Authors: Gemma Burgess
A Girl Like You (22 page)
‘This has been the slowest Christmas ever,’ I say. ‘
Ever
.’
‘I know,’ says Plum.
It’s December 30th. I’ve been in France for almost a week. Sophie left on Boxing Day to join Luke at his parents’ house in Bath, so it’s just me and my parents.
I’m lying on my bed – the bed that Dave and I were deliciously filthy in all those weeks ago – with my legs propped up against the walls. The shutters are half open, revealing a very dark grey sky. Plum’s at her parents’ house in Yorkshire.
‘I am so over my family,’ she says. ‘If I have to go carolling one more time . . .’
Plum’s family Christmases are very traditional. Carolling, church and long freezing walks. The only tradition we have is watching
Annie
on Christmas Day after lunch, with my parents singing along.
‘ABIGAIL!’ bellows my father from the kitchen downstairs, making me jump. No one bellows like my Dad.
‘Oh my God, this is like being six again,’ I murmur to Plum. ‘Yes?’ I call down sweetly.
‘There you are. I thought you were lost. Would you care for some soup?’
‘It’s four o’clock in the afternoon, Daddy,’ I call.
‘I know. But I thought it might be nice.’
‘No, thank you.’ I shut my bedroom door. ‘That’s the eighteenth time one of them has yelled for me today.’
‘Maybe you’re not spending quality time,’ says Plum.
‘I eat every meal with them, I go to the market with them, we watch movies together, I mean, unless they want to chat to me when I’m weeing.’
‘When are you seeing Dave?’
‘ABIGAIL!’ There’s another bellow from the kitchen.
‘I’d better go,’ I say, sighing. I don’t want to answer the Dave question.
‘I can’t wait to see Dan,’ says Plum, ignoring me. ‘Did I tell you that he surprised me by wrapping Christmas lights around his willy and singing “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” to me?’
‘You did,’ I say.
‘Are you OK? You don’t quite sound yourself,’ says Plum.
‘Fine, I’m fine, I’ve just got cabin fever,’ I say quickly. The truth is that no matter how much I remind myself that Dave said he wanted to be with me, the insecurity curl won’t release its hold around my chest. And it’s all because of Bella and that text. It makes it hard to concentrate on anything else . . . I feel very unsettled.
He hasn’t called me since I got here. But he does send two or three funny/filthy texts a day, all signed off with an ‘x’. Which he didn’t used to do. That’s good, right? My uneasy longing for reassurance is so severe that when he finally texts, it’s like a reprieve from someone hitting me in the face. The relief lasts seconds. Then the chewing, restless worry starts again.
‘No problem. You’re back tomorrow, right? Are you seeing Dave right away?’
‘Uh, no,’ I say. Dave hasn’t told me when he’s back in London, and because I don’t want to be needy, I haven’t asked. Text-terrogations and all that. ‘You?’
‘Dan is coming over tonight for dinner to meet my parents and then we’re driving back to London together,’ she says. ‘I’ve got to go and wrap his presents, actually. Then we’re flying to Geneva tomorrow night for the ski trip.’
‘Meeting the parents! Good luck,’ I say. I cannot imagine Dave meeting my parents. And I don’t have a present for him either as all he said about the subject was ‘I don’t do presents, but I promise to slip you a little Christmas cheer’.
‘Alright, darling. Miss you like cock!’
‘Miss you too. I’ll call you tonight.’
This holiday has been endless. Plum and I have slipped back into talking three times a day, like teenagers. And I haven’t thought about my career doubts, and the job offer in Hong Kong, and what I’ll do next. I haven’t told anyone in my family about it either. They’d just get carried away and that would make it even harder to think clearly.
‘ABIGAAAAIL!’
God, it’s irritating to be shouted at every 20 seconds. I walk down the stairs, automatically checking my phone and email on the way. Dave hasn’t been in touch today, which I think might be why I’m feeling particularly feverish.
‘ABI— ’
‘I’m here,’ I say quietly. Dad is standing in the kitchen, saucepan of soup bubbling on the stove, staring at the open fridge with his hands folded thoughtfully over his chest. It’s the same stance he uses to watch cricket.
‘Oh! Darling. Good. I’m doing the fridge, and I thought you might like to be my little helper.’
