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‘Barnaby’s Babes,’ I snort inadvertently. ‘You’re one of them, now.’
‘Yeah, you too, kiddo.’
‘Okay … Let’s do this. I will be needing full picture approval first.’
Joe scrolls through his phone and hands me a photo he’s already favourited. In it, I’m sitting in front of the peeling wallpaper with a glass of wine in my hand and a huge smile on my face. I blink at it. I can’t remember seeing myself look this happy and I’m including my own wedding photographs in that thought. Did I know, back when I married Mark, that it wasn’t quite right? That’s ridiculous, I tell myself. I do remember feeling even happier than I look in this photo when Lila was born but I definitely did not look this good. I looked sweaty and like I’d just pushed a very large baby out of my vagina when Poppy insisted on taking my photo.
‘What magic is this?’ I ask Joe now, suspiciously eyeing up the photo he just took. ‘Did you use a filter? I look like I’ve had a week of solid sleep and a facial.’
Joe cocks an eyebrow at me. ‘That’s your face, Sophie.’
‘Wow, this dingy pub really suits me.’
‘I’m pretty sure it’s the sparkling company you’re in,’ he retorts. ‘So am I to take it that you approve of this one? Can I post?’
I run a finger around the rim of my wineglass. Sensible Sophie really ought to be panicking right now. What kind of sane person lands themselves in such a pickle that the only reasonable way out of it is to pretend to date someone else? This is madness, isn’t it? And yet …
‘Is it weird that I’m into this plan?’ I ask. ‘Because it’s nice to hang out with someone who isn’t my pushy sister, or a parent, or my child. You’re not terrible company, Joe.’
‘Steady on, my ego’s about to explode.’
‘And tonight has been surprisingly okay.’
‘I might have that etched on my tombstone,’ he says, deadpan.
‘You are quite amusing and I don’t hate the idea of spending more time with you this year. If I were to do a risk assessment on this plan—’
‘Please don’t.’ Joe pretends to stifle a yawn.
I press on. ‘Then I’d grade it a two out of ten.’
‘Have you finished? Or do we need a spreadsheet and a PowerPoint presentation before we post this Instagram picture?’
‘Ouch.’ I laugh. ‘Joe Kitson, I am ready to go Instagram official.’
Joe picks his phone back up and starts typing. Within seconds my phone sounds to tell me that I’ve been tagged in a post. I peak at it through squinted eyes because I’m actually quite nervous.
‘To new beginnings,’ reads the caption underneath.
Chapter 8
The stream of comments piling in seems never-ending and it’s the school mums who are first off the mark. ‘OMG congratulations you guys!’, ‘Gorgeous pair’ and a simple string of heart emojis are the main contenders, followed by an admittedly hilarious ‘WTF?’ from Olivia. Joe’s post has racked up over one hundred likes in less than half an hour and I can practically feel my ears burning as we set the school gate gossip ablaze.
We leave the pub shortly after and stroll through Cotham’s leafy streets together, grand villas in bath stone turning into Victorian terraces like mine. I chance another look at my phone just as the Barnaby’s volunteer group chat lights up. The first is from Tally.
Joe and Sophie! You kept that under the radar Can’t wait to hear all the goss.
‘That didn’t take long,’ I say as Joe reads the message over my shoulder.
He breathes a sigh of relief. ‘I feel like a weight’s been lifted.’
BTW the kids are having a last minute school trip to the park on TUESDAY morning and need volunteers asap.
Who’s keen?
Perhaps our latest recruits and new lovebirds @JoeKitson @SophieRogers?
‘Ooh, sounds fun!’ I cheer.
