I’ve been living in Notting Hill for a month now, and Alex has been as good as his word. He’s showing me his London, piece by piece, like a jigsaw, and I’m falling even more in love. With London, I should add, not with him. Definitely not with him. Not even a tiny little bit. Not even one atom of my romance-loving, musical-addicted, happy-ever-after body is longing to throw myself into his arms and say pick me, you idiot. Because that would be completely pointless and I am not a fool. He spins round again, thrusting his hands in the pockets of his jeans so I can see his bottom (which is an exceptionally nice specimen – just saying, purely objectively). Well, perhaps I am a little bit of a fool.
Because the thing is, I can’t help thinking that if I hadn’t gone on that bloody skiing holiday, which was admittedly lovely, perhaps Alex wouldn’t have got off with the beautiful, effortlessly glamorous, high-flying Emma the night before I got back. And instead of lying with my head under two pillows gritting my teeth and trying not to listen to the sounds of them definitely not being a couple in the room next door, I could be in there. Literally.
As it is, I feel like a complete fool. And Alex hasn’t a clue. He’s so sweet. Whenever he’s got time off, he’s taking me on adventures around London, showing off his favourite places to me. And he loves this city so much that even if I didn’t already, he would have converted me.
And he’s got no idea I know something’s going on with him and Emma. The weird thing is, they’re perfectly civil to each other in the house the rest of the time, so it’s like nothing’s going on and it’s all in my head. Except I’d have to be pretty screwed up to be imagining that.
‘It’s called fuckbuddies,’ Gen said to me on the phone earlier in the week, as if she was explaining something very simple to a child of about four years old.
‘I know what it is,’ I said. ‘I just didn’t think it was actually a thing.’
‘God Jess, you are so naïve sometimes. Of course it’s a thing. Look at me and Marco.’
‘Marco from the Ballet?’
‘Yes.’ I could picture her rolling her eyes.
‘I thought you two were just friends.’
‘With benefits,’ Gen said, with a dirty sort of chuckle. ‘When it suited me. Or him.’
‘But what if it suited you and not him? How did you know when he’d be in the right mood? What happened if he turned up and you were like, “No thanks, I’m wearing a face mask and watching reruns of Gilmore Girls”?’
‘Jess, you are illustrating precisely why you have never been, and probably never will be, the sort of person who has a friend with any sort of benefits.’
‘I could,’ I said, feeling a bit injured. ‘If I wanted to. Which I don’t.’
‘Sure, Jess,’ said Gen, laughing, but not unkindly. ‘You’re a total hearts and flowers romantic. And that’s okay.’
After we’d ended the call, I looked at myself in the mirror. I tried a sexy sort of pout, and held my hair up off my face to try to imagine what it’d be like to be the sort of person – someone like Emma – who can just have sex with whoever she feels like and then get up the next morning and ask them to pass the cornflakes without feeling even the slightest bit awkward. I pulled a face at the thought, and let my hair drop back down to my shoulders. You know what, I said to myself, maybe it’s okay if I’m just not that sort of person.
‘And here we have the lesser-spotted tourist,’ Alex says in a David Attenborough voice, turning around on his heel and walking backwards, facing me.
It’s a Sunday afternoon and miraculously he’s not working. A week has gone by and I’ve hardly seen Alex because he’s been working nights and sleeping in the daytime. He’s not just doing his placement, but he’s doing some bank work as a healthcare assistant as well to earn a bit of extra money. He looks hollow-eyed with exhaustion.
Right on cue, he yawns widely. ‘God, I’m sorry.’
‘You should probably be asleep,’ I point out, reasonably. ‘Not wandering around showing me slightly interesting parts of London.’
‘Yeah but I can’t just work all day and sleep all night,’ he says, then bursts out laughing realising his mistake.
‘You could. Like the rest of the sane world. Only you’ve decided on a noble vocation where you get precisely no sleep and work ridiculous hours instead.’
