Page 8 of Away With You
“From one of these cups?” She gapes down at the one she’s holding in her hands, and I nod again, defeated.
“Yikes. And then what?”
My mind drifts over the conversation, stopping on his memories of my mum, of her impact on him as a teenager. “And then he left.”
Her lips purse. “That’s it? He had a cup of tea and was on his way?”
“Well, he did ask for my number.”
She goes scarily quiet, her eyes bugging out of her head as she places her cup of tea on the coffee table with a loud thud.
“Katherine Winslow. Are you being serious right now? He. Asked. For. Your. Number? Your phone number?”
I giggle at her dramatics. “No, my NHS number. Of course, my mobile. But it doesn’t mean anything. It’s not like he’s going to use it.”
As if scripted, right on cue, my phone lights up with a notification on the couch between us. Frowning, I pick it up. The only person who’d ever message me on a Saturday is sitting in front of me, so it’s most likely a scammer trying to steal all my money.Good luck with that, buddy.I have barely two quid to steal.
UNKNOWN
Hey Kitty Kat. Turns out Cherry is having a farewell do later today. So, I’ll be back in your neighbourhood. Do you want to catch up for coffee? Or dinner? (This is Nathan, by the way).
Dumbfounded, I turn my phone and shove it to Jade. She reads the message, a wrinkle growing between her brow, before she reads it again. I watch her mouth out the words, and after her fourth re-read, I snatch the phone back from her.
“This is unbelievable,” she mutters while I do a re-read of my own. Maybe my eyes are playing tricks on me. And also, Jade’s. Because that can’t be a message from Nathan Jackson. It just can’t.
“That’s a message from Nathan Jackson,” Jade says finally, jumping up and onto the couch a la Tom Cruise in that infamousOprahinterview. “He’s hanging out with Cherry Brenner—ohmigosh, that means Nicky Dimitrios—and he wants to have dinner with you. How is this our life?”
I love how she’s woven herself into this. That Nathan is now part of her life as well, when he’s not even a part of mine.
“I don’t understand,” I say, staring down at my phone, willing it to make sense. “Just because he’s in Clapham doesn’t mean he has to see me.”
She tsks. “Duh, the guy wants to see you.”
My stomach swoops at her words. “That can’t be right.”
Jade settles back down next to me, pointing at the phone clutched in my hand. “First things first. Write back and tell him you will meet him for dinner.”
Stomach. Swooping. Overdrive.
“And what’s the second?”
Her grin is wide and excited. “We spend the afternoon planning what you’re going to wear, of course.”
?·?·?
Six hours later, I’m buttoning up my winter coat, still in a daze that this is happening. After much cajoling and threatening and pleading from Jade, I agreed to meet Nathan for coffee. It was a compromise, a way to give in to my friend’s pleas to ‘go meet the drop-dead gorgeous F1 driver so she can live vicariously through me,’ and not have to commit to an entire meal, because honestly, what do I have to talk to Nathan about for hours? Plural.
“Do I look alright?” I ask again.
Every article of clothing had been picked apart and discarded before we landed on the only thing in my cupboard worthy of her approval. It’s a long, creamy-beige coloured, woollen jumper dress, off-the-shoulder and fitted to my mid-thigh, paired with tights and knee-high brown boots. Jade raved about how it makes my waist seem tiny and my hair appear darker, and I was so fed-up with trying on outfits I’d given in, even though it’s notsomething I’d wear on a normal day. But as she pointed out, this is not a normal day.
“You are gorgeous. A goddess, with all that hair tumbling down your back. You should be on the cover of a romance novel. Or in an ad for shampoo.”
We’d spent much of the last hour straightening my hair, before adding curls back in and combing them out into gentle waves, cascading over and down my back, where they end at my waist. It’s a lot of effort to go through for a coffee, but every time I’d object, she’d flash another image of Nathan in front of me, and I’d give in. It makes sense to want to look your very best in front of a man who has only ever looked his very best.
“Thanks.” I draw in a calming breath, reaching down to pat Nuke, who’s been giving me judgey eyes all afternoon. These are different from her usual judgey eyes; it’s like she knows who I’m off to meet and she feels betrayed. Because she already loves him more than me.
“I mean, that jacket is a travesty,” she adds, her eyes now also judgey as they sweep over me. “Make sure you lose it the minute you enter the pub.”
