We Met in December

‘Oh, bless,’ says Becky, taking my phone so she can have a closer look. ‘Look, she’s got that wooden carving you bought her in Cyprus on the mantelpiece.’

I peer over her shoulder. ‘Ahh, that’s nice.’ I’m hit by a wave of guilt that I’m going to be up here and she’s going to be down there. I’ve spent the last year living in her house, ever since Grandpa died, and it’s going to be weird not having her there every night when I get home from work.

‘She’ll be fine,’ says Becky, as if reading my thoughts. She clicks the phone off and puts it down on the table. ‘And it’s not as if you’re miles away. It’s a train ride, that’s all.’

‘I know. Just feels weird leaving her to the tender mercies of Mum.’

Becky makes a face. ‘Yeah, well, she’s not exactly … well, she wasn’t at the front of the queue when they were giving out the nurturing quota, was she?’

I snort. My mother is many things, but maternal is not one of them. I mean she’s lovely, in her own way. But I’m not sure she’ll remember to pop round every couple of days and check Nanna Beth’s doing okay in her new place. Anyway. I square my shoulders and think of what Nanna Beth told me when she’d pressed a roll of twenty-pound notes into my hand yesterday morning. It was time for me to step out into the big world and let her do her own thing. Slightly odd role reversal, I know, but our family’s always been a bit unusual.

In the kitchen, Becky’s still singing out of tune and lighting the tiny tea-light candles that are scattered around. Even when we were living in university halls, she managed to make her room look good.

There’s a clatter as someone opens the door, and a gust of air blows a couple of Christmas cards off the top of the fridge. I bend down and pick them up, catching the one-sided conversation that’s going on in the hall.

‘You said you’d be able to get away.’ It must be Emma, the girl Becky’s found to take another one of the rooms.

There’s a long pause and I hover by the kitchen door, wondering if I should pop my head round and say hello. Becky’s stirring spiced chicken and peppers, filling the room with a smell that makes my stomach growl. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.

‘What about me?’ Emma says. My eyes widen. I shouldn’t be listening in, but I’m a sucker for a bit of drama. I fiddle with my phone, trying to look as if I’m busy and not just eavesdropping. Emma’s voice is in that middle ground, somewhere between angry and upset.

‘I don’t care what she’s doing,’ she says, and this time she’s not keeping her voice down. ‘I’m not waiting around forever.’

Becky turns round, frying pan in hand. She raises her eyebrows and looks towards the door. ‘Uh-oh, trouble in paradise by the sound of it.’

I nod, and lower my voice. ‘What’s the story?’

Becky puts a finger to her lips. ‘Tell you later. But it’s very Emma. It’ll be all over and they’ll be loved up before you know it.’

A moment later, Emma appears in the room, her eyes sparkling in that suspiciously bright way that mine do if I’ve been crying and I’m trying to look like everything’s okay.

‘Hi, hello,’ she says, and leans over and kisses me on the cheek.

‘Sorry, just had to take a quick work call. You know what it’s like. They pay us nothing, and expect us to be on call 24/7.’

I smile in a way that I hope suggests I haven’t heard a thing.

‘Emma, this is Jess, the university friend I told you about. She’s taking the room on the first floor.’

‘Lovely to meet you, Jess. God I need a drink,’ says Emma, picking up one of the little shot glasses of tequila. I’m about to pass her a lemon slice, but she’s too quick for me. The whole thing is gone in a second, and she winces in disgust. ‘Ugh. Revolting. I hate tequila.’ She takes another one and downs it as well. ‘Cheers.’

I’m still holding the lemon slice in mid-air when the kitchen door opens again.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ says a low voice. I look up, and almost drop my phone in shock.

Standing in the doorway, taking up quite a lot of it, is a man. The kind of man that makes you feel like your stomach just fell through the floor. I mean I say that, but Emma’s scrolling through her phone and Becky’s running hot water over the fajita saucepan, so maybe they’re immune or something but – wow.

I press my lips together, mainly to check that my mouth isn’t actually hanging open. I suspect my eyes are cartoon circles though, and I can’t press them shut without looking a bit weird, so I just sort of stand there, making a kind of mental inventory.

Scruff of beard – check. Broad, muscular shoulders – check. Twinkly eyes – check. Bottle of tequila in hand. He’s wearing a grey shirt and a pair of jeans and he’s got a scarf hanging round his neck and …

‘Hey. You must be Jess,’ he says, stepping towards me. He reaches out a hand to shake mine, and then leans forward to kiss me on the cheek in greeting. ‘I’m Alex.’

