CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
November
‘This is still one of the most boring bits, in my opinion,’ I tell Chris after he arrives in London to oversee the next stage of the interior hotel fit-out. I’m glad this bit is his job, because it’s a total snooze-fest. He’s tried – and failed – to jazz it up to me over the phone whenever we speak.
I’m watching him do his thing: measuring, issuing instructions and checking over all the materials that have arrived onsite, despite the fact that I’ve checked them over already, as has the site manager.
‘It’s like watching someone give a really boring Ted Talk on how to assemble flatpack furniture, only on a bigger scale,’ I tease. Chris has got his serious face on, and I’m trying to get him to crack a smile.
He’s pretending not to laugh as he walks away to talk to a supplier, holding the coffee I’ve gone to get him from the artisan place round the corner. His jet lag is setting in and he’s yawning.
The hotel is still a building site, and we’ve been given hi-viz jackets and hard hats, as usual. Chris blends into a sea of neon yellow as he moves around, inspecting the space and talking to the fit-out team.
We’re a little bit behind schedule, but Max and Chris both assure me this is usual, so while the fit-out guys are hovering with their instructions and drawings, boxes and toolkits, the painters and decorators are working as fast as they can to finish and make space for the next crew. The site manager looks harassed, so I hand him the coffee that I’ve not drunk from yet and he goes off to bark instructions at someone.
I can’t wait to see it all finished. Max allowed me a lot of input into the fixtures, fittings and furnishings aspect of the design, whittling down hoards of samples into a select few of my favourites for each item of furniture or furnishings. I’d discuss with him why something would or wouldn’t work in the space, how it would affect the overall aesthetic of each room and fit the hotel’s brand. Part of the large building was once the home of a prominent map-maker working in the late nineteenth century. Given that the hotel brand loves to nod to what the building was once used for, I’ve had great fun buying old maps from eBay and Etsy. I’ve learned so much from Max. I’ve decided I’m going to do a proper interior-design course as I want to learn so much more.
Until then, I can’t wait to see how the items Max and I have chosen together will look. After seeing a first mock-up of how a space will appear, nothing compares to watching it finally come to fruition before your eyes. All those colours on a mood board converge into a room. A space becomes cosy, habitable, desirable, real.
At the end of the day I suggest that we take the site manager for a well-earned drink and Chris recommends a bar round the corner. Only the site manager cries off at the last minute, so Chris and I stand at the bar, a bit uncertain what to do. This contravenes our rule not to be alone.
‘Do you think we should—’ I start at exactly the same time Chris says, ‘Oh yes! They’ve got a Happy Hour.’
‘Uh … OK,’ I reply. Looks like we’re doing this, then.
We order two drinks each, to take advantage of the remaining fifteen minutes, and Chris pays.
‘I’ll get the next ones,’ I offer when we’re sitting on our tiny back-less bar stools.
‘They’ll be full price then,’ Chris warns me.
‘Oh, well played,’ I say, looking at him properly for the first time since he arrived in London.
He laughs, suggesting, ‘We can split the bill for all of it.’
I realise I’ve missed seeing him in person, although we’ve spoken quite a bit for work, and we manage to tack on a friendly conversation or life update occasionally too. We’ve at least been adult about that recently.
We hold up all four of our drinks, one in each of our hands, and clink them together. ‘Cheers!’
He looks good. Chris always looks good. He’s tanned as if he’s been on holiday, and I ask him if he’s been away. He nods and tells me he went to Palm Springs for a week. That explains why his out-of-office was on the last time I sent him a new set of drawings. The tan suits him. Everything suits him. I refocus, as Chris is telling me he saw an offer in the New York Times and went for it.
‘You and Tinder Swipe?’ I probe.
‘No. Just me.’
‘Really?’ I ask in surprise. ‘By yourself?’
He pauses for a second. ‘By myself.’
‘Are you still doing that?’ I enquire in awe. ‘Finding yourself?’
He makes a gagging noise. ‘Yeah. Sort of. I’ve never been on holiday on my own before. It was great. Strangely great. No pressure. I needed a bit of no pressure. Because there’s a lot of pressure, now I’m over here.’
‘How long are you over for?’ I ask after we’ve winced at how strong our drinks are.
‘A week. I’m in an Airbnb,’ he says. ‘But I’ll be back once a week every month from now on, to get this all over the finishing line. In December I’m here for two weeks back-to-back at Christmas. One week for work and then one week with my family. I’ve not spent Christmas in London in … for ever.’
‘Nice,’ I say absently and then I realise. ‘Oh, you’ll be here for my leaving and Christmas party all-in-one. Do you want to come? It’s the week before Christmas, which is a busy time for everyone, I know, so we’re booking people in now.’
‘Leaving?’ he asks with surprise. ‘What are you leaving? Not this job, surely?’
‘London,’ I say. ‘I’m moving in with Josh.’
‘Oh,’ he replies simply. I watch his expression. ‘Congratulations, I guess, is the right thing to say.’
We’re friends now. We can do this.
‘Thanks.’ I sip my cocktail. ‘Scarlet and I had some fast decisions to make,’ I continue.
‘I’d imagine it’s tricky when one of you wants to move out and the other doesn’t,’ Chris says.
‘She’s leaving too.’
‘Where’s she going?’ Chris asks conversationally.
