The Wedding Game

CHAPTER ELEVEN

‘A farmer? A real one?’ Hours later Scarlet echoes the exact words that I spoke to Josh, when she walks through the door after a day spent shopping and I tell her how my date went.

‘It was the oddest date I’ve been on in ages,’ I reflect.

‘It’s the only date you’ve been on in ages,’ Scarlet points out. ‘Why was it odd?’

I pause and think. ‘I’m not really sure. I just felt odd. But good odd … you know?’

She gives me a curious look. ‘Do you like him?’

I think about this for a second. I do like Josh, and getting to know him is going at a slower pace than the quick-fire Big Talk way I’ve got to know Chris. I’ve got the luxury of time with Josh, but I’m in a bit of a quandary because I like Chris too. So much.

I wondered … what if?

Me too.

‘Yeah,’ I say slowly, thinking about it. ‘I do like Josh.’

‘And you like him despite the fact he lives in a part of the country you’d never heard of?’ Scarlet teases with a roar of laughter, following it with, ‘I can’t believe you thought Somerset was a London borough.’

‘He caught me off-guard. I wasn’t expecting to be told he lives in the Cotswolds or the West Country, or whatever you call it.’

‘Nice part of the world,’ Scarlet says absently. ‘Lots of celebs live there. Went to a wedding there once.’

‘I’ve never been,’ I tell her.

‘You might get the chance,’ she replies. ‘You might end up shacking up with a farmer … Stranger things have happened.’

‘I doubt it. It’s probably a two-date thing,’ I say. Although I’m reminded of that kiss and how lovely Josh is, and handsome, and rugged … in a farmer-way that makes sense, now I know he is indeed a farmer.

‘When are you seeing him next?’ she asks.

‘Saturday. He’s going to stay overnight in a hotel.’

Scarlet’s eyes widen and a knowing smile crosses her face. ‘ Is he now?’

‘I won’t be going back there with him after our date.’

‘We’ll see,’ she replies.

I’m at my desk at my temp job on Friday afternoon – or, rather, I’m at someone else’s desk covering their annual leave – manning the phones and cobbling together security badges and lanyards yet again. It’s at a not-so-busy office block in the City, where each floor is rented out to different companies and it’s interesting watching all the various people coming and going.

Actually it’s not interesting at all, and that’s why I’m discreetly scrolling through interior design courses on the computer in front of me. All the scrolling and clicking makes me look busy, which is one thing, I suppose. I’m overwhelmed by how many courses there are and how many are spread across London at various ‘creative’ campuses. And as if the confusion wasn’t enough, they are eye-wateringly expensive, if I want to attend either in person or from home. After about an hour of research and taking notes about prices and colleges, I close the browser. Being an interior designer felt more like a possibility yesterday than it does today. This just doesn’t feel feasible for me at the minute, financially or time-wise, if I’m going to work at the same time.

A dream is a dream for a reason, I suppose. Maybe it’s best to keep it that way.

My phone dings, and it’s Josh asking if I’m still on for our date tomorrow evening. I answer immediately. We’ve been texting back and forth a little bit here and there through the week. It’s slow, casual, easy.

The same can be said of Chris, as he messaged and we picked up our conversation straight away, comparing art we like, films we hate, books we own, but haven’t read. I can’t text back quickly enough and I feel my face form an easy smile whenever one of his messages lands on my screen. But when Josh’s messages arrive, I feel heightened too – in a good way.

On Monday evening I thanked Josh for a lovely date the previous day and then followed it up with a request for a picture of him on his farm. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I got a very early-morning selfie on Tuesday of Josh fitting some kind of contraption to a cow’s udders. I was hoping for a pic of him chopping wood or something equally sexy. I think I’ve misjudged what goes on in a farmer’s world. I had no idea how to reply to the photo he sent, and instead focused on the presence of his morning stubble. And then on Wednesday I sent him a selfie of me at work, because my life is so utterly boring it was either that or a selfie of me walking to work.

