Page 87 of One Night With You

‘The freedom of commitment,’ Jackson says again, and we let the magnitude of his theory sink in.

It’s dark by the time we finish our drinks and head for the tube. We’re messing about, swapping quips and jokes and Jackson keeps calling me Daddy, which was cute at first, then annoying, and now he keeps saying it with a strange sexual sound in the vowels. He doesn’t stop, and I finally have to issue a good-natured punch to his shoulder as I tell him to pack it in.

‘Sorry, Daddy!’ he says, stepping out of the way of another one of my shoulder punches and into the road, so that he’s almost mowed down by a double-decker bus.

‘Jackson!’ I cry, reaching out for the corner of his coat and pulling as hard as I can.

‘Dude.’ He laughs, stumbling into me. ‘Chill your beans. I’m fine.’

Another inch more and he’d have been flattened to the tarmac. His cheeks have flushed like he knows it.

‘See?’ he presses, flinging out his arms and doing a little hop to one side.

Everything after that happens in slow motion. I see it frame by frame but can’t do anything about it.

Jackson spins on his heel. Another bus misses him by less than an inch – again. But then he looks down to his arm in disbelief at the second close call of it all, then hears me say his name and looks up with a face of shock and euphoria.

And then instead of walking towards me on the pavement he falls to the ground, a cyclist flying over his head, kicking the side of his face as they crumple in a heap beside the kerb, the bike splaying out beside his leg and Jackson’s eyes closing, knocked unconscious before he’s even hit the ground.

37

Ruby

How do you feel about going out-out?

It’s Harry. At 8.34 p.m. I am in my pyjamas, toothpaste deposited onto three spots I appear to have been growing throughout the day and half a tub of Ben and Jerry’s still to plough through on my lap. I’m watchingDawson’s Creek– the episode where Joey enters the Miss Capeside pageant and Dawson realises she’s beautiful for the first time. I text back:Is this meant for me?

I only have one friend here, doofus. Yes, it’s for you.

I am puzzled. Going out-out is not something we have done before, nor talked about potentially ever doing, nor have referenced ever.

Beau’s friends are going out for somebody’s birthday, and I just thought maybe you’d want to come with? We BOTH need to let our hair down. WDYT???

I start to write a message saying I’ll just see him tomorrow – I don’t want to go out. Why would I want to schlep outinto the cold when Joey is about to give her speech about it just being hairspray and lipstick? Why would I want a hangover tomorrow, when I’ve been loving early to bed and early to rise, getting all my work done with a clear head and fresh eyes, rinsing every moment with as much clarity as possible? And then I remember the Year of Me, and saying yes and taking chances and sometimes doing things just to see what happens, realising that all my reasons for not going out make me sound like I’m a forty-five-year-old exhausted by her three kids, dog, and absent husband. Isn’t the point that I’m supposed to be out having fun? And so I delete my sarcastic response and instead try with earnestness:I am surprising myself here, but: yes? I’ll come?

The question marks make you seem super invested,Harry types back.Meet us at the edge of campus, where Mick’s coffee cart is. 9.30. We’re going to Mayfield Depot first, and then we’ve got VIP for Chinawhite, apparently.

I take a last spoonful of ice cream and hit pause on my laptop, then pad through to my wardrobe. I’ve got a few ‘dressy’ things I could wear, but nothing majorly fancy. I was pretty ruthless when I left Maple Avenue, streamlining as much as I could because I knew I wouldn’t have room nor occasion to wear full bodycon and heels. I left most of it for Candice – although a lot of it was cheap tat. I’m pretty sure cheap tat is exactly what tonight calls for though. My hair is clean enough, but I have a hot shower and shave my legs, moisturising all over and whilst waiting for the steam to clear to do my make-up. If I put some dry shampoo on my roots and a bit of argan oil through the ends I can pass off the volume as artfully dishevelled, and it’s easier to pick an outfit with lipstick on. I choose a backless top with a deceptive high neck and full balloon sleeves from the front, high-waistedjeans and my leather-heeled boots. With some nice jewellery I surprise myself with how like my old self I look. I haven’t been fancy in months – it’s been all big jumpers and messy buns. Harry is right. I have needed this.

‘Oi oi!’ he says as I approach the group waiting at the allocated place. ‘Here she is. You look really pretty.’ Harry gives me a kiss on each cheek flamboyantly, and I can tell he’s already had a few drinks.

‘Ay up,’ I say. ‘Why do I feel like I need to play catch-up?’

‘Because you do,’ the man beside him says. He’s petite, glasses and cultivated blonde stubble contrasting with his obvious chiselled physique. He has delicate hands, like a pianist, that he outstretches as he grins, friendly, and says, ‘I’m Beau. Harry’s boyfriend.’

At the word boyfriend I shoot a look at Harry. He raises his eyebrows in pride, and then pulls Beau in for a kiss.

‘I would say I’ve heard so much about you,’ I tell him, ‘but Harry has kept his cards very close to his chest.’

‘Yes,’ Beau says. ‘He’s a squirrelly sort, isn’t he?’

Harry juts out his front teeth and pulls his hands to his mouth, a terrible impression from a man at least four drinks to the wind.

‘Let’s have some fun tonight, Ruby-Booby. Come here. I love you. You know that, don’t you? I love you so much. We’re going to take over the world, you know. Do you know that? I know that.’

I give him a kiss on his cheek, aware that his effusive profession has drawn the attention of the others. There’s a tall, dark-haired man holding a rolled-up cigarette, two women holding hands, and a spitting image of Beau that confuses me so much the look on my face must be obvious as I whip back to check I’m not imagining things.

‘Seb,’ he says. ‘Beau’s twin brother.’

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