‘Scotland, would you believe?’
He raises his eyebrows, his eyes wide. ‘Cool. Why?’
‘She’s going freelance, and her boyfriend lives near Edinburgh.’
‘Is she doing what you’re doing? Is she moving in with him?’
‘No. It’s too soon for that, and Scarlet knows it. But this is the closest she’s got to a long-term relationship since the dawn of time and she’s giving it her all. So is he. They’re well suited and want to make it work. Rory lives near his family, and Scarlet’s is a bit like mine: scattered all over the place. She’s got no real need to be in London, so she’s renting a little one-bed place and seeing how she gets on up there. She hates the cold, so that might be a bit of a shock, but she’s willing to suffer it for love.’
‘Good on her.’
‘Yeah, I think so too.’
We sip our drinks and I’m already halfway through my first one, a Raspberry Bellini – I wish I’d ordered something bigger, as it’s quite small.
‘So if you went on holiday on your own,’ I start, ‘does that mean …?’
He takes a deep breath. ‘I’ve broken up with Kayla.’
‘Have you? I’m sorry to hear that.’ I’m not sure if I mean this or not. I feel strange about it. Although … why? ‘I must stop thinking of her as Tinder Swipe, although I guess if you’ve broken up with her, I won’t be thinking of her again.’
He rewards my light-hearted jibe with a slow chuckle.
‘What happened?’
He shrugs. ‘Incompatibility, to quote your words.’
‘When did I say that?’
‘The night we first met. About your last boyfriend. “Incompatible enough for him to cheat on me after only eight months” was, I believe, your phrase.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ I agree slowly. ‘I did say that. Thanks for reminding me. Is that what happened? Did she cheat on you?’
‘No. I just realised our relationship wasn’t the type I wanted.’
‘Ouch!’
‘I know what I want now. This is progress for me. It’s not fair to keep someone hanging when you know there’s no future.’
I listen to his words. Chris is right. They do make me think, though. ‘So you ended it?’ I question.
‘I’m of an age—’ he starts.
‘Please,’ I splutter. ‘You’re thirty-six.’
‘Thirty-seven’ he says.
‘Have I missed your birthday?’ I’m easily distracted.
‘Yeah, it was in October.’
‘Oh, sorry. Happy belated birthday.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Can I continue?’ he asks.
‘Go on.’
‘I’m of an age …’ he goes on, and I keep quiet, but he stops, changes tack. ‘I know I’m the one for someone out there. But it wasn’t Kayla. And she wasn’t the one for me. And as you head towards the end of your thirties …’ He lets that hang there. I know what he’s saying: time is running out. God, that’s bleak.
I’m quiet and so is Chris.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asks me.
I don’t know how to say what he wants to hear without putting myself in danger, slipping up in some way. I shrug in response.
He continues. ‘I know what I want. I know I want to be with someone – really be with them, give them my all. I want to build a life with someone, fall in love with them, marry them, have children one day.’
Wow , I think. My heart just flew all round my chest.
‘But it’s not happening,’ he continues. ‘Dating apps are a no. Real life is a no.’
Real life was almost a yes . I don’t say it, though. I don’t dare.
‘You’ve not quite found what you’re looking for yet,’ I tell him and I want to choke on my own insipid words. ‘But one day, when you do, it’s going to be mind-blowing. And the wait will have been worth it.’
I imagine Chris finding the one. I don’t like what that thought does to me. I feel uneasy.
He looks at me, but doesn’t reply. Don’t say it , I think. I have a fear he’s going to say something – reference what nearly happened between us. But he doesn’t. When we last spoke about this, it was at the wedding in Edinburgh nine months ago. Perhaps Chris doesn’t feel it any more. So much time has passed since we first met.
‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘I’m back to being single and making sure I don’t invite people to events with me, so I can meet hot single women.’
‘Women? Plural?’ I ask.
‘No. Not plural.’
‘I should hope not,’ I reply. ‘You’re too much of a perfect gentleman for that.’
‘Maybe next time I won’t be a gentleman and will see what happens.’
My eyes open wide. ‘Next time?’
‘The next woman I meet that I think might be a potential winner, I’m putting my tongue down her throat there and then. It worked for you and Josh. And I’m proposing within seventeen minutes. It’s all going to happen on that first night. I won’t invite her to come home with me. Instead I’ll miss my flight and I’ll stay here.’
‘Bloody hell. Stand back, Chris is on a mission,’ I joke and I’m pleased we’ve managed to claw back some humour into what could quickly have turned into a loaded conversation. ‘No chance of you being divorced by forty at this rate,’ I continue.
He smiles, holds my gaze. ‘Or of proposing to someone within seventeen minutes, either. Where are all the single women?’
‘We’re all taken, I’m afraid. Every now and again one of us emerges, fresh from a failed relationship and blinking into the glare of the sunlight. And there you’ll be.’
He smiles. ‘Like some sort of messed-up rebound hero.’
‘No, like you,’ I say meaningfully. ‘Just … you.’ I smile and so does Chris. I need to move this conversation out of dangerous waters. ‘Hang on, old man,’ I say, and he rolls his eyes. ‘It’ll happen. Just not today.’
‘I’m pleased it’s happened for you,’ he says.
I pause briefly and then reply, ‘Me too.’