Page 21 of Mad About You

‘That’s very fair. What do you do for a living?’

‘I’m a politics reporter for theYorkshire Post.’

‘Oh!’ With that information, Harriet’s most basic sort of apprehensiveness at having not met this Cal faded away. Not only did she stereotype men who could do interiors well as gay, it seemed she also stereotyped males doing white-collar, respectable-sounding jobs as Not Murderers. As if there was any solid precedent for thinking that. What was a murder-ey job, anyway?

A pause. ‘What’s that noise?’ Cal said, as the hens clattered loudly past the suite door shrieking harmonies to Calvin Harris.

‘Oh, I’m a photographer.’ Harriet moved slightly further down the corridor. She had no idea why she spontaneously omitted the ‘wedding’, that was an air and grace she’d had at the start of her career – ‘I don’t want to be pigeonholed!’ – that she’d long ago dispensed with. Maybe because Cal was quite well-spoken, and she felt Yorkshire-accented-common.

‘Right. That must be … fun?’

‘On and off,’ said Harriet, conscious that he could probablynow make out the offstage lusty shouting along to Guns N’ Roses ‘November Rain’.

‘How old are you, if that’s not an impolite question?’ Cal said, and Harriet felt sure this was because he could overhear it. ‘Only I’m thinking if you’re twenty-four, your “having parties” interest might be higher than mine at thirty-two and we’re probably best off knowing that upfront.’

‘An ancient thirty-four and anti-social as hell, to be honest.’

‘Brilliant news. So, to summarise, you’re not a guy, so that’s got to be a head start. You’re a thirty-four-year-old loner. Have you got a habit of walking around completely naked, and watchingSNLclips at ear-splitting volume on your laptop? And not even the good ones. The weird ones where the studio audience are all having heart attacks laughing and you’re too British to work out what could possibly be that funny.’

Harriet smiled into her handset.

‘None of that sounds like me.’

‘And final question, sorry to be indelicate but I’ve got some PTSD to manage. Do you have a habit of using the downstairs loo with the door open?’

Harriet laughed. ‘No. Oh God. Does anyone really do that in a shared house?’

‘It turns out they do. And he had the en suite, the animal.’

Harriet guffawed again.

‘So, unless there’s anything else you want to ask me, the room’s yours, if you want it,’ Cal concluded.

Harriet felt unprepared for this. Not only could she not think of a reason to refuse, more importantly, she couldn’tthink how she’d phrase refusal. ‘I’ll think about it’ would sound pompous and, from what little she could tell of the nature of Cal Clarke and the terms of this impromptu offer, would result in a polite yet firm farewell.

‘Yes, thank you. I will take it.’

They agreed to the sending and signing of a six-month contract and moving in next weekend. Harriet rang off not knowing whether to feel exhilarated at being so decisive, or slightly idiotic at being hustled into it, and settled on both.

11

When Harriet got back to Jon’s, she was exhausted. She picked up the mood of weddings by osmosis, so, even sober, she felt as if she’d been through the emotional wringer.

Jon wandered out of the front room, holding a large glass of red wine, Sting playing in the background. He was in a striped shirt – one Harriet had once said she liked – with two buttons undone, and she got a disconcerting feeling he was trying to look enticing.

‘Join me?’ he said, raising his glass.

‘Oh, thanks, but no. I want a shower and my bed. It’s been a day.’

‘Ah well. If you change your mind, I made lamb shanks with mash. There’s plenty left in the slow cooker.’

He was definitely trying to contrive a date-night ambiance.

‘Thank you,’ Harriet said.

As she turned the corner, she said: ‘Oh, Jon. I’ve found a place to rent in Meanwood, I move in next Saturday.’

She expected this to be taken with minor dismay, but Jon’s jaw dropped.

---