CHAPTER THIRTY LEXIE
CHAPTER THIRTY
Lexie
December
I replay that conversation between me and Chris over and over in my head. If I’d told him I couldn’t afford the flight, he would have booked it for me. Come with me.
God, those words!
And then I’d have been in New York with Chris four months ago. I’d be with Chris right now, I’m sure of it. In some way or another I feel we’d have made it work. Somewhere along the way, we missed the chance.
Instead I’m with Josh. I made one decision that night that has changed everything.
I’ve thought about this turn of events so much since that evening with Chris in New York. If I’d gone with him that first night, would I still be there now? How would we have made it work? How do long-distance relationships function across such a wide distance? Who is the first to cave, the first to move hell and high water to be with the other person – uprooting their own lives to be with the one they love?
Why am I even thinking this? It’s not helpful. None of this is helpful. I need to focus on work. Although if the pattern of events so far tells me anything, it’s that in about twenty minutes’ time I’ll be thinking about it again.
My first few weeks of working from home in the flat are far easier than I expected. Things start slowly in the initial few days, and then pick up as different people in the company start sending work my way. Now external emails from builders and suppliers are coming in thick and fast too, as the inevitable delays and lack of materials begin to emerge.
An awful lot goes into opening a hotel, even a small boutique property. I’ve toured the various elements with the site manager this week. It’s off Hanover Square, which gave me the opportunity to take in the Christmas lights in London. There’s only a couple of weeks to go until Christmas and I have to work out my train times to my mum’s in Reading and then, after Boxing Day, how to get to my dad’s in St Albans. I never really enjoy Christmas because of this double transport stress. And because I don’t drive, I have to plan out my expensive train journeys to the minute, booking seats weeks in advance, which I still haven’t done.
Josh and I haven’t spoken about whether I’ll spend Christmas Day with him. He hasn’t asked and I do want him to ask me, although I’d have to politely decline or risk upsetting both my parents. I guess Josh knows I’ll be family-bound, although it would have been nice to be invited to his Christmas. Maybe he’ll ask me in person when I see him this weekend. Or maybe it’s too soon. We’ve only been together a few months. Although, on the flipside, Chris invited me to get on a plane with him even though he’d only known me for one evening. I’m annoyed that I can’t stop thinking about this.
There’s always next year for Josh and me to spend Christmas together. I wonder if we’ll still be together then?
Whatever happens, I’ll have people around me at Christmas whom I love, so spending most of the festive season on a train isn’t a hardship. I promised my mum I’d look at train times today, but instead I’m looking at the latest set of drawings from the architect, which have just come in to address a planning condition. At least I’ve seen the shell of the hotel, so at this stage I’ve got a visual jumping-off point when I’m talking to suppliers and manufacturers about the space.
There’s so much structural work going on behind the scenes. I knew there’d be more admin than design work and I’m OK with that, but I’m the eyes and ears on the ground here for the big bosses too, liaising with a lot of the departments. My role seems to have grown overnight. There’s more to get my teeth into, and Max knows he’s throwing a lot at me. He must think I’ll be able to cope with it all.
I secretly love it. I love being busy, I love not sitting on reception, laminating security badges and signing people in and out all day. This is what I’ve needed for so long.
There’s a huge part of me that’s excited and worried about what will happen at the end of it. Will I stay on with the company and help with another hotel elsewhere, or be absorbed into the running of this one in some way? And ahead of that, I’m already mildly concerned about seeing Chris again, because when it’s time to fit out the building – although that’s not for ages yet – he’ll be here, overseeing that. I’m concerned about how I’ll feel then. I’m concerned about how I feel now.
Our conversation at the Rockefeller Center should never have happened. It was inappropriate for two people who aren’t going to be together to talk in so much depth about what might have happened if we had got together. Why did we do that? Morbid fascination? The conversational equivalent of prodding a wasp nest to see what happens? It wasn’t clever of either of us, and while I replay the conversation in my mind again and again and again, and while it felt right at the time, in hindsight it was a terrible idea. Only … I can’t remember which of us started it. And why.
It’s the last weekend before Christmas and I pack a little roller suitcase and my laptop bag and decamp to Josh’s for a few days. I haven’t seen him since I flew to New York. I’ve been so busy with various parties and drinks, friends to catch up with, as we all try to ram seeing everyone we’ve ever known into that tight four-week festive space in December. What with all of that, and site meetings – it’s taken me away from spending time with Josh. He offered to come up and take me out for dinner, but I had a friend’s Christmas dinner to go to, which I’d already RSVP’d to, so the timing didn’t work. Josh didn’t seem too phased.
It’s been a joy not having to cook recently: Scarlet and I have either been snaffling Deliveroo or out with various friends, or warming up soup and toast because it’s so cold outside and because we need to save money, after all the Deliveroo and dining out. I’ve quite enjoyed resuming our life rota of cleaning and eating, shopping and taking out the bins. Scarlet jokes that we’ve got being a couple nailed better than most couples. I think she might be right. But after New York and now the Cotswolds and Christmas, which feels minutes away, we’re slowly spending less and less time together.
I do wonder what might happen if Josh and I become serious, as in really serious. Would I move there properly? He’ll ask at some point surely? Although he hasn’t even asked me for Christmas. It’s hard for him to move to London, owning a farm as he does. And, let’s be frank, why would he want to give all that up to move to London for me? I would never make him do that.
