Chapter 2
TWO
Spotting the familiar, tousled back of Sam’s head when I entered the bar after work that evening, I hurried over, wrapping my arms around his waist from behind and burying my face in the back of his neck, inhaling the clean smell of his hair and kissing his warm skin.
‘Sorry I’m late.’ My voice was muffled by his collar. ‘You know, I was—’
‘Working.’ Sam turned and stood up, smiling down at me and kissing me on the lips.
At six foot two, he had to bend down to reach me, which I loved – it always made me feel like he could sweep me off my feet literally as well as metaphorically.
I leaned in to him, relishing the feeling of safety his hugs always gave me.
There was something about him – not just that he was good-looking, although he totally was, with his wavy, collar-length brown hair, his clear blue-grey eyes, his height and broad shoulders.
It was something else: an air of kindness, friendliness, amiability – of being so totally at ease with himself that he made everyone else feel that way too.
‘Sometimes I wonder if that place is a job or a prison sentence,’ he said with a grin.
‘Hey, at least they let me out in the evenings. Weekends even, sometimes.’
‘Glass of rosé?’
‘God, yes please. Better make it a large one.’
‘On it.’
He turned back, and I slipped into the space next to him, resting my forearms on the varnished wood beside his, watching as he smiled at the woman pulling pints and she instantly smiled back, making a ‘What can I get you?’ face.
When Sam smiled, women always smiled back. It wasn’t just that he was handsome; his handsomeness was something you only noticed later, once you’d been captivated by the pleasure of just being around him. It was just that he was totally, overwhelmingly nice.
I followed him through the pub, letting him weave a path through the crowd and locate a free table by the window.
Although it was gone seven thirty, the summer evening was still light, sunlight washing through the frosted glass, spilling onto the retro patterned carpet, lighting up the faces of the women at the next table and reflecting off their sunglasses.
‘So.’ Sam raised his glass of lager to me. ‘Do you want to complain about work now or later?’
I laughed. ‘Now, I guess? Let’s get it out of the way, then we can give our full attention to whether we’re going to go for pizza or tacos.’
‘Damn.’ The skin around his eyes and mouth crinkled in amusement. ‘If you were mid-complain, I’d be able to overrule you and pick pizza before you realised I’d won.’
‘See? It’s all part of my master plan.’
‘So, who’s been stressing you out today? Jasper? Cormac Whatsisname? Or that woman off Love Island who you told me off for following on Instagram?’
‘Come on, that was fair! Endless pics of her Brazilian butt lift in gifted swimwear – I’d have to be made of stone not to mind you gawping at her grid.’
‘Is that what they’re calling it now?’ Sam joked.
I laughed, secure in the knowledge that Sam liked my bum far more than any random Instagram influencer’s.
‘Anyway. Not her. She’s in Ibiza for the summer, and once I’d sorted out her travel arrangements and got her into all the exclusive clubs – which wasn’t too hard, to be fair, she’s still famous enough – she’s pretty much leaving me alone. ’
‘Cormac, then?’
I nodded. ‘You guessed it.’
‘What did he want this time?’
I explained about the impossible restaurant reservation.
‘But you nailed it, right?’ Sam asked. ‘Pulled strings, magicked a table out of thin air, everyone’s a winner?’
‘Not me.’ I took a gulp of my wine. ‘It was Jamie. I was pretty much ready to admit defeat.’
Sam’s smile wavered. ‘What did he do this time? Organise a last-minute train strike so loads of people had to cancel their bookings?’
I shook my head. ‘Guess again…’
‘Um… start a rumour about them poisoning diners with bad oysters?’
‘Nope, there wouldn’t have been time for that.’
‘Then I give up.’
I turned my wine glass around on the table, watching the wine turn from pale rose quartz to deep pink as it moved out of the sunlight. ‘Turns out he’s sleeping with one of the waitresses there.’
Sam rolled his eyes. ‘Of course he is.’
‘So he got her to cancel one of the existing bookings on their system and then sniped the table for Cormac. The people won’t know – they’ll turn up and find there’s no space for them. The staff will say it was some kind of computer glitch.’
‘Shit. Whose booking was it?’
‘I don’t know. Some random people. Could be anyone – a business dinner, a big birthday, regulars who go there all the time—’
‘That’s kind of brutal.’
‘I know, right? But at least Cormac’s getting what he wanted.’
‘At the expense of some poor bugger who’d actually booked in time.’