He laughs, his bright eyes twinkling in a way that is disturbingly sexy, and I look down at the squashed, end-of-winter grass and scuff it with the toe of my boot. I know how it feels.
I look sideways at Alex as we’re walking. He’s checking his email on his phone and not really paying attention, so he doesn’t notice. I’m trying to size him up and decide if he’s that sort of person, or if he’s just going along with it and half-hoping Emma might want to make something more permanent out of their arrangement. I can’t tell.
I think I’m doing quite a good job of dealing with the fact that I can’t actually get away from the one that got away (as I think of him, quietly, when nobody’s looking) because he lives in the bedroom next to mine, and we’ve got a twelve-month bloody lease. Not that I’d want to move out, even if I could afford it. I love living there, and I like him, and Becky, and – weird as this might sound, given their nocturnal habits – I like Emma, too. And Rob, even though I don’t see him very often. We’re a weird mix, but we work really well as housemates. I take a deep breath. I’ll just have to focus all my romantic thoughts in the direction of Sophie and Rich’s future wedding.
‘Do you want to see something really interesting?’ Alex says, out of the blue, as two small children zoom past on scooters, their mothers following close behind with tiny babies in prams. We’ve been walking along in a peaceable sort of silence for a while now.
‘Really interesting?’ I look at him sideways. ‘You’re not overselling this are you?’
He shakes his head and laughs. ‘Yeah, all right. It’s a bit interesting.’
‘Oh go on then.’
‘It’s down here. Bit of a walk.’
‘I’m not in any rush.’
‘So this is what I was going to show you.’ Alex steps aside and points between a gap in the railings.
‘Oh my God, it’s a miniature graveyard. You are seriously weird.’ I lean in closer, peering at the little stone graves.
‘It’s a pet cemetery.’
‘Yikes. Like the film?’
‘I hope not.’ He laughs. ‘It’s been closed to the public for years now – but there are about three hundred pets from the turn of the last century buried there.’
‘That’s creepy. Imagine if they all come to life and London’s taken over by spooky little pet zombies.’
He shakes his head with a rueful smile. ‘You are seriously weird, Jess.’
Before long, we’re meandering down the paths along the Serpentine. After a while we find a bench and sit down for a rest.
‘It’s funny,’ I say, looking at the jumble of people I can see. ‘In between the tourists, there are people just living their lives here. This is their park.’
He nods, thoughtfully. ‘And of course—’ he gets up, holding out a hand to help me up ‘—down that end, you can hang out and spot Kate Middleton and her kids – or the Duchess of Cambridge, I should say – sometimes.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yeah. I guess she has to try and live a normal life some of the time.’
We start walking up towards home – my sense of direction is improving a bit now we’re walking everywhere. It’s funny, because when you don’t live in London and you go everywhere by tube, the city feels completely different. It’s actually not that big, when you start walking around.
‘There,’ Alex says, pointing to the huge, ornate building that is Kensington Palace. ‘That’s their house. Well, not all of it. There’s loads of other random royals in there too. But they’ve got a little flat with about fifteen bedrooms down the side. I’ve seen her once, pushing a pushchair and walking a dog.’
‘No way.’ I realise I sound like an overawed tourist, but the idea of bumping into the royal family when I’m out for a stroll just seems completely bonkers.
‘I don’t think it happens that often, if you were planning on hanging out all day on the off chance.’
I give a little snort. ‘As if,’ I say. And then we keep walking, but my head swivels left and I have a little daydream about what I’d do if I bumped into the Duchess of Cambridge one sunny afternoon.
The trouble with me is I’ve always been a daydreamer. Always been a sucker for a romantic film, always loved a book with a good old-fashioned happy ever after ending. And now I’m working for a publisher that specialises in that sort of story and I’m as happy as a pig in – well, rose petals might be a nicer way of putting it. I had no idea that working for a publishing company meant I’d be given as many free books as I could get my hands on. The shelf in my room is groaning with advance reading copies – early editions of books, offered to reviewers, librarians and booksellers.