When I was five, ‘doing the fridge’ with Dad was my favourite activity, simply because we almost always found chocolate stashed behind some eggs or something, and we’d share it, giggle furtively and Not Tell Mummy. Now that I’m almost 28 and have my own fridge and chocolates, it’s less exciting. But I can’t say that as it’ll hurt his feelings.
‘I’d love to,’ I say as enthusiastically as I can.
‘So, bub, tell me about your plans for New Year’s Eve,’ he says a few minutes later, when we’re rubber-gloved and ready to go. He starts handing me the milk and juices (‘Door first! Then top to bottom!’) and I stack them symmetrically on the bench.
‘Um, I’m not sure yet,’ I say honestly.
‘Your first New Year as a single girl, not to mention your birthday on New Year’s Day, you should be out on the town,’ says Dad. ‘Fun. It’s all about having fun.’
God, he sounds like Robert. ‘Well, Plum’s with her boyfriend, and Henry is at home in the Cotswolds with Charlotte, did I tell you about her? I introduced them and now they’re in love. I don’t really know what the rest of the uni crowd is up to, I’ve avoided them a bit since Peter and I broke up,’ I’m auto-wittering to hide how distracted I’m feeling. ‘I think Sophie and Luke are coming back to London. I guess my flatmate, Robert might be around.’
‘Have you been seeing anyone, since, er, you know who?’ asks Dad. Ah, he wants a daddy-daughter heart-to-heart. He always likes doing these over a project. When I was here last summer, just before I broke up with Peter and was mute with anticipatory worry, it took him three similar daddy-daughter projects to get me to talk about it. When I finally did, however, I felt so disloyal to Peter that I could hardly say a thing. I just cried. So then Dad took me to the huge supermarket in Béziers and we looked at the hardware aisle together in silence. ‘I have been dating,’ I say. ‘It’s fun. I am very glad I broke up with Peter, put it that way.’
‘Good,’ he says. ‘Anyone in particular?’
‘Nope,’ I lie. I don’t want to talk about Dave. They’ll wonder why I haven’t mentioned him till now, and why he hasn’t called, and why I didn’t open a present from him on Christmas Day. I wonder if he’s found out it’s my birthday on New Year’s Day . . . Oh God, I am tired of thinking. ‘You know. Taking it casual.’
‘There’s no hurry. I hope you don’t feel pressured to meet someone because of Mrs Mop getting married.’
Mrs Mop is Dad’s pet name for Sophie. I am Mrs Waterbucket. They’ve been our nicknames forever, for reasons unknown.
Dad starts handing me the pickles and chutneys from the top shelf of the fridge. Condiments always seemed to me to be an extraordinarily grown-up thing to have in a fridge, don’t you think? I used to have loads of chutney-type things when I lived with Peter. Such a different life.
‘Earth to Abigail,’ says Dad. ‘I asked if you’d met anyone particularly nice.’
‘Sorry!’ I say. ‘Mind wandering again.’
‘You’ve always been the same, carrying on entire conversations in your head and exhausting yourself. I think it’s the reason you didn’t speak till you were three.’
‘Till I was three?!’
‘Well,’ he says, his voice muffled from deep inside the fridge, as he passes me jars of anchovy paste and mussels. I’ve never seen a fridge so full of non-food food. ‘You were always the slowest to do anything, because you thought about it so much first. But then when you actually tried, you were brilliant. Like when you finally started talking, you spoke in full sentences. None of this mama-dada-baba rubbish for you. So I’m sure it’s the same with, you know, love.’
‘But learning to talk is a bit different from love.’
‘Take your time,’ he says. ‘It sounds ridiculous, but when you find the right person you’ll just know. It’ll all be very easy.’
‘Really?’ I say doubtfully.
‘Everyone says it, but it’s true.’ The fridge is empty now. ‘Right. Now we wash the shelves.’
Dad is so happy when he’s got both sinks full of hot water, splashing soapy bubbles everywhere. He’s like a big duck. It drives my mother nuts. On cue, the front door bangs, and my mother walks in. She’s been out gossiping with the neighbours, judging by the gleeful look on her face.
‘Hands up who wants to watch
Grease
tonight? I just borrowed it from Virginia and Rod up the road!’ says Mum excitedly. Sometimes she says things in an eager voice in an attempt to get Sophie and I keyed up about things. I think it worked when we were small.
‘Yes please,’ I say. ‘Sounds great.’