On the train I think of that conversation Chris and I had about him staying in New York even if he didn’t want to, just because he fell in love. I wonder how this might apply to me and Josh. I’d happily live in Somerset with him, if we get to that stage, because even though it’s a tad boring out there, it is beautiful. And why would I give him up, in favour of my social life and access to takeaway apps?
Josh picks me up from the station and jogs towards me when he sees me, scooping me into his arms and kissing me. Other commuters are getting off the train, skirting around us in the car park, pretending not to notice the two people kissing. It always feels so lovely being back in Josh’s arms. It’s good to have a person. Being single is fun, but being with someone is such a warming feeling.
‘That was like a scene from a film,’ I tell him when we break apart.
‘I’ve missed you,’ he groans into my ear.
‘It’s only been a few weeks. But I missed you too,’ I return honestly as I pull back, look into his eyes, picking out the haloes of grey that dance around his pupils. ‘I’d forgotten what bits of you looked like.’
‘Bits of me?’ Josh queries with a sideways smile. ‘I haven’t forgotten what any of you looks like,’ he answers provocatively. ‘I’ve had to live off the memories.’
‘Have you now?’ I say seductively, wishing we weren’t in a freezing-cold car park in December, but instead were wrapped up cosily in his house, his bed.
‘Come on,’ he says, sensing the urgency. ‘Let’s go home.’
There’s a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket on the kitchen table and the smell of something delicious cooking in the Aga when we walk in.
‘Josh,’ I say tenderly, eyeing the fizz, ‘what are we celebrating?’
‘Plenty of things,’ he replies. ‘I got a couple of new restaurant deals; Tamara’s supplying her ice cream at a few more delis; and you got a brand-new job, which we’ve not toasted yet; and you and me … well, I think you and me are worth celebrating. The rest of it just adds to the occasion.’
I move towards him while he eases the cork free and pours us each a glass.
‘I also thought …’ he starts.
‘Y-e-s,’ I draw out the word.
‘That we should toast the idea of me giving you some driving lessons.’
‘Driving lessons?’
‘You should learn to drive my car. I’ll teach you. Then you can come and go more freely. It’ll help you feel less cooped up here.’
‘I don’t feel cooped up here. Is that what you think?’
‘You must feel isolated when you stay longer than just a weekend,’ he states.
I notice it’s not a question. ‘I do. A bit. But that was when I had no purpose. I’m busy now. I have stuff to do. Work. It’s going to be different.’
He makes an oh-OK-then face, and says, ‘If you didn’t work, there’d be stuff for you to do locally. Groups and clubs, or whatever. Only, you don’t drive, so you can’t get to anything.’
‘So?’ I ask.
‘You don’t want to drive?’ he queries.
‘I don’t really need to at the minute. And when, realistically, are we going to do driving lessons? You’re tired from work each evening. Now it’s winter it’s pitch-black by the time you and I finish work. You want me to learn to drive your giant Land Rover in the dark? I’ll kill us both! I’m not averse to learning to drive. I’m just not sure I need to do it right now. Maybe in the summer?’ I offer.
‘OK,’ he replies. ‘I don’t need you to drive, Lexie. I simply thought if you’re here more, you might like more of a sense of freedom, especially if one day—’ He stops.
‘One day?’
‘You and me – you know,’ he says.
I’m not sure I do know, so I try and read between the lines. ‘If I move in with you, and we’re in it for ever?’ I look at Josh to see if he’s on board with this line of questioning. He looks as if he is, so I continue, ‘And maybe one day we …’ God, I can’t say it. Why can’t I say it? I don’t want to scare him. I don’t want to scare myself. This is a big, scary chat that’s come out of nowhere.
‘Maybe one day we … get married and have kids?’ he finishes for me. He looks as scared as I feel.
‘Yeah,’ I reply slowly. ‘You’re worried I won’t be able to get them to and from school or … something?’ I gulp. Jesus! How did we get here?
‘I mean,’ he bristles, ‘I don’t know what I’m thinking at this early stage. I only think – in the long run – you need to learn to drive if you’re going to be here more often. Is that OK?’
‘Of course it’s OK. It’s scary. But it’s OK.’
‘Which bit is scary? The thought that you and I might be the real deal, or driving?’
‘I’m not scared that you and I might be the real deal, Josh. I’m scared we might not be the real deal.’
‘Why would you think that? I’ve never fallen for someone as quickly as I’ve fallen for you.’
My breath catches in my throat. ‘Really?’
‘Really. It was immediate. When I was standing at that bar with you at the wedding, I could have talked to you all night. It crushed me when you left me after that first dance. And then, not long after, there you were again, and you ended up kissing me. Who gets a second chance like that? That kind of thing never happens to me. It was incredible. It scares me too.’
I move towards him and kiss him hard. Josh kisses me back.
‘Come with me,’ he says, in a voice that should do things to me, but instead I hear another man in my head uttering the very same phrase months ago in another place.
‘What?’ I ask quickly, in surprise. Did I dream him saying that? Did I hear Chris? I need Chris out of my head. Why is he in there?
Josh gathers our drinks and the champagne bucket. I shake myself back into the present. ‘Come with me,’ he repeats.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Outside.’
‘Outside?’ I question.
‘To the barn, to be precise.’
‘Why?’
He gives me a sexy look. ‘Do you still want to have a roll around in the hay with a farmer?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, pulling my shoes back on quickly. ‘Yes, I do.’