‘Let’s go back down this way. Fancy something to eat?’
My stomach growls in answer. ‘Definitely.’
Crossing the road out of Hyde Park, we head down towards Portobello Road, and the smell hits us almost as we turn the corner onto the street. The fizz and spit of burgers being cooked mingles with the sweet scent of cinnamon buns from the bakery stall, and sour-spiced olives and paella in a huge frying pan.
‘What d’you fancy?’
‘Everything.’ I laugh.
‘Bockwurst, genuine German sausages, get your sausages here,’ shouts a voice, and I turn to the right, seeing a market stallholder handing one over. ‘Mustard and sauce over there, love,’ he says to the woman, who gives a nod of thanks.
‘What can I get you, love?’ he asks as he turns to me.
We take our sausages and sit down on the stone wall outside the Electric Cinema. At last the beginnings of spring are showing themselves. There are crocuses peeping through the earth in wooden window boxes, and bright yellow daffodils standing proudly in the garden beside us. Portobello Road is a riot of noise and colour, alive with people and bustle and everything I love about London. I sit there with Alex by my side, and we eat our sausages, and we watch the world go by in a companionable silence.
‘There’s a place I’d like to show you,’ Alex says, as we stand up after we’ve finished eating. He looks at me, his expression concerned. ‘Unless you want to get back? We’ve been ages.’
I shake my head. What I want to say is that I’d be quite happy walking the streets of London every day with him, because I think he is lovely. What I do say is: ‘No, I’m not in any rush to get back.’ And off we go.
We walk to Little Venice, which looks exactly like you’d think from the name. It’s like an oasis of calm in the middle of the city – canals lined with pubs and cafés, willow trees dipping their branches in the water, and colourful narrowboats moored by the canal-side.
‘I’ve always wanted to live in one of those,’ I say, peering in the window. A small child presses her nose against the window from inside and I laugh.
‘Me too,’ says Alex. ‘This is the café I wanted to show you.’
It’s not posh. The curtains are faded gingham and outside there are a couple of rickety wooden tables and chairs.
‘They do the best coffee – and breakfast – around here. I love it. And you can sit and watch the world go by.’
‘Yes please.’ I pull out a chair – it’s freezing cold, but there are thick red fleece blankets hanging on the back. I wrap one around my knees and sit, watching. It reminds me more of Amsterdam than Venice, in a funny way.
I watch the sun streaking the sky pale coral pink and red as it begins to set. After a few minutes, Alex reappears with two flat whites, each with a pretty heart on the top. I pull my phone out and take a photo, adding it to my Instagram story.
‘I like your Instagram.’ Alex stirs sugar into his coffee, and the heart disappears from the froth. ‘It’s like you see all the good bits in London.’
‘Thanks.’ I sip my drink and look out at the people on the canal. The little girl we saw earlier has climbed out of the narrowboat now. She’s wearing a thick padded coat and wellie boots, waiting for her dad to get her bike. She stamps her feet and catches my eye, jumping in a puddle and laughing. ‘I like sharing the nice bits.’
‘That’s a good way of looking at life,’ he says, smiling at me in a way that makes his eyes crinkle and my heart give a disobedient thud.
‘It’s partly a way of saving up memories, and it’s also because I like sharing them with my Nanna Beth.’
‘And your mum? Is she an Instagram addict as well?’
I shake my head, laughing. ‘Definitely not. My mother only likes to do stuff when there’s applause at the end of it. Put her on stage and she’s quite happy. There’s not enough feedback from online stuff.’
‘She’s an actress?’
I want to say no, she’s a drama queen, but that’s not really fair. I had a long, rambling voicemail from her earlier, complaining that she’s had to go over and help Nanna Beth when she’s got a performance tomorrow and she should be saving her voice. The performance Mum was talking about is the local theatre’s rendition of Chicago, but nonetheless … apparently she’s been working on it for weeks now.