Mum cocks her head to one side and looks up at me. She’s a good five inches shorter than either Sophie or I, though she thinks she’s very tall. (‘I based my whole personality on being tall, I can’t change now,’ she said once, when Sophie and I confronted her about it.) She also has the ability to pick some-one’s mood based on the way they’re holding their drink.
‘Are you alright? You look tired. Are you tired?’
‘I’m fine,’ I say to the fridge so she can’t look at my eyes and see that I’m lying.
‘You’ve been out of sorts ever since you arrived. Have you twosied today?’
‘Everything’s smashing in that department, thanks, Mum,’ I say, giving her the double thumbs up. ‘I don’t think “twosie” is a verb, though.’
‘Thank you, smartypants,’ Mum pretends to smack me, but I jump away.
Dad is now standing in front of the fridge, inspecting every corner. ‘I think we can probably improve the system, you know, make it more intuitive, streamlined . . .’
‘Yep,’ I say, trying to give the fridge the attention Dad feels it deserves.
‘Vegetables and fruit at the bottom, obviously, and then meat next, and then – and now, this is a bit controversial, but stay with me – the yoghurt and cheeses on the middle shelf, because statistically, I think we reach for them most often.’ Dad is beaming with pride. ‘Right? And then condiments and mustards and mayo at the top back, jams at the front for brekkers, and voilà. A perfect fridge!’
‘Yay!’ cheer Mum and I, as applause is clearly required.
When we’re done, I kiss him on the cheek and head back upstairs. My mind is an intense whirlpool of half-thoughts and half-worries. I take out my notebook, open it to a new page, and write down what Dad just said.
When you find the right person you’ll just know.
What a singularly irritating statement.
I start drawing little curls around the sentence.
I wonder if I ‘just know’ with Dave. I might, you know. I’ve never felt that crash-bang attraction before. I tremble whenever he is near me, or looking at me, or at the same table as me . . . And when he kisses me, my brain goes into a total arrest.
Is that what it means to ‘just know’?
Maybe my insecurity over where he and I are going and my inability to be really, truly open with him is just my inexperience. Or maybe my silly worries about Bella are just distrust left from discovering Peter’s infidelity. Or a hangover from all those ‘cool! detached!’ lectures from stupid old Robert.
From my back pocket, my phone vibrates.
A text! From Dave!
Hello, my sexy little roast chestnut. I was just looking at photos of you on Facebook. You are scrumptious, has anyone ever told you that? x
I grin delightedly to myself, and the insecurity curl around my chest disappears. My little Dave-fix. Twenty minutes later, after more redrafts than I can bear to admit to you (because I am a grown woman and should have better things to do with my time than draft the perfect sexy/witty/wry/understated little text) I have a reply to send.
Now, I don’t want to pin him down with a text-terrogation, but my natural urge to ask WHERE ARE YOU? WHEN ARE YOU BACK? WHAT ARE YOU DOING? DO YOU MISS ME? WILL YOU SEE ME TOMORROW NIGHT? WHY WILL YOU NEVER MAKE PLANS WITH ME? WHY DID BELLA TEXT YOU? WHY DAMMIT? WHY? is getting harder and harder to ignore. So I’ve decided to bend the rules and refer – very, very sneakily – to the future.
My reply:
Stalking is so last year. And yes, I’ve been told that many times. One more sleep till Abigail is home in London. Hurrah. x
His immediate reply.
Hurrah indeed. I’ve just about had it with my family, too. My sister has gone batshit crazy this year. x
See what I mean? No details.
I wonder what Louisa has done to get the title of ‘batshit crazy’. I think she’s the first person I’ve ever intensely disliked without even seeing her. Anyone who treated Robert that way must be evil. I hope I get to meet her soon.
Another text! From Dave!
I miss you by the way. See you tomorrow. x
It’s so good to be home. Our house is still decked out in Robert’s sister’s Christmas decorations, there’s milk in the fridge and crumpets in the breadbin, and it’s warm and clean. In short, the place feels loved.
As soon as I got back, I took a shower, dressed in my new Christmas J Brand jeans and a white top, unpacked, put washing on, changed my sheets, rearranged my wardrobe, and played my favourite Roxy Music songs very loudly on the iPod player.
Bored.
I’m trying to manage my Daveticipation. He’ll be in touch today. I know he will. He texted ‘See you tomorrow’. I have to be patient and not text-terrogate him.