He smells fresh, his cheek cold from the winter air against mine. I catch a faint scent of cedar wood and notice as he steps back that his sleeves are rolled up, showing off the sort of forearms that look as if he chops wood or does something outdoorsy for a living, only we’re in the middle of Notting Hill and that’s unlikely.

There’s a moment where I think I’ve forgotten how to speak, which is slightly awkward as I’m basically standing there like the human embodiment of the heart eyes emoji, suppressing the urge to put one hand to my cheek (because: phwoar, basically) and the other on his, to check he’s real (because: well, ditto). And then I remember that I’m sensible, level-headed Jess, and this is my new house and my new life and the number one rule that Becky told us all about in the welcome email was NO COUPLES. Which is absolutely fine, because I’m here to work and definitely absolutely not to fall in love at first sight with gorgeous men with cute beards holding tequila bottles.

‘Hi.’ I shove my phone back in the pocket of my jeans and try to force myself to do something practical, so I press my hands together in a workmanlike manner and say in an artificially bright voice, ‘That’s everyone, isn’t it?’

I turn to Becky, who’s halfway through what she’d later explain was a test fajita, a dollop of sour cream on her chin. She wipes it off, and tries to talk with her mouth full, so it comes out a bit muffled.

‘Everyone except Rob.’

I watch Emma, who has helped herself to another drink, but she’s added a mixer this time and she’s actually drinking it, not downing it in one. She’s sitting on the edge of the table, her long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. ‘Ah, yes. The mysterious Rob,’ she says, arching an eyebrow and smiling. She reaches over and takes a handful of tortilla chips. ‘Have you met him, Jess? I’m beginning to think maybe he’s a figment of Becky’s imagination.’

‘Yeah, Becky,’ says Alex. He shoves the bottle on the wonky wooden shelf over the kitchen sink and grabs a plate, turning to look at her, jokingly. ‘What’s the story with Rob?’

‘He is real, I promise you.’ Becky shakes her head, laughing.

‘Of course. Man of few words and many knives.’ Emma points to the kitchen counter. ‘Where are they, Becky? They were there the other day when I had breakfast then they disappeared.’

But Becky has her head in the freezer, trying to find a bag of ice, and doesn’t reply.

I take a look at Emma while she’s occupied with assembling a fajita wrap. She’s properly beautiful. She has a very attractive, angular face, with an aquiline nose and huge doe eyes. She looks like she’s made to swan about in Notting Hill, hanging out in expensive restaurants, being treated to expensive lunches. I pull up a chair at the big table and have a moment of feeling scruffy, freckled, and very suburban. Almost like someone who’s been living with their grandparents and working in an office in a seaside town a million miles from London, which isn’t surprising.

‘So what we know is this: Rob’s a chef, which means he works really long hours and we never see him because he’s home when we’re all out at work, and then out when we get back,’ Emma begins. ‘He turned up the other day, dumped all this expensive-looking kitchen kit on the table, then looked at his watch and said he had to run.’

‘Then I put his stuff in the big larder cupboard,’ Becky continues, banging a bag of ice against the edge of the table until the cubes separate. ‘Because three blocks of intimidating kitchen knives sitting out on the work surface was going to give me nightmares and I had visions of a serial killer turning up and murdering us all in our beds.’

‘I think a serial killer would probably have their own kit, don’t you?’ Alex says, looking thoughtful.

The three of them look at each other and laugh and I do too, but a split second behind. It’s weird – like being back at school or when you start a new job and you have that new-girl feeling when you’ve missed the boat a little bit. I watch as Alex, Emma and Becky make themselves fajitas from the food laid out on the table.

‘Dig in, Jess,’ Becky says, shoving the bowl of guacamole towards me.

I’m still reeling a bit from the unexpected handsomeness of Alex, and trying not to look at him. Except I can’t help taking a sneaky look when I think he won’t notice, and he glances in my direction and our eyes meet and I think that there’s a very strong possibility that I might inadvertently shout ‘PHWOAR’ by mistake because really he is very handsome indeed and the other two seem to be completely oblivious.