‘She’s a part-time actress, yeah. Never quite made it to the West End, but she’s done a few bits on television and stuff like that.’
‘Wow. That’s amazing.’
‘She’s hoping to get a job on one of the cruise ships, so she’ll be away for ages.’
‘That’ll be weird for you,’ Alex says, looking up at me through his dark fringe.
I shake my head. ‘She was always away a lot when I was growing up.’
‘With work?’ He looks at me, head slightly to one side, his expression thoughtful.
‘Um,’ I frown a bit and fiddle with the wooden coffee stirrer. It’s not something I talk about very often, but there’s something about Alex that makes me feel it’s safe to open up. ‘She wasn’t great at the whole birthdays and Christmases thing, so my grandparents kind of picked up the slack there. And sometimes she had boyfriends who weren’t that keen on children – well, on me – so I ended up spending more and more time with my grandparents, until it ended up being pretty much a permanent fixture.’
‘Wow.’ He sort of sits back a bit, looking at me. ‘That must’ve been hard then. I mean, when your grandpa died, it was like losing a parent.’
I chew my lip and look across at where the little girl is playing. She and her dad are heading off down the canal-side now. She’s meandering on her bike, unsteady on two wheels, and he’s got his hand at the small of her back, protecting and guiding her. I blink hard, because for a strange half-second I feel tears stinging at my eyes.
‘Yeah.’ I look down at the table for a moment, gathering myself, then look up at Alex. He’s got such a kind face. ‘It was hard, because it was like we lost him twice – first when the dementia set in, and then again when he died.’
Alex nods. ‘I get it. When my dad died I felt guilty because the first thing I felt was relief. He’d been sick for ages – and cancer just seemed to change him. He wasn’t the same person at the end.’
‘That’s exactly it.’ I let out a sigh. ‘And so you decided to retrain as a nurse.’
He nods. ‘I know everyone thinks it’s insane. It’s just – I saw the difference they made to Dad. To everyone in the ward. And I watched him fading away and I thought about all the stuff he’d done, and how he made a difference – the buildings he worked on are actual, concrete things. There’s a children’s hospice in Liverpool that he worked on, and they took the parents’ and the children’s views into account when they built it, because he said that mattered.’ He looks away then for a moment, and I reach across the table, forgetting myself, and put a hand on his arm. He looks back and his eyes are shining with tears, which he wipes away with a sleeve, making a self-deprecating face. ‘Sorry.’
‘God, don’t be. That’s so lovely.’
‘Yeah. I haven’t ever really talked about that, you know?’ He rubs his nose for a moment and then picks up the other wooden stirrer and starts snapping it into tiny pieces. ‘Thing is I wanted to do something worthwhile. Corporate law wasn’t it. I want to do something that I can be proud of, if …’ He tails off.
‘I get it.’
He looks at me then, holding my gaze for a second. My hand’s still on his arm and I move it away, feeling suddenly shy.
He smiles and stands up, holding his hand out to me to pull me up to standing. ‘I’m glad you do.’
We walk home together through the gathering dark of the February evening. There’s still the tiniest hint of spring streaking across the sky as the night falls, and I feel happy. Properly, straightforwardly happy. It’s a good feeling.
When we get back, the house is in uproar. Emma is standing on one of the kitchen chairs, holding a loaf of our home-made sourdough bread and swearing profusely.
‘Um,’ says Alex, looking at me and raising his eyebrows. ‘Hi?’
‘There’s a – thing – eating my bread.’
I look at Alex and burst out laughing. ‘You didn’t take a bite after working a long shift yesterday?’
‘Not guilty.’
‘It’s no’ one of us,’ says a gruff voice from downstairs. Rob emerges from the hall, brandishing two old-fashioned mousetraps. He’s a short, bearded, red-haired man – older than the rest of us – probably in his forties. Rob looks and sounds so Scottish that I always expect him to be wearing a kilt. ‘I think we’ve got a wee bit of a mouse problem.’ He puts the mousetraps down on the table and holds his hand out to me. ‘Hello, stranger,’ he says, with a welcoming smile. ‘Long time no see.’