And when I see him – or kiss him – again, perhaps I’ll know. Just like my father said.
I wonder what Robert is up to . . . I made him a Christmas card in France. I want our friendship to go back to what it was . . . Whatever he doesn’t like about me being with Dave, he’s just going to have to learn to live with.
Hmm.
I take out my notebook and look at the sentence again.
When you find the right person you’ll just know.
I drew so many little squiggles and arrows around it that anyone analysing that page would think I was crazy and potentially violent.
Very bored. Plum and Henry are spending New Year’s Eve with their respective new partners, Sophie and Luke are driving into London later today . . . DaveDaveDave . . . I wonder what Robert is doing. I’ll call him.
‘Why, if it isn’t the nearly-birthday girl,’ says Robert, instead of hello.
‘You’re not at work, are you? Because it’s nearly 5 pm on New Year’s Eve and that would be weird. Happy Christmas, by the way.’
‘Happy Christmas. And I am at work, yes.’
‘Fancy a little New Year’s Eve drink?’
‘Done. The Only Running Footman in Mayfair?’
‘See you there, one hour.’
The Only Running Footman is a loving Christmas hug of an old pub in Mayfair. It’s just off Berkeley Square, and during normal weekdays is filled with local suits drinking boisterously. At 6 pm on this dark and frosty New Year’s Eve, however, it’s surprisingly empty, with just a handful of people in black tie having pre-dinner drinks before heading off to some glamorous Mayfair ball, no doubt. Ever noticed how men always look smug and round in black tie, and women always look sparkly and freezing?
I order two large whiskies and take a seat, my face lighting up as I see a familiar broad-shouldered figure coming in the front door.
‘Robert!’ I exclaim, jumping up to give him a hug. He looks a bit tired and peaky, probably from working too hard and not eating properly, I muse. And his hair is shorter than I’ve ever seen it, making him look somehow clean-cut and younger.
‘Love the haircut! Can I call you Drill Sergeant?’
‘Ah, Abby,’ he says, leaning into kiss me on both cheeks, and I give him a hug. He’s so big and broad, particularly in all his winter layers and coat. It’s like wrapping my arms around a tree.
‘Sit down, my boy,’ I say. ‘You look pale. Have you been eating properly?’
‘Yes, Mummy,’ he says, taking a sip of his whisky. ‘Oh, fuck me, that’s good. What is that?’
‘Laphroaig,’ I say. ‘Just one for you, though, princess. You know how you get after a few whiskies.’ I raise my eyebrows at him meaningfully.
Robert shouts with laughter. ‘Christ! One time! And I drank about a bottle that night, I’ll have you know. I’m an exceptional drunk.’
‘Of course you are. Now! I made you a Christmas card.’
He opens it. ‘You shouldn’t have! Ah, really. You shouldn’t have . . .’ I know I’m a dork, but I made him a little amateur-découpage card with pictures I cut from magazines and discarded Christmas gift tags. There’s a moped, porridge, a Bloody Mary, a newspaper, and Don Draper from
Mad Men
, because I think Robert looks like him, and a plum pudding, and a reindeer on which I wrote ‘Fernie 2002’, and lots of stars.
‘It’s ugly, but festive, which I think is fitting given what our house looks like right now,’ I say.
Robert reads the poem I wrote inside.
‘For Robert, so tall and such a grouch, I always see you on the couch, Happy Christmas and New Year, I hope it’s filled with lots of cheer’. Wow. That’s . . .’
‘I know, brilliant,’ I say, laughing. ‘I was bored.’
‘Thank you, Abby. I feel so lucky. Did you make one for Dave, too?’ he asks.
‘No, just my friends. So tell me about your Christmas. Did Santa find you?’
‘Yes, and he brought me pyjamas with airplanes on – my mother doesn’t know that I sleep naked—’
‘And usually have a girl for added warmth,’ I interject. ‘—precisely, and my sisters gave me this rather smart coat. What about you, Abigail, my little Christmas fairy?’
‘These jeans, and this jumper, and some books, and some of that lemon bath oil from doctor whatever-it-is, and very warm gloves.’
‘Alice’s husband gave her gloves one year and it caused a fight that lasted till February.’
‘Schoolboy error. Never give a practical present to someone you sleep with.’
‘I’d like to amend that to “or a present that could in anyway insult the recipient, no matter who the recipient is”,’ says Robert. ‘Last year, my mother gave me a book called
Online Dating For Dummies
.’ I laugh so hard at this that I choke on my whisky.