I’ve got one week left in this temp job and I haven’t been booked for the week after yet, so I need to make a point of nudging recruiters again. But first … I reply to Josh.

What shall we do?

What do you want to do? he asks. Just when I’m thinking this might be a little unimaginative, Josh types, OK … tomorrow evening, dinner, obviously. And then on Sunday – you mentioned Kensington Palace last time … shall we give that a go? A picnic and a palace?

I smile because I can’t think of anything better. Later he suggests that for our dinner we meet at a restaurant named Daphne’s in Chelsea. I practically skip home at the end of my working day.

It’s only the next evening, as I’m readying myself to leave the flat for our date, that I work out that tonight and tomorrow morning means two dates back-to-back, and I’m honestly not sure what to do about this. Should I demurely say goodbye to Josh after dinner this evening and then bundle myself back to the far side of town, to meet him again for our palace picnic on Sunday?

‘You should pack an overnight bag and go with the flow,’ Scarlet tells me.

‘Really? Feels a bit … you know,’ I reply.

‘Yes, it does,’ she says excitedly. ‘But also investigative. Because if he’s crap in bed, then you don’t have to keep waiting around all week for a farmer from the West Country to make it back into London at the end of the working week. You can get rid of him early on.’

‘Hmm,’ I ponder.

‘Just enjoy yourself,’ she tells me. ‘See where it leads. Don’t put pressure on anything, and if you end up back here tonight, so be it.’

The restaurant is filled with fresh seasonal flowers on every table and in open urn-style vases around the walls – bright dahlias, clematis and big blowsy heads of hydrangeas in varying shades of purples, reds and pinks. Above us is foliage, which I suspect is fresh rather than synthetic, and there’s an archway leading towards a conservatory area filled with more fresh flowers. It must cost them a fortune to keep the place looking like this. Waiters in matching green suit jackets move around effortlessly and it’s as if the restaurant has fallen out of a bygone era and into modern-day London. I love it.

‘This is so pretty,’ I tell Josh immediately as I greet him at our table. The wide bifold glass doors are open at the front of the restaurant where we’re sitting and the evening sunlight filters down onto us, as conversations from nearby tables and those positioned just outside on the pavement merge into one, while Chelsea locals walk past with large handbags and small dogs.

‘Hi.’ Josh stands to greet me, kissing me on my cheek, the roughness of his stubble grazing my face, but not unpleasantly so. He smells of fresh earth and countryside. I inhale him. ‘I’m glad you like the restaurant,’ he says. ‘I asked a friend for a recommendation and this was it.’

‘You don’t supply the beef here too then?’ I ask with a sideways smile.

‘Afraid not,’ he replies. ‘Which means you’re not obliged to order it and enthuse madly over it, if you don’t want to.’

‘I won’t then,’ I say, although I haven’t even looked at the menu. I can’t stop looking at Josh; his button-down shirt is rolled up at the arms and his chinos look totally in place in this neat part of London. And yet he still looks effortless. All ability to make conversation has left my body and I still don’t know what to say. I’m saved by a green-blazered waiter offering us water and asking for our drinks order. Today feels like an ice-cold white wine kind of day, as the weather has picked back up again, which is encouraging given that September will be here soon. Josh leaves me to choose. I opt for a Sancerre, checking with him if the price is OK, and he seems very at ease with what are – to me – hefty sums.

I often wonder what people do for a living to be able to afford to eat in places like this. Being a farmer obviously pays Josh well enough that he doesn’t bat an eyelid at ￡70 bottles of wine. I glance around. What does everyone else do , to afford all this? Presumably none of them are temping while secretly wishing they had a job that was more creative.

We talk for a while about our weeks, and Josh’s sounds like it’s been … intense: waking early to feed the cattle and then attend to jobs around the farm. ‘Checking pipes and troughs for breakages, making sure the animals are well, milking.’

