Page 14 of Enemies to Lovers

The second piece of evidence that the booze has rushed to my head? As we’re tipsily traipsing back upthe hill with our iPhone torches lighting the way, I’m feeling called to say thanks to Jamie. He didn’t have to help me out back there. But, curiously, he did.

We automatically walk in the same configuration as on the way down, with me and Jamie bringing up the rear. As we get to where the path narrows, Jamie falls back and then catches himself, seeming to remember how aggressive I was the first time and so dropping to his foot to tie an errant shoelace, letting me go ahead. It’s only when he’s down there that he seems to remember he’s in flip-flops.

‘Hey,’ I say, lingering as he stands. ‘Cheers. For before.’

I’m hoping he’s catching my drift. I don’t have the capacity to fully break it down.

‘I didn’t do anything,’ he shrugs dismissively. He issues a wave, as if I’m a gnat that is bothering him and should just buzz off. It’s giving me ‘only speak when spoken to’ vibes, and I amnotinto it.

‘What?’ I say, taken aback by his attitude.

‘I said, I didn’t do anything,’ he repeats. And because I am stunned into standing still, he takes the opportunity to overtake me after all, rising to his feet to take the hill in huge strides that mean I have to take three of my tiny steps to his one. He’s practically running away from me. My anger flares like a dragon’s roar.

I break into a jog to close in on Jamie, right as the path widens again. Now I can overtake, so I do. And as I pass I utter one word, because why can’t he simply benice? I was giving him a compliment! Showing him my gratitude. Can’t we even be civil in that way? ‘Farthead,’ I say, under my breath … but loud enough for him to hear clearly. God, now IknowI’m pissed. Farthead? Who, after the age of six, saysthat?

‘Excuse me?’ Jamie asks, marching purposefully up behind me. I don’t slow down. I am apoplectic. I know what it is: it’s the dismissiveness. Well, I won’t stand for it. Nobody can treat me that way, not least within my own family. I wouldn’t take it from my parents, or my brothers – and if he’s going to be on this trip with us, I won’t take it from Jamie, either. I think that’s where ‘farthead’ came from. I should have said something much stronger, but he’s annoying me like the boys did when we were young, so our go-to insult from when we were little slipped out. Anyway, if the shoes fits, etc.

‘You heard me,’ I say, and it’s like we’re competitors in a ‘fast walkers’ competition, arms at right-angles, feet moving deftly. ‘You’re a … farthead.’

I say it plainly, as facts should be spoken clearly. I can see the house up ahead, lit up from lights strategically placed throughout the gardens. I want to get inside, head on up to my room and take a shower to wash this … thisfeelingoff me.

‘You’re a dismissive, rude … farthead,’ I finish, as my parting shot.

I must have yelled louder than I realised – I blame the drink – because my whole family turns round then, to see what’s going on. Jamie clocks this as I do, so ifhe’s got anything to say to my pronouncement, he doesn’t, saving face in front of anyone but me – his main objective in this life. I take this as another win.

‘Don’t mind us!’ I sing-song.

‘No,’ Jamie says, sounding wounded, switching tack from the strong and silent-to-me type, to ham it up now he’s got an audience. ‘Come on, Flo, that’s not fair.’

Mum nudges Dad, her way of telling him to pay attention to what’s happening, and he says, ‘Ow, Vee. That hurt!’

‘Oh, for god’s sake, Michael,’ she tuts, but I see her catch Kate’s eye, and Kate pulls a face. She purses her lips, and Mum sets her mouth in a straight line in reply. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

‘Who’s got the key?’ I ask, and Alex remembers he does and lets us all in.

Jamie is right behind me as we file through to the kitchen. He’s close. Too close. Closer than he has any right to be. He hisses, ‘How can you go fromthankingme to calling me names, in just two sentences? Andfartheadat that?’

Right as I’m about to sayeasily, Dad cries out, ‘What the hell?’

I bang into Kate in front of me, who has banged into Laurie in front of her.

‘Bollocks!’ Dad cries. ‘The pipe has blown.’

There are a couple of inches of water across half of the kitchen floor, but more than that: a burst pipe fromsomewhere near the sink is spraying water, like we’re in a Beyoncé video. I have no clue what to do.

‘Mike, we need to find the stopcock,’ Jamie says, his voice calm and smooth, like he sees this all the time. He pulls off the scrap of fabric that allegedly passes as his top as he pushes past me, wading through the water towards the leak, ready to put the vest over the cause of the spray. It happens in slow motion: he’s the month of May in a filthy calendar of ‘World’s Sexiest Deckhands’ (World’s Sexiest Dickheads?), the spray arching up to the ceiling and down over his head to wet his hair, which he flicks back off his forehead. Veryyou’re worth it.The vest goes over the tap, but not before his torso is hosed down, so that when Jamie turns to ask Laurie to come and hold it, his body glistens with moisture.

All I can think is:Oh, for god’s sake.

‘Grab this, mate!’ he says, beckoning with his free hand to Laurie.

It’s like the scene fromMad Menwhere Don Draper fixes the leak at his neighbour’s dinner party, all the women swooning over the sight of a strapping bloke saving the day. Kate reaches out a hand and clasps the top of my thigh in delight. Mum turns to us with a raised eyebrow of appreciation. Aren’t they embarrassed to gawp so openly? The way Kate exhales makes me think obviously not.

Jamie flings back the door to the cupboard under thesink, dropping to his knees in the small lake that is growing by the second. He pauses to run a hand through his sodden hair, pushing it back from his face. I swear to god that he closes his eyes as he does so, for extra effect, like this is another big performance for him.

‘Oh shit, look,’ I hear Alex say; he has hung back to keep dry with us girls. He’s pointing to the room off the kitchen and down a couple of stone steps: Jamie’s bedroom. It’s even worse than the kitchen.

‘Oh god,’ Mum says. ‘I’ll go and search out some linens. Jamie will have to sleep on the sofa tonight … I’ll call the landlady in the morning to get a plumber.’

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