Page 67 of Pride and Privilege

“No toothbrush.”

“I’ve got spares.”

“Right. OK.”

He turned the tap off, dried his hands. Leant back against the counter and looked at Poppy.

She fiddled with a chip of paint on the door frame. “I should just go home.”

“Probably,” he said. “But please don’t.”

She breathed a faint laugh, matching his own wry disbelief. This was a thing? They were really both doing this thing? Whatever it was. He didn’t know. Just that they were all tangled up together, warm here at home together, and neither could bring themselves to pull apart.

You hang up.

No, you hang up…

At least they were as stupid as each other. At least Poppy was on the same page as him. She was so on his page he wanted to frame that page and put it on the wall.Here is the woman who gets me.

“Don’t sleep on the sofa,” she said.

And the rest of him looked on in wild disbelief as his traitorous mouth said, “OK.”

He gave Poppy a t-shirt, taking a while to rummage through his chest of drawers, discarding several for being too old, too creased, too…just not right. The one he handed her was soft and white and oversized even on him. It would look like a nightdress on her, would reach to her knees.

He tried not to think about it.

She went into the bathroom, then the bedroom. Roscoe loitered in the kitchen, wiping clean the already clean surfaces. Then, with the manner of a man deciding to leap from a high cliff into unknown waters far below, he got ready for bed, and walked into the bedroom.

Poppy lay under the covers. They were dark navy, almost black in the low amber light from the one bedside light she had left on.Her face was pale against the dark pillow, her copper hair glinted with fire tones from the lamplight, burning embers and precious metals. She watched him walk towards the bed, eyes bright, a soft, shy smile curving her lips.

“Hey,” he said. “Comfy?”

“Yep.”

“Good.”

He drew back his corner of the duvet. Paused. “Do you want a glass of water or…?”

“No. I’m fine.”

He nodded. Got into the bed. Kept all his limbs strictly on his side. Poppy turned further towards him. He turned onto his side to face her, too. For a long moment they looked at each other.

“Is it weird,” she said, “that this doesn’t seem weird?” A blush tinged her cheeks, and his heart, which had been racing for a long time, kicked up another notch. “I mean,” she continued hastily. “It seems a bit weird. But also…doesn’t?”

He smiled—the sort of smile he felt in his eyes. His chest. “I’m glad you’re here.”

She gave one small nod.

His instinct said to reach out and touch her—cup her cheek, stroke her hair. But, of course, he couldn’t. His hand, under the duvet, knotted into the fabric.

We should sleep,the sensible voice in his head said.Night, night, Poppy.Instead, he just looked at her, and her smile curved a little deeper, mischief creeping in.

“Teach me how to do the voice,” she said.

“Voice?”

“The posh voice. The accent.”

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