‘What time do you go to bed?’ I ask when he finishes. ‘If you have to get up at five-thirty?’

‘Nine p.m., latest,’ he says and I wince. That’s unsociably early. ‘I’ve tried later and I’m a mess the next morning,’ he continues. ‘Thankfully, I don’t have to get up early for work tomorrow, so I’m all yours for a bit longer.’

‘Nine p.m., though – my evening’s only just getting started after I’ve got in my ten thousand steps or snuck in an occasional yoga class.’

‘Farming is my cardio,’ Josh replies. ‘Imagine I told you I lived in London and got up at that time and went to the gym. It’s sort of the same.’

I make an I’m not sure about that kind of noise. ‘How on earth did you become a farmer?’ I ask as the waiter returns and takes our food orders, topping up our chilled wine.

‘The route of most farmers: I was born into it. It was my grandfather’s and then my father’s farm, but he’s retired now. He and my mum moved out in order to truly retire. Living at the farmhouse and working on the farm – it’s like living above the shop. So now it’s only me. And I’ve stayed put, other than a stint at agricultural college to learn more modern techniques, and then uni. Although experience is everything, and my dad’s still just down the road for help and advice. I’ve been running the place on my own for so long that I feel at ease, though, comfortable with what I’m doing and how I’m doing it. My best mate works with me and is helping me to diversify. We’re branching out from beef and the obvious dairy supplies, and are producing our own ice cream now too and … Sorry, am I going on a bit? I’ve just realised I might be.’

‘No,’ I reply honestly, straightening up, encouraging Josh. ‘You’re not. I think it’s wonderful. I’m kind of in awe. Ice cream sounds brilliant. How many of you work there?’

‘I’ve got a team of four, and we’re more of a family than a workforce. Known each other for years now. We’re happy to do pub quizzes as a team at the end of a long week, rather than stride off and not see each other again for forty-eight hours.’

‘Sounds like the dream working environment.’

Josh laughs. ‘I’m pleased I’m making it sound that way. It’s hard work. Doesn’t leave much time for anything else.’

I ponder this for a moment as our starters arrive. ‘Do you get lonely?’

‘I don’t really have the time or the energy to get lonely, but I guess if I think about it … maybe.’

‘Not too much time for romance?’

He smiles, shakes his head. ‘Not really.’

I smile back. The universe is strange. The way Josh and I met was strange. The way Chris and I met was strange.

Being with Josh, here, like this, is easy. His gaze connects meaningfully with mine, and I have to really work hard to fight the overwhelming urge to lean forward and kiss him.

We’re politely ushered away from our table at the end of the meal as we’ve been there for hours, and we decide to prop up the bar at the restaurant instead of lingering at the table, which they clearly want to start clearing away. We decide to order cocktails from the bartender, even though it’s verging on 10 p.m.

‘This is past my bedtime,’ Josh jokes, stifling a yawn.

‘I’m a little sleepy too,’ I say as we read the cocktail menu. ‘And I’ve got nothing like your excuse. Your job is intense. Mine ends in a week.’

‘No signs of anything new?’ Josh asks as we both order the signature Daphne’s Martini.

‘Sadly not.’

‘Something will come up,’ he tells me as we watch our drinks being mixed.

‘I’m sure it will,’ I reply with a positivity I don’t feel.

We drink our cocktails and then order one more each while the restaurant slowly empties out. When we take the hint that it’s time for us to move on and let the hard-working restaurant staff go home to their beds, we stand in the street, not knowing how to end the date.

Josh automatically turns, presumably in the direction of his hotel, and I walk with him, my overnight belongings rolled up tightly in one of the larger handbags I own. Josh’s hand finds mine and we walk and talk about the many differences between London and Somerset. He pauses for a few moments and then laughs uproariously after I confess that I honestly thought Somerset was a London borough when he first mentioned it.

