‘Why don’t I, at the very least, find Lizzie for you?’
‘Find me?’ says Lizzie, from right next to my elbow.
‘I spilt wine on my top and Jake thinks it’s his fault but it isn’t,’ Freya explains.
‘I love that top,’ Lizzie says. ‘We need to rescue it. Let me give you one of mine to wear and we’ll put that one straight in the washing machine so we can get the wine out before it dries into a stain.’ She takes Freya’s hand and pulls her away. ‘We’ll see you in a minute, Jake.’
And off they go, and that will probably be the last I’ll see of Freya this evening. When I did my teenage-style agonising over seeing her, I didn’t actually imagine that all I would do would be stare at her chest and babble. But there you go. I really do need to forget about her and move on. Easier said than done, obviously, with Sonja’s one-hour live special looming, but I’m an adult; I should just deal with it.
Fucksake. I’m staring in the direction of where they just disappeared. Like a lovesick teenageragain.
I give myself a shake and move over to speak to some friends.
A few minutes later, I’m genuinely properly distracted by a story about a truly crazy stag weekend in Wales a couple of weeks ago (so many clichés: a green moustache was painted on the groom in permanent marker; he was tied to a lamp-post naked; he was then found by his mother’s female next-door neighbour who panicked and handed him an actualsockto cover himself strategically – why not a larger item like a dressing gown or towel?), when up pops Lizzie, holding Freya by the arm.
‘We’re back!’ Lizzie practically thrusts Freya towards me, and then just walks off.
‘Hi.’ Freya gives the top she’s wearing a little tug. At a guess, she’s feeling slightly exposed. It’s bright red and extremely tight. It looks very nice but it’s more revealing than the clothes she usually wears.
I want to reassure her that she looks lovely but I’m pretty sure I could end up in an awkward conversational quagmire if I go down that route, so instead I say, ‘We were just hearing about the stag weekend from hell.’ And then I repeat the details I just heard, and Freya obviously exclaims, and then she’s drawn into the conversation with the other men.
The group we’re in expands to include some other women, but it so happens that Freya and I continue to stand next to each other, and somehow end up in a side conversation, just the two of us.
‘How did your panel go?’ I ask. I know that she was speaking on an online panel about writing romance yesterday evening, and had been feeling a little nervous following the way our TV appearances blew up.
‘All good. There was only one slightly tricky question aboutWake Up Britain– did I learn anything from it – and I batted it away with a plug for the live update show and a comment that doing it and the love challenge has taught me that I still absolutely adore writing romance and am incredibly grateful to my readers.’
‘Nice,’ I say appreciatively. Then, even though right as I say it I’m aware that it’s a stupid question to ask, I continue, ‘Do you feel like in reality it did teach you anything? I feel like it taughtmesome stuff. Like… even though Sonja is objectively manipulative and does not have our best interests at heart it was quite good being thrown into some of those situations. Yeah. I think I might just be saying that team-building eventswork.’
‘I thinkthoseteam-building events worked but I don’t think they always would. Like, if we actually inherently truly hated each other, making me do things that I hated and you loved would not have improved matters.’
Her words give me a bit of hope – because, okay, yes, I really have missed herincrediblythis week and I’d love to spend more time with her – and on impulse I ask, ‘Want to get some air on the balcony?’
Lizzie’s flat is a second-floor one, with a small, flower-filled roof garden jutting off the living room. No-one else is out there at the moment (possibly because it isn’t that warm), so if we go out there we’ll be alone.
Freya hesitates for a moment, and then says, ‘Good idea.’
We weave our way through the others and out onto the balcony.
I close the door behind us, and then say, ‘Don’t want to let cold air in,’ in case Freya thinks that I really wanted us to be alone (which if I’m honest I do, so I feel like I’ve just made up a pathetic little lie).
Freya sits down on the bench that Lizzie has running along one side of the balcony, and I join her.
‘Beautiful view,’ she says. ‘I always love it out here in the summer.’
‘How long has Lizzie been living here?’ I ask.
Our small talk continues for a while, and it’s nice. Nice to know that we can still chat. I really only think about sexual things about once every minute or so: victory. It’s good that we’re in full view of everyone inside so there can be no temptation whatsoever to do anything stupid like, well, kissing.
I’m careful not to mention anything about the weekend, because it’s hard to mention the activities without then thinking about the sex.
And I would really, I realise, like to be able to be friends with Freya, and I can’t do that if I’m constantly thinking about that side of things when I’m with her.
Freya’s been telling me about the long walk she went on this morning with a neighbour and the baking she did this afternoon. ‘How was your day?’ she asks.
I hesitate briefly, and then I say, ‘I spent the day with my family.’ And this time I go on to tell her in detail about Max’s accident, and the effect it’s had on the rest of us, and how my parents are amazing but obviously getting older and a little more tired. And it feels good to tell her: even if nothing romantic develops between us, I hope we can stay friends; and we’ve had a huge experience together.
‘I’m so sorry again that the accident happened,’ she says. ‘You obviously have an amazing family, to have drawn together in response.’
