Page 65 of One Night With You

‘I am,’ she says. ‘And now we’ve found Amelie, I mean – can you bear it? We go to Paris to meet her tomorrow! That’s worth missing Sunday lunch for – even if Mum’s Yorkshire puddings are as big as my head.’

She reaches out to me as she says that, touching my forearm, and I want her to leave it there. We’ve not even picked up a game to play, just got comfy and started chatting and now we’re not stopping. If it weren’t for the waiter occasionally checking to see if we need anything else, we could be in our own world.

‘The Instagram is amazing enough,’ I tell her. ‘To see this all play out on film is going to be even better.’

‘Thanks, yeah. We’ve got faculty support and everything. Even our classmates are supportive. I guess I thought there’d be competition, but with this, because of the social media stuff, people seem more invested in JP than what that means for mine and Harry’s success.’

She says ‘success’ in air quotes.

‘We’re on the train to London tomorrow, then onto the Eurostar into the Gare du Nord. We’re going to film the whole thing, and then hopefully that’s our story. Anyway … Sorry, I’m hogging the oxygen.’

‘Please don’t apologise,’ I insist. ‘It’s honestly fascinating. I used tolovemy work and feel dead proud of being so fancy in my suit and doing my banking and whatever. Making rich people richer, as you once said to me.’

She does anuh-ohface.

‘No, you’re right,’ I press. ‘That’s what I do. And I thought moving to Hoare’s would make me feel even more like that, but to be honest moving was for the place, not the job. It’s amazing and everything, but it’s all the other stuff in London. I’d serve sandwiches or try and write adverts or be a street mime if it meant living in London.’

‘See, I just didn’t feel that way,’ she says. ‘I tried to, but …’ She shakes her head.

‘It’s Marmite, isn’t it? You like it or loathe it.’

‘Candice and Jackson love it, but most of the foreign students we had in the house seemed to simply tolerate it. I know it’s not just me.’

‘I totally get that, like, she’s a tough nut to crack – London. And I think people are either made for it or not.’

‘Yes!’ she says, and this time when she touches my arm, she stays there, her fingers lightly dancing on the underside of my forearm. ‘That’s bang on. I don’t know if I’ll stay in Manchester, but I’m pretty certain I won’t go back to London. I don’t have the fight in me for it. Or the money.’

I let myself look at her.

‘What?’ she says, automatically reaching to her face like she thinks I’m going to tell her she has milk on her chin.

‘It’s a shame I arrived as you were leaving,’ I say.

She shows me her dimples. ‘You’re there … I’m up here …’ she says. ‘At least you actually come up and visit your family.’

I look sheepish. ‘Well …’ I admit. ‘I didn’t technically havea reason for visiting them this weekend. I just didn’t want to wait to see you.’

‘Am I freaked out by that, or do I find it sweet?’

‘Oh,’ I say, leaning in just the tiniest amount, and she leans in a bit too. ‘You definitely find it sweet.’

‘Is that so …?’ she murmurs, and then we kiss again, deeper, this time, more passionate than earlier. I love how she feels. Her lips are soft, plump pillows, and she’s nearly always smiling for a moment as our lips meet, before she suddenly gets serious like she has to make the decision to let herself go. I live for the sigh she gives when that moment comes: a deep, guttural sound of surrender.

‘I like kissing you,’ she whispers.

‘I like kissing you too,’ I tell her.

We make out a bit, stopping occasionally to push our foreheads together happily, or exchange long and lazy smiles.

‘Can I get you both anything else?’ the waiter asks, I don’t know how much longer later. I look up to meet their eye and realise there’s nobody else left in the café. ‘We’re closing in twenty minutes,’ they say.

‘We’re good,’ I confirm, and then turn to Ruby. ‘Well …’ I say.

‘Well,’ she replies. Then she smirks. ‘I don’t want to be too forward,’ she coos. ‘But would you like to come home with me?’

We hold hands on the way to the car. As we reach it, I open her door for her, and she rewards me with another kiss. I drive with my left hand reached out across the back of her chair, and then, when I need access to the gear shift a little bit more readily, on her knee, where occasionally she lifts my knuckles to her mouth. We don’t speak much. The radio plays and the dark sky hovers and the lights of passing buildings glimmer.

‘This way?’ I ask, when signs for the university start to show up. I had my sat nav on earlier, but male pride forbids such assistance right now.

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