Page 22 of One Night With You

‘You just have to call her, admit it’s awkward, and say it straight-up. If she had it already she’d have called you. Here, I’ll send you her number. Or do you already have it?’

‘No,’ I grumble, taking my phone back. ‘I don’t.’ We’d decided not to stay in touch, although I have looked at her Facebook profile a couple of times and searched for her Instagram. I’m a mere mortal, after all. It’s probably a good job, too – if I’d had her phone number, I’d have undoubtedly sent a text by now. It was weird enough not being able to send her a message in the days after we’d got together. The polite thing would have been to check in, but I couldn’t.

‘Mate,’ he says to me, in the way he does before yet more wisdom is about to be dropped. I brace myself for whatever ‘Jackson-ism’ he’s about to extoll, hating already that I know he’s going to speak an inconvenient truth. ‘It’s not like you’ve not been lovesick for her since you met. At least you’ve got an excuse to talk to her now. Think of this as an opportunity.’

‘Weird paradigm shift,’ I say. ‘Usingit-burns-when-I-peeas a way to flirt.’

‘Never look a gift horse in the mouth.’ He grins. ‘Take your chances when you get ’em.’ I pull a face, but his insight doesn’t stop there. ‘She told me you’ve been watching her Stories, by the way. You’re lucky: she thinks it’s cute.’

Ah. Well played there, Nic. Really smooth.

‘Cute with the Clam,’ I mutter. ‘Sounds like a kids’ TV show.’

‘I hope it’s not,’ says Jackson. ‘Potential Tinder bio though, innit?’

‘Oh my God,’ I reply. ‘I hate this.’

He grins at me again. ‘Really?’ he asks. ‘Because I’m kind of loving it.’

‘Jackson?’ I say. ‘I’m really going to need you to piss off now.’

‘No pun intended.’ He laughs, backing away. ‘But call her, all right? Don’t be a twat about it.’

15

Ruby

JP lives on the outskirts of Manchester, in a small terrace that feels like an extended set forCoronation Street. Harry and I have no idea what he wants our help with, but we’ve got a small handheld camera with us and a couple of mics, just in case. I won’t lie – that was Harry’s idea. He said we should be prepared. He says he can smell a story brewing, and I can’t explain it, but I think I can too. Maybe I’m developing a director’s nose, as one of the storytelling lecturers described it. I’m learning to sniff out the magic of a potential something.

‘Number 15,’ I say, pointing, as we inch through the parked cars on each side of the road, trying to see the house numbers through the gaps.

‘So around about here should be number 21.’ Harry nods, slowing to a stop so we can see. A new curtain twitches and the shape of a person is just about visible, before the front door is flung open and a guy a few years younger than Harry and I waves a hand, letting us know we’re in the right place.

‘The grandson,’ Harry says.

‘I’d imagine so,’ I reply.

We find parking around the corner and bring our stuff with us, welcomed enthusiastically by William, JP’s grandson, who has a stiff demeanour and a firm handshake but a smile that reaches his eyes.

‘Thanks so much for coming.’ William grins. ‘I know what a master’s can be like – no rest for the wicked! I just graduated from LSE with mine. I don’t think I slept for a year.’

‘That’s so impressive,’ I say. ‘Congratulations.’

‘No idea what I’m going to do with it all now, though. I’ve been staying with Gramps for a while as I’ve been trying to get sorted. But, as you’ll see, it’s a lot of fun around here …’

We step inside the shabby-chic terrace, decorated in various degrees of floral, mid-century furniture and velvet. It’s the kind of décor that would have been fashionable in the Fifties, then horribly dated, and now has come back around to being stylish again, minus the carriage clocks and tiny pot bears everywhere. In an armchair in the corner, dressed in a checked shirt, chinos and a knitted waistcoat sits a man in oversized glasses, wisps of grey hair visible above his ears.

‘JP, is it?’ says Harry and the old man issues a wave.

‘Come in, son,’ he says in a broad Mancunian accent, and his voice is stronger and louder than you’d expect from such a tiny frame. ‘What’s the script?’

‘He means how’s it going,’ William clarifies. ‘In case you’re not from round here.’

‘Whaley Bridge,’ I say. ‘So not far.’

‘Wigan,’ says Harry. ‘Spitting distance.’

‘And yes—’ I nod to JP ‘—things are going well, thank you. We’re excited to be here.’

---