‘Really?’ he eventually manages to say when he’s stopped laughing. I’m giggling along with him and tell him what I’d told Scarlet.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘One of those areas you never hear about, like …’ I grasp for London suburbs, ‘Hillingdon or Bexley,’ I finish.

‘Are they in London?’ Josh asks. ‘I’m going to have to take your word for it.’

‘See?’ I say. ‘See? Easily done.’

‘This is me,’ Josh says as we reach the end of the road. I look up to find we’re at the entrance to his boutique hotel, with white Georgian architecture, sash windows and candles flickering in lanterns placed on each step.

‘Oh, this is lovely.’ This is either the end of the date or the start of something else entirely, depending on what happens next.

‘Do you …?’ Josh starts. ‘Do you …?’

‘Do I?’ I tease.

‘I’m not very good at this,’ he confesses, dragging a hand over his forehead and through his hair in obvious despair. ‘I don’t know what’s too forward and what’s lagging behind. If I invite you up for coffee, is that the lamest thing you’ve ever heard?’ He doesn’t let me speak. ‘But if I don’t invite you in and I just say “bye”, then …’

‘Then?’ I could save him, but I want to hear everything he wishes to say.

‘Then I look really disinterested, which I’m not, and … You have quite the journey home, don’t you? Then you have to make that same journey again tomorrow, if you still want to see me again for our palace-and-picnic plans? Oh, hang on, do you want to see me tomorrow?’ he asks. ‘It’s fine if you don’t want to – come in, that is – and also see me tomorrow and …’

‘Josh?’

‘Yeah?’ He looks concerned.

‘Be quiet.’ I tip my head up and kiss him.

His kiss is warm and his hands find my back, guiding my body gently towards his as we kiss in the street. In one hand I’m holding my bag – heavy with my overnight belongings – and my other hand has reached up to touch his face as our kiss becomes just the wrong side of acceptable for this public space. It’s me who breaks away first, slowly, reluctantly.

Josh’s eyes open and he glances around sheepishly. ‘Shall we …?’ he asks tentatively. ‘Do you want to …?’

‘Come in for coffee?’ I tease and he laughs. ‘Yes, please,’ I say, answering my own question. ‘Yes, please,’ is my new motto. I’m saying yes to things, pushing my life on. There’s no pressure. We don’t have to see each other again if it doesn’t work out. It’s only sex. It’s a trial run. I’ve spent far too long playing it safe. I’m bloody going for it – it starts now.

We walk hand-in-hand through the lobby and I avoid embarrassing eye contact with the receptionist, while Josh replies warmly to her greeting. He hits the lift button with full force while I try not to draw attention to us, by purposefully not kissing him here, even though I want to. There’s nothing remotely sexy about standing in a lobby, pretending to be disinterested. But somehow it feels sexy. It’s the intention behind what us being in this lobby means.

Josh stares straight ahead, a smile on his face, and I do the same until the lift doors open and we enter: two ordinary people returning to a hotel room after dinner. Then the lift doors close and it’s all I can do not to jump into his arms and wrap my legs around him in this confined space. He turns into me and kisses me again, and I’m backed up against the mirror as Josh’s body presses into mine. The lift doors open at the first floor, surprising us both, and a couple stares at us, uncertain if they want to get in. Josh and I spring apart and they look away embarrassed, stay in the hallway, let the lift doors close. I laugh and so does Josh.

‘That was awkward,’ I splutter.

‘More awkward if they’d have got in the lift.’

‘True,’ I mumble as Josh’s mouth finds mine again. The doors reopen at the second floor and Josh takes my hand, fumbling in his pocket for his key card. And then we’re inside his room, all muted tones of grey and beige.