‘Peter got me a blender once. Practical AND insulting.’
‘Louisa once got me a card saying she was taking me to Morocco as my present,’ says Robert. ‘And then she left me on New Year’s Eve so we never went. Which was how she’d always planned it, I guess.’
‘That’s not funny at all.’ I’m shocked.
‘I know.’ He sighs. No wonder he looks tired, I think. It’s the anniversary of his broken heart.
God, I’m dramatic these days.
‘Right, well, we’re not going to think about her today, the silly bitch. We’re going to have another drink and cheer the fuck up.’
By the time we’re halfway through the next whisky, the pub is filling up. I have my phone on the table, so I can surreptitiously ensure there’s no chance I can miss a call from Dave, but there’s been nothing so far. It’s 7 pm now. Five hours to go. I just need to be patient. He’ll turn up. In the meantime, Robert is doing impressions of his sisters, who always fight like harpies over Christmas.
‘I think it’s a chemical thing that happens to sisters,’ I say.
‘Alice is properly grown-up with two children, yet she chased Rosie around the house with a wooden spoon screaming “I know you are wearing my fucking knickers, take them fucking off”.’
‘I wonder when people actually turn properly grown-up,’ I say. ‘I don’t feel it.’
‘I don’t think anyone does. Alice says sometimes she sees her kids as really cool housemates with serious dependence issues. So, what do you want to do for your birthday tomorrow?’
‘Nothing is planned,’ I say, and am about to say ‘it depends on Dave’ but then I realise how pathetic that sounds, so instead I shrug. ‘I always feel like New Year’s Eve is the whole world celebrating my birthday a day early, anyway. Maybe we could all go to the pub in the afternoon and just relax. Sophie and Luke and Henry and Charlotte are in London, so . . .’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ nods Robert. ‘And Dave, of course.’
‘Of course,’ I nod. I glance quickly at my phone. Nope, nothing. I look up and meet Robert’s gaze, and before he can mind-read me, I stand up. ‘Right! I’m going to the bar.’
There are a couple of girls on a table near the bar, looking at the A-Z map of London.
‘Well, that can’t be right, that says St James there, but I thought that St James was a park down there,’ says one girl.
‘That’s definitely the Piccadilly Circus region, not St James,’ says the other. They’re American.
‘Hi there . . .’ I say. Oh God, why do I always try to talk to strangers after I’ve had a drink. Oh well. ‘Actually, St James is also a very small area just below Piccadilly, as well as a park, and Piccadilly is a long road between Hyde Park Corner and Piccadilly Circus. And that’s just a big ugly junction no one goes to if they can help it.’
‘Thank you!’ they chorus, looking up at me delightedly. They both have perfect teeth, like all Americans. (Damn them.)
‘You’re so nice!’ says the blonde. ‘I’m Taylor, this is Bree.’
I order my drinks, and we chat together for a minute. They quickly tell me, in the way of all ambitious new graduates, that they’ve just finished their degrees in journalism but couldn’t find jobs thanks to the economy, so are now travelling around the world and blogging about it.
‘We hope to get a book deal at the end, and we’ll parlay that into a career in journalism,’ says Taylor. ‘We have 3,000 followers on Twitter already and it’s only been a month. It’s called Travel By Proxy.’
They’re 21 and they’ve already got more ambition and career smarts than I do at 28-minus-one-day. When did everyone else figure everything out?
‘Can we take a photo of you?’ says Bree, brandishing a digital camera. ‘Will you be an interview subject?’
‘Uh, sure,’ I say. Man, I hate photos. ‘Do you want to interview a guy too? I feel bad leaving him by himself for too long . . .’
Bree and Taylor turn around, see Robert, and both of their jaws drop. I stifle the urge to laugh. Within seconds, they’ve picked up their coats, bags and drinks, and are heading over towards him.
‘I come bearing gifts!’ I beam at him, and make a ta-dah! motion with my hands at Bree and Taylor. They both immediately put on kittenish smiles and Bree pulls down her ponytail, running her fingers through her roots. Robert shoots me a lamb-to-the-slaughter look, before turning to the girls with a smile.
‘Hello, Bree. Hello, Taylor.’
‘Hello!’ says Bree. ‘Now! Let me introduce you to Travel By Proxy!’ She explains the concept again.