‘A mouse?’ Nanna Beth gives a snort of laughter as I tell her the latest on what’s been happening in the house. I’m curled up on the bed, a fleecy blanket over my knees because it’s freezing cold and there’s something wrong with the heating. It feels good to hear her voice, and I feel a wave of longing.
‘You need to put some peanut butter on a trap. They can’t resist it.’
‘Then we’ll have a squished mouse to deal with.’ I shudder at the prospect.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, girl. You’re made of tougher stuff than that.’
I pull a face, but don’t say anything.
‘So you seem to be quite settled in with the housemates now.’
‘I am. Work’s a bit …’ I try and think of the right word, but can’t. ‘It’s all a bit new, that’s all.’
It’s like trying to stuff an octopus in a string bag; that’s what it’s like. When I was working at the marketing company, everything went according to plan – admittedly mainly because I was doing most of it. But here, now – well. I’m reliant on authors delivering manuscripts on time, editors getting their work done on time, the vagaries of cover designers and delivery dates and all sorts of things. It’s like Jenga, only with books. If one thing goes wrong, the whole tower falls apart. This week an author decided the book she was working on wasn’t right, and that she wanted to rewrite the whole thing. Trouble is, we’ve got production all set up and it’s meant to be going to print in eight weeks. I go to bed worrying about printing schedules and wake up with my teeth gritted.
Nanna Beth makes a slight snorting noise. ‘You sound a bit stressed out to me, my love. Maybe you need some sea air and some of my cherry scones.’
I sag slightly. The thought of both of those and a comforting hug from her makes me feel about ten years old again, and I ache with homesickness like I did at that age when we went on a school trip to Wales for a week.
‘Oh God, I do. In fact, I’m going to come down and see you next weekend, if you’re free.’
‘Oh, that would be nice, lovey, but I’m going on a coach trip to Hastings.’
I sag a bit more.
‘The weekend after, perhaps?’ she says, cheerfully. ‘I’ve got a chess competition, but that’s only Saturday afternoon. You can have a nice bath or go for a walk along the prom with your mum.’
‘You’ve got a better social life than me,’ I say, and I’m not even joking. Since moving into the sheltered housing complex, she’s been busier than I’ve ever known her. It makes me wonder if she’s been storing all this social energy up for all the years she was married to Grandpa. And then it hits me – she’s lonely.
‘You’re okay, though?’ I ask, concerned.
‘Me? Right as rain.’
‘You’re not – not missing Grandpa too much?’
The last couple of years when he was at home, and the dementia was making it harder and harder for him to manage, had been tough on her. I’d lived there, determined to help as much as I could, especially as Mum had – par for the course with her – checked out and gone travelling with a new boyfriend she’d met. She didn’t really do responsibility. It’s not that she didn’t care, it’s more that she – well, she’s always been sort of focused on herself.
‘No, lovey. I mean I miss him, of course, but he wouldn’t have wanted to carry on like that. It’s a blessing, in a horrible way.’
‘I know.’ I think of Grandpa before, when he was well, pottering around the garden in his slippers and a woolly jumper, dead-heading roses and sorting out the shed that was his pride and joy. I try not to think about him sitting, lost in a world of his own, staring into space for hours on end.
‘Anyway, enough of that. What else is happening with you?’ she asks.
I tell her a slightly filtered version of how it’s really going at work, and how I managed to survive a meeting with a load of important people without screwing it up. I don’t mention Alex, or how I’d taken to sleeping with earplugs in just in case I accidentally overhear him and Emma in the room next to mine, or how I’m grateful for the solid Victorian walls that muffle most of the noise even though they unfortunately make this place freezing cold on days like today.
And then I hang up, because she’s got to get going to her chair yoga class, and I hug my knees and I smile to myself, because somehow, at twenty-nine and seventy-nine, the two of us are doing okay in our new lives.