‘Ooh, this is nice,’ I say, automatically scanning the room. ‘I mean it’s very predictable for a hotel, and they could have done so much more with …’ I turn and look at Josh, who’s smiling at me. ‘Sorry,’ I giggle. I actually giggle. Who is this girl who goes into hotel rooms with a man she’s only met a few times before? This is the girl who kissed Josh at a wedding in order to win a game of bingo. Perhaps this girl needed to get over herself, after a disastrous relationship and endless shit first dates. I like this girl. I think kissing Josh is the best decision I ever made.

‘Do you …?’ Josh asks yet again.

‘Are you going to ask me if I want coffee again?’

‘Yeah, I was going to.’

‘No. No to coffee,’ I tell him. ‘Not right now.’

Neither of us moves, and I can’t tell if Josh is wondering who he is, this guy who barely has time to date, but has managed to get a woman into his hotel room on a second proper date. We move towards each other. Just when I think he’s about to kiss me, he lifts me up – actually lifts me up – and carries me towards the bed. He deposits me gently on it while he kicks off his shoes, and I do the same. And then I’m sitting up, undoing his shirt for him as Josh wrestles with his buckle before starting on my dress.

His body is a warm tanned colour all over, as if the sun reaches him through the confines of his work clothes. There are way too many buttons on my dress, but eventually I wriggle out of it, which is awkward to do. Then it starts feeling so natural and easy to be with him as we move together on the bed, Josh sitting against the headboard, nestled among the pillows. Without thinking, I move on top of him. Is it possible for sex to be both gentle and frenzied? If so, then I think we nail it, as he pulls my knickers to the side and I lower myself onto him. He moans into my mouth as I move up and down on him – his hands guiding my body into a rhythm until we’re moaning louder and harder, our pace quickening and deepening. My hair falls around my shoulders, coming undone at the same moment that I do and then, seconds later, so does Josh.

We stay like that, pressed together, my forehead on his shoulder as my breathing regulates, and then he lifts my head, finding my neck with his mouth, and plants soft kisses onto my clavicle, my shoulder, the space behind my ear, making me moan again. My eyes close as I feel him harden once more inside me and instinctively I move again. I can’t help myself. Who is this person? I’ve never had sex twice in a row before. I never thought I could. My eyes find Josh, who looks just as intense as I do. His fingers dip to the space in between us, and then his thumb finds me and he strokes me gently as I move.

I murmur something encouraging and it spurs him on as his thumb rolls against me faster and faster. I think I call his name, and then I fall against him once again as the full force of everything between us magics a second orgasm out of me.

I rest against Josh, my eyes opening and closing in shock against his shoulder.

‘Your eyelashes are tickling me,’ he whispers into my hair.

I lift my head, stare at him. ‘Are you a magician?’

‘What?’ he splutters.

‘I’ve never done that before,’ I tell him.

His eyes widen. ‘Sex?’ he questions. ‘I suspect that’s a lie, because you’re very good at it.’

‘Thank you, but … I came twice. I’ve never— That’s never happened …’ I trail off, still in total bafflement, which ushers a low chuckle from him. I look at Josh and ask where the hell he’s been my whole life?

‘On a farm in Somerset,’ he says in amusement.

‘I thought two orgasms in a row was the preserve of people in certain types of films … who fake it,’ I say, more to myself than to Josh. I move off him, sit up next to him in bed and pull the duvet over us both. He turns to look at me and obviously doesn’t know what to say, either, but he seems fairly chuffed with himself. He should be. He’s achieved with me what no other man has managed to do. This is momentous – for me at least.

I can’t help it; the endorphins rushing through me are out of this world, so I reach up, touch his face and usher him towards me, so I can kiss him again. I have no idea how long we stay like that for, in his super-king-size hotel bed, but at some point we fall asleep.

When I wake up in the morning, it’s to the smell of fresh coffee and the sound of the hotel door closing, a waiter instructing him to enjoy his breakfast. Josh, in his hotel bathrobe, wheels a breakfast trolley into the room.

