Page 22 of Enemies to Lovers

‘Shall we stay here tonight?’ Mum asks. ‘I don’t even want to bother getting changed. I could just eat like this, to be honest. What do we think?’

‘Seconded,’ says Dad. ‘I can make pasta? We’ve got everything in for it. Nice and easy then, isn’t it?’

‘Perfect,’ says Mum, and Dad leans in for a kiss and the rest of us all watch, half wishing they weren’t making out, and half thinking,Oh, that’s nice. They’re so in love, even after all this time. When there’s space for that in my life, I’ll welcome it. Must be lovely.

The Bluetooth speaker from the other night gets brought out, and although it was great getting dolledup and heading out yesterday, it’s just as nice to stay by the pool, laughing and chatting and being ridiculous, everybody chipping in, getting ready for an informal dinner outside: grabbing plates and napkins, fixing drinks for one another, too.

‘Can I get you anything?’ I ask Jamie directly, when I head to the fridge for some more white wine. My date with Adonis has emboldened me. Talking to him directly isn’t as much ‘exposure therapy’ as it is ‘I actually don’t care any more’. ‘There’s beer left,’ I add. ‘Or I’m doing the same wine as we had foraperitivoslast night?’

The way he looks at me as he answers is so weird. It’s like he can’t believe I have spoken directly to him.

‘No thank you,’ he replies.

And I should leave it at that, but I say it before I can rein myself in. I just … urgh! I’m trying, here! One minute he’s cornering me in the bedroom, and the next he looks at me like I’ve asked to take a dump on his head. ‘Suit yourself,’ I tut, waving a hand.

He makes a nose – a bit likepfffft.

I decide not to turn back round.

‘SHOTGUN NOT DOING THE DISHES!’ yells Laurie, as Alex puts his last forkful of food in his mouth, which, because he’s the last to finish eating, marks the end of the meal. The sun has gone down, we’ve drunk and eaten and laughed and ribbed each other to bits, and now we’re doing what we always do:deciding who has to do the pots. Laurie puts two fists in the air triumphantly because he’s got out of it first, and then pulls them back down beside him with a whoosh of victory.

‘Shotgun no dishes!’ follows Alex quickly, and then my mother. ‘Shotgun not washing up!’ she trills, already laughing that she’s beaten me to it. I look between them all, wide-eyed, and issue my verdict.

‘Children,’ I sigh, shaking my head, mad that it’s fallen to me.

‘The rules are the rules, Flo,’ Alex shrugs, finally swallowing what is in his mouth. ‘Kate and Dad cooked, and the rules of shotgun stand.’

‘Nobody likes a sore loser,’ Laurie grins. Something tells me that if I did kick up a fuss he’d like it all the more – he’d be able to prove how childishIam that way.

‘I’m happy to take care of the dishes,’ Jamie says, standing up and piling the plates high on his arm like a waiter. ‘Mike, Kate, that was delicious. Thank you.’

He heads off towards the kitchen, the muscles in his back twitching with the weight of the plates.

‘Florence,’ Mum says. ‘Come on. Don’t let the poor boy do it all alone. You’ve got better manners than that.’

‘Checkmate,’ I reply, one eyebrow raised. I don’t really want to go in there with Jamie, but surely it will only take five minutes if there are two of us. ‘Fine.’

I get up slowly, deliberately ignoring Laurie and Alex, who aredesperateto show me their glory faces. I can feel it. I focus on getting the odds and sods from thetable as their eyes beg for my attention: side plates and errant knives, and the pot that had the pasta in it.

In the kitchen a needlessly topless Jamie has filled the sink with more bubbles than any person could deem necessary, and he’s elbow-deep in the dirty work of getting things clean. I put down the used dishes and cutlery to the left of him and grab a tea towel to stand to his right, where I can dry what he leaves on the rack, to make room for the next item he washes.

We stand there, side-by-side, in a silence that feels loaded, like there is stuff we could both be saying, but aren’t. If I was Jamie, I’d be wanting to offload a bit. Our chat earlier, upstairs – all that ‘I just came to say I’m going to stay away from you’ stuff – derived from me having been so rude. Now he’s had a bit more time to think it over, I wouldn’t be surprised if Jamie asked for explicit clarification on exactly what my problem is; but then again, that would be rich, coming from him. He knows damned well what my problem is. Plus, it’s not like I didn’t try to be normal before, offering him a drink and whatnot. I don’t think either of us can find our footing really. No wonder the air is thick with the unsaid. Pull on one delinquent thread and everything will unravel.

He washes, I dry. He washes, I dry. I can hear the clinking of glass and the hum of laughter from outside. Wash, dry. Wash, dry. It’s meditative enough that I relax, a bit.

‘I really didn’t mean what I said this morning,’ I sayfinally, once the pots are washed and dried and stacked, ready for putting away. ‘I was pre-coffee and hadn’t slept very well, and I was running my mouth in a grumpy moment, is all. Not that that is an excuse. What I said was inexcusable. And I’m sorry.’

‘Okay,’ Jamie says, pulling the plug on his bowl full of bubbles and running the cold tap so that they deflate and disappear. We’re finished, but we do not move. I throw down the towel and rest both hands on the countertop in front of me. I can see the rise and fall of Jamie’s chest from the corner of my eye. His elbow knocks into mine. I am reminded of standing this close at Christmas, near the jigsaw, when I stupidly thought that maybe … well, I don’t know. What did I think? That he liked me and we’dbe something? Whatever it was, I was wrong. I was so wrong that I didn’t come home for Mum’s birthday in February, nor Dad’s in March. By the time Jamie had headed off to sea, home felt safe again because I knew he wouldn’t be there. But now he’s here. And I’m rubbing up against the edges of a thought I would prefer to be buried and forgotten.

Let’s not speak of this again.

My heart beats so insistently that it might come clean out of my chest.

‘Flo,’ Jamie says. ‘Don’t.’

Don’t? Don’t what?

‘I beg your pardon?’ I ask.

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