impression. And you, Cole? Are you a gym rat too?”
“I’m not much for the gym,” I confess. “I prefer cycling, and even then I don’t get out on my bike much.”
“Tell her about your painting,” says Freddie. I feel myself blush. I don’t really talk about my painting much, because it’s just something I do for fun. Only a handful of people even know it’s a hobby for me.
“Oh, erm, I paint a little from time to time. I’m a graphic designer for work, but my degree was actually fine art, so it’s my original love. Just silly stuff, really.”
“It’s not silly,” Freddie argues, and I feel a flush of happiness at his insistence. He’s always been supportive of me, but I didn’t really think he was that invested. “It’s really fucking cool. But he’s too shy to show anyone, so it all just gathers dust in his studio.”
Sloane studies me for a moment. “Well, I’d love to see it if you ever fancy showing a fresh pair of eyes.” She smiles, and I bask in the glow of it. She can be every bit as extroverted as Freddie, but I sense a softness in her too. Something a little bit vulnerable. I return her smile.
“Maybe someday,” I reply, shrugging.
“Right, I have a genius idea,” says Freddie, breaking the spell. “Who’s up for strip poker?”