Becky’s telling a story about something that happened at work and the two of them are listening and laughing. Becky’s always been the most sociable of my university friends. We met in fresher’s week and we’ve been friends ever since. I studied English lit, she studied law, but whereas I left and found myself back in Bournemouth working for a perfectly nice, safe little marketing company, and ensconced in a relationship with Neil, Becks headed to London where she got a job with a law firm and started working her way up the ladder. And then it all went slightly pear-shaped for me back home, and it turned out to be a (mostly) good thing and now, I still can’t believe that this – I look out the window at the rainy street below, cars splashing past and the streetlights lighting everything with an orange glow – is my new life.

I let the evening wash over me for a while, and because they’re all so chatty, nobody really notices that I’m not saying much. Emma hands me a drink. She’s still in work clothes – very neat in expensive-looking boots and a shirt dress printed all over with tiny foxes.

‘So. When are you joining us?’ she asks.

She’s very formal, I think, watching her as I take a sip. Alex and Becky have whizzed up some sort of pomegranate cocktail with the ice and tequila he brought. It tastes like something you’d drink by the pool, instead of on a rainy December evening in London.

‘Not until after New Year. I’ve got a holiday booked with friends – we’re going skiing.’

‘Ooh, lovely. Christmas skiing.’ She looks impressed.

‘It’s not quite as fancy as it sounds. My friend Gen got a last-minute deal through a contact of hers, so we’re going to Val d’Isère on a coach.’

Gen’s friend – an actor, like her – was working in a call centre for a travel company when the deal had come through. We’d been making promises to each other for years that we’d go skiing again, after a school trip to Andorra a million years ago, and when this came up it felt like the perfect time. As soon as I’d said yes, the prospect of living every moment on a twenty-one-hour-long coach ride had started to pall slightly, but that was a minor detail.

‘Ouch.’ Emma looked sympathetic. ‘That’s a whole day on a coach. Still, it’ll be worth it for all the apres-ski and the gorgeous posh ski totty. You might meet a millionaire.’

I steal a quick look in Alex’s direction, thinking that actually, I’d be quite happy with someone like him, thank you very much, but give Emma a smile of agreement. ‘You never know.’

Becky fiddles with her phone, changing the music. She’s wrapped some silvery Christmas ribbon around her head like a halo, and starts singing along as Michael Bublé begins crooning from the speaker on the shelf above the sink.

‘Oh God, Becks,’ I groan. ‘Do we have to have Bublé again?’

‘It’s Christmas,’ she says, pulling me up by the waist and waltzing me out of the kitchen door and into the hall. She puts a finger to her lips, shushing me before I can protest. The hall is painted an odd shade, somewhere between violet and grey, and hung with a collection of floral paintings that must’ve belonged to Becky’s grandparents. There’s a huge spiky-leaved plant towering over us in the corner by the stairs. I dodge sideways before Becky waltzes me straight into it.

‘What d’you reckon?’ Her voice is an urgent whisper.

‘They seem nice.’ I try to sound non-committal when what I want to know is why on earth she’d omitted to mention that one of our flatmates was ridiculously gorgeous. ‘How’d you know Emma again?’ I ask.

‘Oh, she’s one of those friend-of-a-friend people. You know, you’re in the same pubs, vaguely know each other through a WhatsApp group, that sort of thing. I can’t remember how we met in the first place. But she was looking for somewhere because the girl she was flat-sharing was moving her boyfriend in, and I had one room left. I’d already sorted you and Alex—’ my stomach does a disobedient sort of swooping thing ‘—and it just seemed like she’d be a nice addition. Everyone’s pretty chilled out, so it should be quite a nice laid-back sort of house.’

‘She seems nice,’ I say, lamely.

‘God, I must pee,’ says Becky, and leaves me standing in the hallway.

I hadn’t noticed, but the carpet looks like someone threw up on a giraffe – it’s yellow and brown with greenish swirls and it clashes so badly with the lilac walls that it must have been the height of fashion at some point in the 1970s. Nobody could choose that colour scheme just randomly, surely?

I head back to the kitchen, realising that I’m feeling a bit fuzzy round the edges. Emma’s kicked off her boots now, and she’s sitting at the table chatting animatedly to Alex, who is sitting opposite. He pushes out the dining chair next to him, beckoning me to join them.

‘Come and get something else to eat.’

He passes me a plate stacked high with tortillas. I think perhaps it’ll soak up some of the alcohol.

‘So how do you know Becky?’ He stretches across the table for the cheese, placing it between me and Emma.

