Page 40 of Enemies to Lovers

My voice is bright and cheery. The men in the room might not be compos mentis, but Kate and Mum are,and the last thing I want is them sniffing around the truth. I mean, whatever the truth is. That Jamie is … jealous? When he has no right to be?

‘Say goodnight,’ I instruct Jamie, not meeting anybody’s eye. ‘Let’s get you upstairs.’

He doesn’t say anything else as we manage the two staircases up to the eaves, but as I try to lower him down onto his bed, he pulls me with him so that I’m lying on top of him. He is solid and firm, even in his drunkenness, his skin warm, like the sun we’ve been enjoying every afternoon.

‘Gotcha!’ he says with a slur, maddeningly charming, even like this. He’s grinning.

I study him. ‘What do you want from me?’ I ask, knowing full well never to ask a question you aren’t prepared to hear the answer to. I suppose I’m banking onin vino veritas– that a drunk man will tell the truth.

Jamie smiles with one side of his mouth, and paws the hair away from my face. For a man who was chucking his guts up mere moments ago, he’s recovered handsomely.

‘Hmmm,’ he says, his hand still at the side of my face. ‘Well,’ he goes on. ‘Not to hate me, Flo. I want you not to hate me. I mean, actually I mean, fuck it … I’m drunk, I don’t care. Whatever. I’ll say it. I want you towantme, Flo. Can’t you tell?’

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. He had the chance for all that, and he blew it!

I go to speak – to say what, I’m not sure – but Jamiecarries on, ‘I want you to want me,’ he sings, approximating the Cheap Trick song. ‘I neeeeeeed you to neeeeeeed me.’ He pauses then, unsure. ‘I don’t know the next words,’ he slurs. ‘But it doesn’t matter. You don’t want me …’ His voice tails off, like he’s on the verge of sleep. As if he’s read my mind, he issues a massive yawn and lets his eyes flutter shut. ‘But I think you want the masseur,’ he says, talking more slowly. He yawns again. ‘We saw you. Me and … Jasmine.’ I’m not sure he even realises I’m still there. It’s like he’s talking to himself, getting softer and softer. ‘Adonis. What a stupid name.’

His eyes close properly, as if his main energy source has been turned off at the plug, and I pull back, moving to sit on the edge of his bed in case Jamie comes to again – but he doesn’t.

I get him some water from the bathroom tap and put it on his bedside table. He’s lying on his side, which is good if he wants to be sick again. But I don’t think he will be. His hands are under the side of his face, like he’s play-acting sleep – but I know he isn’t. He inhales deeply and lets out a little snore. I let myself watch him and think of Christmas.

11

It’s no surprise that Jamie is still sound asleep when I slip off for my morning jog, but when I get home he’s coming down the stairs as I’m trying to go up. Neither of us stops to let the other go by, so we get closer and closer and, with every step I take, my heart starts thumping louder. I still feel …things, about what he said last night. He wants me to want him? Was he joking, or being drunkenly truthful? I don’t want to be a ‘pick me’ girl, waiting for Jamie to change his mind and then flinging myself at him. I have far too much self-respect for that. And he probably doesn’t even remember. It wouldn’t be admissible in court, that’s for sure.

I force myself not only to look up, but to hold his eye, too. I cannot be made bashful fromhisslurred half-confessions. He will not make me feel small! He’s fresh from the shower, hair wet across his forehead, and the stubble chasing his jawline looks blond from the sun. I give him a hint of a smile – I surprise myself with how coy it feels – and Jamie relents, stepping aside to let me pass.

‘Morning,’ I say brightly, and he winces for effect. I reward him with a laugh.

‘Scale of one to ten,’ he begins, and there’s only about six inches between his face and mine.

Anticipation gurgles in my hips. Hmmm, something has definitely shifted between us. It’s almost imperceptible, but it’s as if we’ve found the frequency that works. The energy between us is different this morning. I think it’s been trying to find this frequency the whole time.

‘How much did I embarrass myself last night?’ he asks.

I take a dramatic in-breath and suck in my cheeks, looking to the ceiling like I’m weighing up all my evidence. ‘Put it this way,’ I say. ‘I’ve got enough ammo to lord over you for maybe a month? Possibly two?’

He shakes his head like he believes it. ‘Goddammit,’ he mutters. If he’s going to say something else he stops himself and settles instead on: ‘Coffee. I’m going to go and find some coffee.’

I feel like I’ve got the upper hand. And the notion of that – of Jamie feeling uncertain inmypresence for once – makes me feel emboldened. And so I reach out to the collar of his T-shirt, a faded Ralph Lauren yellow thing that makes his tan look practically mahogany, and say, ‘You’re crooked.’

Jamie’s jaw slackens and his lips part, and I can feel him holding his breath as I put my hands around his neck and smooth down the fabric. I focus on what I’m doing, but it’s a challenge: his gaze is trained on me, and he tips his head to one side quizzically, making those six inches between us only five. I can feel his brainwhirring. I finish fixing his T-shirt and tap a hand to the smooth muscle of his chest.

‘There,’ I say, my voice low.

Downstairs, by the pool, only Mum is up, and she says she’s going to the market.

‘Oh,’ I say, ‘you know I’d love to offer to come, but I was going to stretch out my hip flexors after my run. I’m not sure what I’ve done, but my right hip has been niggling me since we got here.’

‘Oh, gosh,’ Mum replies. ‘You know, it’s different terrain here, isn’t it? I had a similar thing when we were in Sicily, when you were about eleven, I think. I’ll go, don’t worry. Set the table once you’re done?’

‘Deal,’ I say. And then, because I’m all in my feelings this morning, I open my arms and give her a hug. She’s visibly taken aback.

‘I won’t ask why,’ she says, with a squeeze. ‘I’ll just take it.’

When she’s gone Jamie says, ‘I hope you’ve got your sun cream on.’ I hadn’t realised he’d stopped swimming – I was totally in my head. He stands up in the pool, rivulets of water cascading down his lithe, tanned body. His collarbones jut out with pride, his pecs swell with satisfaction. He wipes his face with a colossal hand and shakes his hair back from his face. It’s like being spoken to by a real-life model.

‘I don’t actually,’ I respond, from where I’m standing near the veranda. He looks at me, blinking. It’sthat faceagain, except whereas before it used to drive me mad that it was impassive and blank, impossible to read, now I see it for something else: a dare. Curiosity about what I’m going to do next. ‘You offering to help?’ I add.

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