‘Maybe they’ll squeeze them in? Maybe there’ll be a no-show, or they’ll sit them at the counter or something.’
I realised I was trying to convince myself as much as Sam, but it wasn’t working particularly well. I had an uneasy feeling growing in my stomach – ironically, not that dissimilar from when I did have a bad oyster a few years ago.
‘And what about the waitress? Won’t they sack her if they find out what she did?’
‘Maybe.’ Probably. The feeling was getting worse. ‘But they might not find out.’
‘That’s… I don’t know, Georgia. That’s not cool, really, is it?’
I shrugged miserably. Sam was only putting into words what I’d thought when Jamie told me how he’d pulled off this master stroke. Then, I’d been able to push my doubts aside, but now, seeing the situation through his eyes, it was harder to do that.
‘What could I do, though? By the time Jamie told me, it was already a done deal. And the alternative—’
‘Was you getting yelled at by your client?’
‘Well, yeah. Not so bad, really, but I’m still glad it’s not going to happen. Thanks to Jamie.’
‘Your work husband.’ Sam grimaced. ‘Sometimes I wonder what’s going to happen when he decides to call in some of those favours he’s been doing for you.’
‘Hey.’ I reached across the table and touched his hand.
‘You’re not jealous, are you? Come on. He’s just my work husband – not that that’s even a real thing – and you’re my actual…
well.’ Oh no, why had I gone down this road?
‘Boyfriend. Partner.’ I coughed. ‘Whatever,’ I added hurriedly, taking a large mouthful of wine.
It sounds stupid, I know, but even thinking the word ‘husband’ in the context of Sam made me feel all kinds of conflicting feels.
He and I had been together for four years and known each other for ten years before that – although, admittedly, despite having met at university, we hadn’t been much more than acquaintances back then.
And, of course, we’d lost touch entirely while I travelled round the world working as a yacht stewardess and losing touch with pretty much everyone, even the fellow crew members I swore undying friendship with when we parted on various docks from Miami to Melbourne.
Partly, that had been because of the itinerant nature of my work, which I’d fallen into and chosen from a desire I didn’t fully understand (or maybe kind of did but liked to push aside, like old knickers under the bed when you have a date coming over) to rip up what roots I had and avoid putting down new ones for as long as I possibly could.
The other reason was that if I’d had any romantic interest in Sam back when we’d sat in art history lectures together or happened to be in the student union bar on the same evening, it would have been a totally pointless, unrequited romantic interest.
Because back then, Sam wasn’t just Sam. He was half of SamandAva – a couple so perfectly suited, so visibly head over heels, so inseparably joined at the hip, it was impossible to imagine them ever apart, and we said their names as if they were one word.
People barely even talked about Sam or Ava as individuals – it was always SamandAva, a natural unit with no need even for portmanteau shortening.
So, when I bumped into him again on my return to London, at a house party at my best friend Molly’s place, I’d registered at first that something about him was different, wrong.
Had he changed in some dramatic, physical way?
Got a facial tattoo or lost loads of weight or something?
No, he looked much the same as I remembered.
Then I realised – there was no Ava by his side.
No petite, red-haired, beguilingly freckled, permanently smiling girl, who I recalled always carried a purple corduroy backpack.
‘Hey, is that Sam Finch over there?’ I’d asked Molly.
‘Yep, he’s living in South East London somewhere. Works as a videographer for an ad agency.’
‘But where’s Ava?’ I scanned the room again, assuming I’d just missed her.
She laughed. ‘I know, right? Quite a shock to the system when you first see him on his own, but you get used it. I believe they split up a couple of years back. I’m not sure why. Why don’t you go and chat to him?’
So I’d downed my chardonnay and gone and chatted to Sam, and discovered that he made me laugh.
And more importantly, he laughed at my jokes, which wasn’t a given when I was talking to a guy.
He was an amazing listener and had an incredibly sexy voice, deep and husky with a hint of a Manchester accent.
We’d exchanged numbers and met for a drink the following week, and I’d spent that night at his, and the night after that and never really left, even though we only moved in together officially almost a year later.
So Sam and Ava had become Sam and Georgia.
SamandGeorgia. GeorgiandSam. It might not have had the same ring to it as SamandAva, but that didn’t even slightly dent my happiness.
We’d saved like crazy and bought a flat together.
We’d had massive rows in IKEA. We’d been on holiday together.
I’d spent Christmas with his parents, and he’d survived dinner with my mother on my thirtieth birthday.