‘Abby, darling, you go first,’ says Robert.
I nod, sit up straight and try to look thoughtful.
‘What’s your idea of perfect happiness?’
‘Um . . . My friends and a late-night bar.’
‘And your boyfriend Robert!’ interrupts Taylor.
‘Absolutely,’ I say automatically. Robert and I look at each other and I fight the urge to laugh.
‘What is the quality you most like in a man?’
‘Confidence,’ I say. ‘And charm.’ An image of Dave flashes into my head. I wonder where he is, and why he hasn’t texted. I—
‘What is the quality you most like in a woman?’
‘Silliness. And smarts.’
‘If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?’
‘My inability to decide what I want in life,’ I say. Robert and I meet eyes again. ‘Did you just steal these from the
Vanity Fair
Proust Questionnaire, or what?’
‘Not the final one,’ says Bree proudly. ‘Where do you see yourself in 12 months?’
I’m stumped. I open my mouth to talk and nothing comes out. Robert starts to laugh. ‘She doesn’t like thinking about the future,’ he tells them.
‘No, no, I can answer this!’ I say. What do I want my life to look like in 12 months? Images flash through my brain: Dave, work, Dave, work . . . nothing is clear. Why am I so indecisive? ‘Um,’ I say desperately, and cast about for inspiration. ‘Well, it’ll be New Year’s Eve, so I see myself drinking in a pub with Robert.’
‘Good answer!’ says Taylor. ‘OK! Robert. Your girlfriend did so well, let’s see how you go!’
‘Be gentle,’ he says seriously. She giggles and chews her pen. I roll my eyes inwardly.
‘OK! OK. What’s your idea of perfect happiness?’
‘Peanut butter on crumpets,’ he says seriously.
‘What’s a crumpet?’ Bree whispers to me.
‘It’s like a type of bread,’ I whisper back.
Taylor clears her throat meaningfully. ‘What is the quality you most like in a man?’
‘High alcohol tolerance. And loyalty.’
‘What is the quality you most like in a woman?’
‘Good posture. And loyalty.’
‘If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?’
‘The list is too long . . .’ he says, looking at me and smiling.
‘Where do you see yourself in 12 months?’
‘Apparently I’ll be drinking with Abigail.’
‘This is great. So great!’ says Bree, tapping away.
‘Oh my God! Bree! We have to go!’ exclaims Taylor, looking at her watch. ‘Our New Year’s Eve party starts in two hours!’
‘You must get tired of girls throwing themselves at you,’ I say, after they’ve left.
‘You’re the one who dropped them at my feet like a cat with a mouse.’
‘I know how hard it is for you to meet women,’ I say.
‘It used to be. It was only because of those snogging competitions with Dave that I kissed anyone in my teens . . . I was more competitive than I was shy.’
Oh, Dave. Where are you, I think. Why haven’t you called.
‘He’ll turn up,’ says Robert. ‘I think he’s still with his family.’
Our eyes meet again, and I’m about to tell him off for mind-reading, when the girls burst back into the pub. ‘We forgot the photo! Some journalists we are!’ Bree exclaims. ‘OK, smile!’
We both sit up and smile for the photo.
‘Come on, you guys! Put your arm around your lady, Robert!’
Robert puts his arm around me. I look towards him, our eyes meet for a second, and I start laughing. This is ridiculous.
‘Perfect! So amazing. OK! Call us later! Or we’ll email you! Bye!’ They run out of the pub again.
‘Where was your first kiss, then?’ says Robert, after a pause. ‘On holiday. A French boy. I was 15 and just happy to get it over and done with. You?’
‘I was on holiday too. I was 14. My sister Alice lined Luke, Dave and I up with the other girls and counted three . . . two . . . one . . . LUNGE!’
I’m laughing so hard that I start banging the table with my hand. Ow, that hurts. Must be a bit tipsy.
‘Who were the girls?’
‘Our sisters, actually,’ he says. ‘Don’t look at me like that! Not our own sisters, obviously. I kissed Louisa who was 19 and, frankly, cradle snatching at the time, Luke kissed Rosie who was 16, and Dave kissed Bella who was 13.’
‘That’s pretty sick.’ Bella and Dave were each other’s first kiss? Oh God, don’t think about it.
‘Yeah, weird, isn’t it? Especially considering . . . everything,’ he says, then glances at me. I meet his gaze and try to smile.