It’s nice. It’s friendly. It’s fun.
I suddenly realise as we stand up to go back that I don’t even know for certain whether Callum’s single.
I feel like he must be because if he weren’t it would betooodd for him to agree to go in the van with me. And I feel like there have beenmomentsbetween us. But I don’t know.
‘Do you play poker?’ Callum asks me. ‘I always thought you’d be good at it.’
‘Never played.’
‘I’ll have to teach you the rules if we have any more enforced stops. I think there’s a one-on-one version you can play called heads-up.’
It’sso strangehow we know the bones of each other so well but absolutely nothing about each other’s actual lives now.
I don’t want to know about Callum’s life. I don’t want to find out. It would be too much.
Actually, I do want to know.
I’m just going to allow myself one tiny little question.
‘Do you play a lot?’
‘I had a flatmate a few years ago who was amazing at it. As in he used to compete and win actual sums of money. He got me into it.’ And there it is. He’s telling me stuff about his life. ‘A group of us went to Oklahoma one time when he played a big tournament there, and it was truly amazing. The intensity of the competition, fortunes made.’
‘Wow,’ I say.
And then I realise that he hasn’t told me anything about his life other than that a few years ago he had a male flatmate and hewent to Oklahoma with some friends. He’s keeping it light, not telling me anything more than surface-level anecdotes, exactly the same as I did last night over dinner.
It’s sad. Really sad.
It’s for the best.
‘Tell me about Oklahoma,’ I say.
He has more than enough anecdotes to ensure that there are no further awkward gaps in our conversation and no possibility of us straying into more personal details, and I find myself enjoying the walk.
When we’re approaching the garage, my flip-flop gets caught on a stone and I trip and half-scream, convinced I’m going to fall over and hurt myself, but Callum’s arm shoots out and he catches me round the waist. We hover, kind of suspended like that, for a moment, and then he goes all hot potato with me and removes his arm extremely speedily, and I pretend that my heart hasn’t suddenly started beating as fast as he took his arm away, and after a moment he resumes the story he was telling. His voice sounds a little bit odd to start with and I can’t totally concentrate on what he’s saying because I’m listening to his lovely deep gravelly tone rather than his actual words, and I can’t stop thinking about how his arm felt round my waist.
After far too long, I do eventually recover my wits, and then we’re at the garage. The wipers and lights are working and Callum pays and all’s good; Callum pumps Antonio’s hand hard and I air-kiss him and then we hop up into Miranda and we’re off.
‘Direction Florence, then,’ Callum says.
‘Yep.’
‘Your flip-flops.’
‘Again?’ I ask. ‘Really? I’mfinedriving in them.’
‘Yep, you know how you tripped back there, though? When we were walking?’
I remember it extremely well because I still can’t totally forget that when he had his arm round me we fitted together very well.
I’m tempted to pretend to catch my foot now and see how stressed that’ll make him but decide that there’s a chance it would be dangerous, so I don’t.
‘Callum. I have driven thousands of miles in flip-flops. I do not want to have a crash. SoifI think it’s dangerous I will change them, but I really don’t. Andobviouslyyou would never be patronising enough to suggest that you know better than me?’
We’re at a junction and I’ve stopped, so I turn to look at him.
He looks back at me through narrowed eyes for a long moment and then nods. ‘Of course not.’