I take a tortilla and spread it with sour cream. ‘I feel like I should make something up that doesn’t make me sound as tragic as this will.’

Alex raises an eyebrow. He really does have a very nice face. Emma gets up and goes and throws a load of ice and stuff in the blender, shouting, ‘Sorry,’ as she turns it on, drowning out my words as I’m about to start explaining.

Emma tips a pink slush into our glasses and Alex tastes it, pulling a face. ‘Bloody hell, that’s like rocket fuel. I’ll make the next one, or we’ll all end up with alcohol poisoning.’

‘We met at uni,’ I say, starting again. ‘I was crying in the loos because I’d just dumped my boyfriend back home for someone who’d promptly cheated on me a week later.’

Emma laughs, but not unkindly. ‘Oh God, we’ve all been there.’ She picks at some slices of red pepper while I’m stacking a tortilla wrap with chicken and cheese and more sour cream, just for good measure. I roll it up and realise there’s no way of eating it that doesn’t involve half of it falling down the front of my top and the other half spilling all over my chin, so I end up sort of dangling it in mid-air.

‘So I took her out, bought her three vodka and limes, and told her the secret was to go out and lay his ghost,’ Becky chimes in. I hadn’t even noticed her coming back.

‘The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else?’ Emma says, taking a drink. She’s one of those people who manages to just radiate cool. If I’d said that I’d have blushed extravagantly and probably got my words all tangled up into the bargain.

‘I think so,’ I say. ‘I wish I could remember lines like that. I never think of the right thing to say until hours later, when I’m lying in bed reliving the whole conversation.’

‘God, me too.’ Alex looks at me and does an upside-down sort of smile, and the sides of his eyes crinkle a bit as he looks directly at me. I feel like we’re on the same team for a second. It’s nice. He lifts up the tequila bottle, waving it in Emma’s direction. ‘Oh go on,’ he says. ‘Throw caution to the wind. D’you want to make another one of those – whatever it was you just made?’

I feel like the world is starting to sway gently – or maybe I am. But I’m just the right sort of happily pissed where I feel like the edges have been blurred a bit and I don’t feel as self-conscious as I usually do.

The other half a bottle of tequila later and we’ve managed to persuade Becky to put on something other than Christmas music. We’re all sitting round the table, which is scattered with empty plates. The window isn’t even open, but we can hear a gang of teenagers passing, singing Christmas carols and laughing loudly. I get up and look outside, marvelling at the idea that outside there are eight million people, all living London lives, and in just a couple of weeks I’m going to be one of them. It’s just an ordinary street, but to me it feels full of magic and promise.

I turn around to look at my new housemates. Emma’s on her phone again, absent-mindedly twirling a lock of hair around her finger. I notice she has long, manicured red nails.

Alex looks up at me and grins. ‘D’you think you can cope with living with us lot?’ He starts stacking plates.

‘No,’ says Becky, firmly, tapping him on the hand. ‘I’ll do it in the morning. This is a get-to-know-each-other evening. When we’re all in and settled, we can sort out a kitchen rota and all that boring stuff, but tonight is margaritas. The night is young. Let’s play the name game.’

‘Oh my God.’ I roll my eyes at her. There’s a point in every evening when she insists we do this. Before anyone else realises what’s happening, she’s got a packet of Post-it Notes out and she’s handing them out. ‘Everyone has to write the name of someone famous and stick it on the forehead of the person to their left.’

‘And to think Rob’s missing this,’ says Alex, pressing the Post-it Note to my forehead. ‘D’you want another drink?’

I feel distinctly head-spinny already, but I nod. This is my new London life. I can drink tequila and have avocado on toast and be cool. Well, cool-ish. Cooler than I was living back home. Not that there’s anything wrong with back home, of course. I swallow a little gulp of sadness that sneaks up on me out of nowhere – just thinking about leaving Nanna Beth back there and me being all the way up here. She’s already lost Grandpa, and now I’m going, too.

‘Oh my God,’ says Becky, seeing the name written on my forehead. She snorts with laughter.

‘Am I a woman?’ I say, when it’s my turn.

‘You’re a phenomenon, I think you’d say,’ Alex replies, grinning at me.

Emma guesses hers almost straight away (I think she’s pleased she got to be Meghan Markle) and in no time there’s just me and Alex, trying desperately to work out who we are.

‘Do I have a unique blond hairstyle?’

