Page 3 of One Night With You

Nic

‘Rubes!’ the statuesque brunette who answered the door warbles down the hallway. ‘Your sofa guy is here!’

‘Coming!’ a voice chirrups from somewhere in the bowels of the house. The brunette looks me up and down and then smiles. It makes me nervous.

‘How’s it going?’ she asks.

‘Sound, yeah,’ I reply, not really knowing how else to respond. I add, when she doesn’t say anything else: ‘Wet.’

‘Hmmmm,’ she ponders, as if she’s mentally scoring my rain-soaked outfit, or my face – or maybe even my character – out of ten. I’ve got no idea if the amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth signifies doing well on her imaginary scorecard, or terribly. If it’s my chat she’s judging, I’d imagine I’m at a zero. Chit-chat about the weather? Ollie wouldn’t approve of that. To be fair though, I’m not here for conversation. I’m here for furniture, and then a nice takeaway for tea in my new flat, on my new sofa. Admittedly I’ll be alonefor it, but still. I need to tick this errand off my list and then crack on.

‘I’m here, I’m here,’ the voice in the house sing-songs again, as a shadow steps out from the obscurity of the hall. She looks at the sky before she looks at me, taking in the unseasonably rainy August day. Some bank holiday weekend. It hasn’t stopped raining across the whole country all summer, on and off, and it’s worse today than it has been in ages. If we don’t get some sun before winter arrives the whole country will go crackers – it’s been awful. ‘Urgh,’ she notes to herself, as the sky spits again.

I look at her. She’s holding the last dregs of what looks like a spritz, and wearing tiny shorts with an oversized T-shirt that falls off the shoulder, and not a scrap of make-up, her blonde hair piled high on top of her head. There’s a dance of dusty freckles across her nose and high up on her cheeks, and her eyelashes are thick and dark, brushing upwards, framing her lovely face. I can’t help but notice that she’s not got a bra on, made apparent by her nipples’ curiosity to the cold air. The things are like thick bullets, aiming right for me.

‘Hi,’ she says, dragging her gaze from the clouds to look at me. ‘I’m Ruby.’

And it’s so bizarre – so uncanny. But as we look at each other, I have this …reaction.

She’s an angel. An actual, heaven-on-earth angel. Her face, her long, elegant neck, the creaminess of her skin and the way her collarbone arcs like poetry, telling the story of her body. The rise and fall as she breathes. Her smell – like coconut and exotic flowers. Surely she must feel it too. Lightning replaces the blood in my veins. I’m on fire.

‘Nic,’ I try to say, but tongue-tied by the rush of thoughts collapsing into each other it comes out as a cough. Shit. Ifyou only get one chance at a first impression, I’m royally cocking this up. I look away and take a moment to catch my breath.Be cool,I tell myself.Just be yourself.

But even as I think it, I wince at my own advice. I don’t know whyjust be yourselfis said so often. ‘Myself’ is a massive geek who has only ever had a single girlfriend in his life. I’ve only even kissed four people, and one of those was mouth-closed because I was eleven.Just be yourselfis fine if you’re Justin Bieber or any of the Hollywood Chrises. To be Nic Sheridan is to be introverted, shy and chronically laughable. Google ‘definition of uncool’ and they show a photo of my face. Ask an impartial panel to rank the world’s men from most suave to most tragic and I can save you the trouble of finding my name by having you flick to the bottom of the list. It was ever thus. I’m clever and organised and know how to calculate competitive interest rates on my stocks and shares ISA, but I can’t talk to women for crap. Until recently I’ve been in the same relationship since school. I’ve never learned how because I never needed to.

And yet …Thiswoman. It’s like cherubs are singing and spirits are calling me and I ache, everywhere, at the impossible sight of perfection. My soul knows who she is. We’ve spent lifetimes together before. She’s got the most cracking body, but that’s still the least interesting thing about her.

I can’t get this wrong.

I think I might be staring.

I can’t help it.

I rang the doorbell, and Love answered.

(Well. Love’s friend. But then Love showed up in hotpants.)

I’m going to have to be anyonebutmyself.

4

Ruby

This guy is looking at me like he’s planning to murder me cold and fry off my limbs in duck fat to hide the evidence.

‘Urm,’ he says, after opening and closing his mouth like a trout. I remember seeing an old episode ofERwhere a woman just shut down as she stood talking to Dr Carter, like her plug had been pulled and she was powering down. This is scarily reminiscent. I hope he isn’t in need of an ambulance, or medical assistance. I don’t have time! I promised Candice and Jackson I’d be done by six so we could have our last ‘family meal’. It’s important to me that our last night is good, quality time. If this man is dying on our doorstep it’d be a huge inconvenience for all involved, no offence to him.

‘Nic,’ he manages, coming back to life after a small coughing fit, extending a hand that he has the sense to wipe on his jacket first. He doesn’t break eye contact. It’s really intense. ‘Here for the sofa.’

Really,reallyintense.

I don’t recall the woman on TV staring like this when she had her stroke. I think this might just be his face. It’s a handsome face, though, brooding as it is. He’s actually even more attractive than he looked in his profile picture.

That was just us being drunk and silly though. No way am I going to try and sleep with the guy I am selling my couch to. It’s The Year of Me in less than nine hours. I don’t even want tolookat a man in The Year of Me. No distractions. No diversions. No disruptions, despite the campaign the other two have been waging for my one last hurrah.

Those eyes, though. Can men have come-to-bed eyes? On second thoughts, it’s actually not an axe-murderer stare. He’s looking at me like he’s waded through the desert for weeks, and I’m a tall glass of iced water. His pupils have dilated and he’s smiling like a goon. And his dimples … you could lose an afternoon in his smile. Wow. I can’t help but inanely grin back, now the shock of his presence has settled. He’sgorgeous.

Curse Candice and Jackson for putting silly sexual thoughts in my head! I have bigger fish to be frying. I can’t be mentally undressing dashing men in damp jackets right up until the last hour of my celibacy. Anyway, he’s gone the colour of a Christmas bauble now, all red and shiny. I think he’s disconcerted by my dawdling, which is fair enough really. Iamstaring.

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