Page 10 of Not Moving Out
‘Nice work, Sherlock.’
‘I can’t believe it. Nick and Emily were amazing together. They were the “it” couple at university. Remember their wedding?’
‘Yeah, it was grand.’
‘Why are you saying grand? You aren’t Irish.’
‘Sorry, I’ve been writing an Irish character for a thing, and he says “grand” a lot. Maybe too much. I should probably learn some other Irish words other than “grand” and “feckin’ eejit”.’
‘Probably,’ I said, looking across at him. ‘Joe, promise me we’ll never break up.’
‘Never going to happen.’
‘Why? It happened to Emily and Nick, and I thought they were nailed on for life. They were the couple most likely to die in each other’s arms at ninety, and now they’re probably haggling over child support.’
‘So many reasons, Freya, but really the main thing is that the thought of having to go through all my social media accounts and delete all the photos of you seems like a lot of work.’
‘You knob,’ I said, punching him gently on the arm.
‘But seriously, we’re okay.’
‘Just okay?’
‘Better than okay. There’s nothing in the world that could break us up. Just because Emily and Nick couldn’t make it, it doesn’t mean we won’t. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.’
I put my phone down, slid across the bed towards Joe, cuddling into him. He was right, we would be fine. Maybe Nick cheated, or Emily had an affair. Perhaps there was something else going on I didn’t know about. Maybe they had just fallen out of love. I would text her in the morning and find out, but at that moment, I was with Joe, and we were going to be fine. Better than fine, we were going to be feckin’ grand!
My office was in one of the gorgeous white Georgian townhouses on the border between Brighton and Hove. The building had five floors in total and our solicitors’ took up three of them. Becket, Godwin & Anderson had been in the same building for as long as I had worked there, and I loved walking into work each morning. The office space, despite being in a charming old building with bags of original character, was modern and fresh. It was minimal in design with lots of Scandinavian-inspired furniture and plenty of green plants that helped bring the outdoors in. The partners, Sam Becket, Brian Godwin and Claire Anderson, were all lovely and had made me feel like a part of the family from day one. I had been there for nearly ten years now, and I was already in discussions with them about continuing my studies and becoming a fully fledged solicitor, and they were completely on board and said they would do whatever they could to help.
Becket, Godwin & Anderson were like a second family, and my best friend in the family was Lucy Bailey. Actually, she was more like a sister, and she worked on reception and so was the first person I saw each morning when I walked in.
‘Morning,’ I said, walking up to her small reception area where she lived for most of the day. ‘Receptionist’ was something of a misnomer to what she actually did. She was everyone’s personal secretary, office manager and the person in charge of making sure that everything ran smoothly. We never ran out of coffee, biscuits or toilet paper because Lucy made sure we didn’t. When it was someone’s birthday, she bought the cake, and the card for everyone to sign. If Becket, Godwin & Anderson were a family, she was the matriarch. Today she was sitting behind reception, sipping on a coffee and opening the morning mail.
‘Morning,’ said Lucy.
Today Lucy had her brown hair tied back neatly in a ponytail, two silver earrings hanging from her ears and above her slender neck.
‘Good weekend?’ I asked, desperate to tell her about mine but at the same time desperate not to. She knew Joe and I were having problems; we had discussed the less-than-finer points of my marriage many times over lunchtime sandwiches, but she didn’t know the full extent of them.
‘Not bad. The usual. George and Henry both had cricket in Lewes all day Saturday, so that was it really. Stuart worked most of Sunday, but after Cold Water Club, so I had that time just for me, which was lovely.’
‘Ah yes, Cold Water Club. How’s it going?’
‘Freya, it’s brilliant. You should come along. There’s no better start to the day than a brisk dip in the sea, followed by a flask of hot tea, and a good natter with mates.’
‘Brisk? I think it’s probably a bit chillier than brisk. Doesn’t it freeze your nipples off?’
‘You get used to it, and it makes you feel so alive. You should come once, and if you totally hate it, I won’t bug you again. Promise.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ I said, as Sam Becket came walking in behind me, carrying his folded-up Brompton bicycle.
‘Morning, ladies,’ he said in his deep, warm voice.
‘Morning, Sam,’ we replied in unison.
Sam Becket was tall, handsome, recently turned fifty, and divorced from his wife, Helena. He had two grown-up children and cycled to work on his foldable Brompton bicycle. Every day, you would see him outside folding it or unfolding it, and he stored it in his office. He had already taken his helmet off, his now slightly greying hair beneath, cut short and neatly groomed, and he was wearing a navy suit with smart brown leather shoes. He always smelled incredible, too, and was one of those men that had a signature scent. I wasn’t sure what fragrance he used, but it had hints of citrus, maybe bergamot, something spicy and warm, and with deeply woody undertones. He definitely had the handsome, middle-aged solicitor thing down to a tee, and there had been talk since his divorce about whether he was dating again. Sam walked past us, and then up the stairs to the second floor and his office, his bicycle in one hand, and his leather briefcase in the other.
‘Do you want to get lunch today?’ I asked Lucy. ‘I need a chat.’