We snort with laughter.

‘Am I a megalomaniac? Am I the best president ever in the history of presidents? Is this the biggest Post-it Note, bigger and better than any Post-it Notes that have ever been before?’

Alex has already guessed, but he’s making us laugh so hard with his terrible Donald Trump impressions that we’re all doubled over, and mine falls off my forehead and onto the ground where I can’t help sneaking a peek.

‘Am I … Kim Kardashian?’ I sit up, triumphant, waving the Post-it Note in the air.

‘Yes.’ Becky takes it from me. ‘You’re totally cheating, but you are definitely Kim Kardashian.’

‘And I am definitely going to bed.’ Emma pushes her chair away from the table and stands up, looking at the kitchen clock. ‘It’s almost eleven, and I’ve got a killer day tomorrow. Back-to-back meetings.’

‘But how can you leave us when we’re just getting started?’ Alex is standing by the sink now, brandishing a bottle of Prosecco and some sort of pink liqueur. ‘I was going to make one of my signature cocktails.’ He rummages in the fridge. I can’t help but notice his nice arms again – I’ve always had a thing about nice arms, the kind that look like they’d wrap you up and make you feel safe. Oh, and the way that when he reaches up to get some orange juice from the top shelf his T-shirt rucks up, showing a strip of faintly tanned skin.

But I am absolutely not looking at any of this, because I am here to work, and he is my new housemate, and there will be none of that here. I blame the tequila for making my imagination run away with me.

But if I was looking …

‘Night, all.’ Emma picks up her phone and heads off. ‘Have a great holiday, Jess. See you in the New Year.’

‘You got any more ice, Becky?’ Alex asks as he looks in the freezer.

‘Nope.’

I know she’s told us not to clear up, but I’m absent-mindedly piling plates and tipping leftover salsa into the bin. It’s a distraction. The alternative is sitting with my chin in my hands staring with undisguised admiration at Alex, and that wouldn’t be a good look.

‘God I’m dying for some chocolate. I tell you what, I’ll go get some and grab some ice from Tesco Express while I’m at it.’

‘We’ll clean up.’ Alex stands up from the freezer and turns around. ‘And then I’ll make cocktails. You don’t think Rob will mind that we’ve borrowed his blender thing to crush ice?’

I pull a face. ‘I dunno. I think it’s knives chefs are funny about. Anyway, that thing’s a monster. As long as we clean it out, I’m sure he won’t object.’

Alex pokes an experimental finger at the huge behemoth of a blender standing on the worktop. It roars into life for a second and he steps backwards.

‘Bloody hell. That thing could take your arm off.’

‘Back in a sec,’ Becky says, wrapping a scarf around her face and pulling on a bobble hat.

‘Don’t freeze,’ I say, looking out the window. ‘Oh look, the rain’s turned to snow.’

‘Really?’ Alex and Becky join me, looking out. The snow is falling in flurries, swirling in the spotlight glow of the street lamp outside the front of our new home. It’s disappearing as soon as it hits the wet pavement, but it looks gorgeously Christmassy and romantic nonetheless. For a moment we all stand in silence, watching it, all lost in our own thoughts.

Michael Blooming Bublé is playing in the background again.

It only takes me and Alex a moment to clear up the table, shoving the rubbish and recycling in the bins, and loading up the ancient dishwasher.

‘My last place didn’t have one,’ Alex says, unwrapping a dishwasher tablet and shoving it in. ‘This thing might be prehistoric, but it’s a luxury. No more waking up in the morning to last night’s dishes.’

‘Were you in a house-share before?’ I ask.

He pauses for a second. ‘Mmm, sort of.’

I get the feeling there’s more to it than he’s saying, but I don’t want to push it.

‘And you used to work with Becky?’

I am standing by the sink, rinsing my hands, aware he’s standing close beside me and putting glasses back on the shelf. I can feel the heat of his body and it makes the tiny hairs on my arms stand up. This is the tequila talking, I think. Tequila, and the fact that I have been single for a year and the only reason I fancy him is because I’ve been told there’s no relationships allowed in this house so my brain is being contrary. He is Alex, a friend of my friend Becky, and my new housemate. And he is one hundred per cent off limits. I take a step sideways, drying my hands on the dishtowel and spending an excessive amount of time hanging it back up, neatly.

‘I used to work with Becky, yeah,’ says Alex, after a long pause.