‘Room service,’ he says. ‘Two full English breakfasts, pastry basket, toast and a fancy-looking fruit plate full of,’ he peers at the plate, ‘I’m not sure what.’

‘You’re amazing,’ I say.

He smiles shyly. ‘Thanks.’ He pours me a coffee and hands it to me. I inhale the aroma and sip it.

This man is incredible. He’s made me come twice and has ordered everything on the room-service menu. If Scarlet was here (which would be weird), she would tell me not to give way to emotional highs after sex, or during sex, or before sex. We’ll unpack all of this together later.

Josh sits on the edge of the bed and starts taking all the silver domes off the rest of the food. He looks good in a robe. He looks even better out of it. I sit alongside him, sipping my coffee and feeling pretty strange being naked next to a man whose own modesty is covered. I slip off to the bathroom, find the spare robe and return. We eat ravenously, talking about everything and anything. He tells me he’s a single child, and we have that in common. He talks about his mum and dad and what they do now they don’t run the farm. He tells me how in love they still are and how he wants that for himself some day.

‘They met when they were young and it just worked out … you know?’

I nod. ‘When you know, you know,’ I reply flippantly as I start on the fruit plate. But there’s nothing flippant in that at all – not really. ‘True love is hard to find. Sometimes it’s right under your nose and sometimes it can take a long time to find it,’ I say, a bit more articulately. And then I think about what I’ve said, if it might ever apply to me.

Josh nods, ponders for a minute and starts tucking into his eggs. ‘What about your parents?’ he asks.

I make a face. ‘Divorced, sadly. They’re happier now than when they were together, though. Now they’re with other people and are better off as friends. But it took them twenty-five years to work that out.’

‘Then perhaps they just weren’t right,’ he says helpfully, and I can only agree.

‘Exactly. I’m a grown-up, so I’m grateful they divorced when I was old enough to understand the ups and downs of relationships.’

Josh touches my lip, removes a tiny piece of croissant. His touch does so many things to me.

We finish our breakfast, wrapping the remaining croissants and Danish pastries in linen napkins, so we can take them to the park as a snack for later. We shower and dress, and Josh checks out and pays his bill before we venture into Kensington Palace Gardens. The sun’s shining, but I notice – now we’re heading towards slightly shorter days –that its strength is starting to weaken.

‘I feel bad about stealing these napkins,’ Josh confesses as we follow a path towards the boating lake.

‘Do you really?’ I ask.

He chuckles. ‘No, not really.’

We walk idly and his hand slips into mine. Instead of taking a boat out on the water we continue to walk happily, working off our breakfast. We stand in front of Kensington Palace and look up at it together, before Josh gallantly purchases both our tickets and we go in.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever been here before,’ Josh says as we take in the ornate ceilings and furniture, looking at Queen Victoria’s childhood items.

I feel like a grown-up, doing something like this. I’ve never been on a date to a palace before. I glance at Josh as he spends a moment looking at a portrait of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert together, and I realise this weekend is full of unexpected firsts.

Queen Victoria’s childhood doll’s house is on display and I’m fascinated by all the tiny furniture, the miniature decorations and the intricate chandeliers.

Josh wanders over, bends down to kneel alongside me as we peer in together. ‘Thinking of all the things you’d do to it, if you could redecorate?’

I laugh. ‘Yeah, I’d rip out all this Victorian crap, for a start,’ I say, which elicits a horrified gasp from an American tourist next to us.

‘All those frilly cushions and doilies?’ Josh asks as we share a knowing smile.

‘They’d be the first to go,’ I reply, playing along.

‘Replace them with fake plants and Ikea furniture?’

‘Obviously,’ I say. ‘Actually I’m more into working with what’s already there. This is the problem,’ I say, more to myself. ‘I don’t think I have a particular style. I see what’s in situ and what can be kept that will look effortless and comfortable but is also in keeping with the style and age of a building or a room.’

‘Why’s that a problem?’ Josh asks, rising.

