Page 26 of One Night With You

Now okay? x

I gulp for air. That was fast.

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ another bloke in a sharp trench coat says, side-stepping where I’ve come to an immediate halt, right in the middle of the pavement. I’m actually shaking. I can kid myself that I’ve only thought about her on the odd occasion, but actually she’s wandered into my mind every single day since the day we met. And not even because the sex was good – which obviously it was. That she cried? I can’t get it out of my head. I’m not bragging, it’s more that I think I could have cried, too. All those Nineties R’n’B songs about making love and holding tight and two becoming one – I thought it was hyperbole until Ruby. And even then, what we had was more than physical. I haven’t made that connection up. I know I haven’t. My imagination isn’t that good.

I call her number.

‘Hey,’ she says, gently. ‘Nic.’

I exhale. Even the sound of her voice is enough to make me smile, in spite of myself. She talks so lightly, easy-breezy. I can tell she’s smiling too. I can’t believe I get to talk to her again. ‘How are you?’

‘Hey,’ I reply. ‘Yeah. Good thanks. You know. Just finishing a hard day’s work.’

‘Breaking a sweat making the rich even richer?’ she quips.

I laugh. ‘The lefty artist taking a swipe at the capitalist banker? Ruby, I’m disappointed you’d be so unoriginal.’

She laughs too. ‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘I should have at least teased you for watching my Instagram stories without actually following me.’

It’s a good job she can’t see me. I’ve turned puce.

‘Just hit the follow button and have done with it.’ She giggles. ‘Or were you waiting for me to follow you? In fact, hold on …’

I can hear voices in the background of her call get louder as I wait for her to do whatever it is she’s doing.

‘There. You have one new follow request.’

‘Well, if we’re pulling no punches,’ I volley back, ‘if I remember rightly it was you who got on the cyber-stalking train well before I did.’

‘This is true,’ she says. ‘I have no problem holding my hands up and saying so. I’m woman enough.’

I step off down one of the little alleyways that litter the streets across the road from the station, lifting a hand to my free ear to block out the noise of roadworks still happening, even though it’s 6 p.m.

‘That’s very admirable of you,’ I coo. ‘Not many people can admit to doctoring their truth.’

‘The very essence of why film-making appeals to me so much,’ she says. ‘Your truth isn’t mine; mine isn’t yours. Nobody’s version of their reality truly aligns with anybody else’s. Not even the history books get it right. History is just written by the victor.’

‘You’re too clever for me,’ I say. ‘Multiple truths mean nobody can be wrong? That’s a head-screw.’

‘I probably am too clever for you – you’re right,’ she replies. There’s a kerfuffle in the background then, gruff male voices laughing, talking a bit louder than they have been. ‘Sorry for the noise,’ she notes. ‘We’re at an interview. Well, we didn’t know it was an interview before we got here, but it’s kind of turned into one.’

‘Sounds exciting,’ I say. ‘Reporting the story live as it’s happening.’

‘Breaking news,’ she says. ‘That’s me.’

I want her to tell me everything: what the course is like and who she has met and crucially when she’s next in London. She said not to make empty promises, but my mind can’t help but concoct ideas and plans. Manchester isn’t that far away from Liverpool. If I went home for a weekend would it be odd to ask to see her? It’s just, this is already as great as I remember it. Why haven’t we stayed in touch again?

‘We think we might have found an idea for our independent project,’ she continues, before pulling her mouth away from the phone and saying to whoever she’s with, ‘Can I have a bit more milk this time please, William? Not to be fussy but your last two cups needed a bit of creative direction.’

I wonder if William is the hairy man. He laughs, whoever it is.

‘Sorry to get you when you’re busy,’ I say.

‘No, no,’ she replies. ‘I have five minutes, for you. Is it about the sofa?’

The sofa?

‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘Nothing like that.’

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