‘I don’t know,’ I reply as I stand up. ‘Maybe it’s not. Maybe I need to find out.’

Minutes later we’re in the gift shop, playing a game of ‘Guess how much this is?’ I’m holding up a Christmas-tree ornament; it’s in the shape of a mantua dress, embroidered with ivory and gold beads.

Josh looks at it and then at me. ‘Ten pounds.’

‘I wish it was ten pounds,’ I reply.

He narrows his eyes, looks thoughtfully at it. ‘Thirty pounds.’

‘Higher.’

His eyebrows raise. ‘Higher than thirty? For a tree decoration?’

‘Much higher.’

‘Who buys this stuff?’ he asks, as the American who took umbrage at our interior-design chat steps forward to look at the range of decorations.

I put Josh out of his misery. ‘It’s sixty pounds.’

‘Wow!’ he says. ‘That’s a really decent bottle of wine.’

I give him a look. ‘Or, if you’re me, that’s six bottles of decent wine.’

Josh smiles. ‘I’m having fun.’

‘Me too. Where next?’

We emerge into the sunlight, where a vendor is selling Pimm’s with fruit and cucumber trimmings and gourmet packets of crisps. Josh orders for us both, and we walk through the parkland again until we find a spot in the sunshine and settle ourselves on the grass, talking about the most random things we saw today and opening up our strange picnic of croissants, pastries, crisps and Pimm’s.

‘I really like you,’ Josh confesses out of nowhere as we finish eating.

My heart has just picked up pace. ‘I really like you too,’ I say. It’s date number three, I tell myself. Or still date two, if we’re being technical about it. Don’t go too quickly. Don’t ruin it, Lexie. It’s too soon with Josh, and only a fortnight ago you were considering getting on a plane with another man. I wonder what Chris is doing right now? Things have moved on so unexpectedly quickly with Josh that it feels wrong to think about messaging Chris now.

‘So I’ve been thinking,’ Josh says.

And I wonder if he’s about to ruin it. If he’s about to say something silly, so I lean forward to kiss him, surprising him.

‘What was that for?’ he asks when we break loose.

‘I don’t want to go too fast,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t want to wreck it.’

He frowns. ‘OK,’ he says slowly. ‘I mean, we’ve already slept together and so … I’m not really sure what else would be going quicker than that? I’m not about to propose or anything,’ he jokes.

‘No, we’re way past the seventeen-minute sweet spot,’ I say.

‘Pardon?’

‘Nothing,’ I reply. ‘Ignore me.’ I wish I hadn’t said that. It was neither appropriate nor funny. Josh doesn’t deserve me thinking of Chris. I instruct myself to stop immediately.

He continues. ‘I was wondering … if you wanted to come and visit me for our next date?’

‘Oh,’ I say and then, longer, ‘Ohhh.’

‘I can’t tell if you like this idea or hate it?’ Josh says uncertainly.

‘In the London borough of Somerset?’ I ask.

‘Ha! Exactly.’

‘When? How?’

‘Next weekend and by train.’

‘Ohhh,’ I draw out again, not thinking this through at all. ‘Yeah, OK.’ I smile as the implications of this swirl around my mind. ‘You’re inviting me to stay at your house?’

He nods. ‘Is that OK?’

My smile widens and it’s my turn to nod. ‘You’re inviting me to stay at your house,’ I repeat. ‘In Somerset?’ This feels huge. Although if he lived in London, it wouldn’t have felt huge at all. If he’d lived in London, we’d have spent last night at his place probably. Then I remind myself that no, we wouldn’t have done that, because I wouldn’t have seen Josh two days on the bounce and I wouldn’t have spent the night. It’s because he lives so far away that we’re seeing each other for two days straight.

Aware that I’ve disappeared inside my mind, I refocus. We look up train times for the coming Friday and we make plans for the weekend. On the way back to the station, Josh pops into the hotel and returns the linen napkins.