‘Night, Sarah,’ I say, lifting my PlayStation bag.
‘Night, Nick, and thanks again.’
I zip up my hoodie and rush down to the taxi, where I see Matt in the back, his face illuminated by his phone.
‘Alright,’ he says as I climb in, ‘you survived then?’
‘Piece of piss,’ I reply. ‘He’s no bother. . . and you?’
He smiles and shows me a selfie they took together at the restaurant.
‘Yeah, we had fun. And you didn’t burn her house down or anything, so I’ve probably earned bonus points.’
‘I’m glad it’s working out, man.’
He puts his phone away and glances up at her window as we drive off. ‘Me too, and it’s really nice taking it slow for a change. Normally, I’d be inviting her back to ours already. Not that I haven’t thought about it but—’
‘Can you stop off at this petrol station, please?’ I yell at the driver, cutting Matt off. I don’t need to hear that when I haven’t had sex in five months. It feels like a lifetime; I can barely walk past the underwear window displays in Marks and Spencer without getting a semi. I nip into the garage and buy some crisps and a sandwich I don’t really want before returning to the taxi. I’ll save them for lunch tomorrow.
I finally crawl into bed at midnight and as usual, my mind is racing. However, among the typical bullshit, there’s one image that, no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to shake – and it’s Sarah in that black dress.
Chapter Eleven
‘Ice skating is romantic, right?’
I wipe the Guinness froth from my lip and furrow my brow. We’re at the local pub – our weekly Sunday afternoon ritual. It started with rugby season at uni, but we never really stopped, even after we moved to London. When we both worked at Kensington Fox, we didn’t see much of each other in the evenings, so our Sundays were pretty sacred. Granted, Matt now has to buy both rounds, and I have to sprint to the grotto for our 2pm opening, but it’s still the highlight of my week.
Our pub conversations have gotten decidedly more Mills & Boon since Matt started dating Sarah. Gone are the days of who shagged who at the union karaoke night or complaining about Harriet using a fork to chip off whatever monstrosity she had accidentally fused to one of Matt’s decent non-stick frying pans.
‘Ice skating? Yeah,’ I reply. ‘Well, unless you’re Tonya Harding.’
‘I mean for a date. It’s romantic, isn’t it? Classy.’
‘Yep. Totally. Nothing screams romance quite like public humiliation and a bruised arse.’
He frowns. ‘But you see it all the time in movies. Couples holding hands while they skate, kids playing, catching the other person, snow falling and all that shit—’
‘Matt, if you want to take me ice skating, just ask. This is getting embarrassing.’
‘Shut up. I just don’t want to suggest it to Sarah if it’s a lame idea. I suggested bowling last week and she wasn’t particularly keen.’
I smirk. ‘Probably because she’s not twelve.’
‘I just wanted to find something that Alfie could do with us—’
‘Look, I’m sure she’ll like this idea, and unlike me, you can actually skate, so there’s that. . . just don’t do all that fancy speed skating crap. It’s very unnerving.’
‘Noted,’ he replies, pulling out his phone. ‘Though my parents will be very disappointed that all those summers in ice hockey camp are going to waste. I’ll see what she says.’
I sit quietly while he texts Sarah, briefly imagining a life where your parents could afford to send you to summer camp. My mum could barely afford to send me to swimming lessons.
Once finished, he puts his phone on the table and takes a sip of his drink. ‘Sarah says hi.’
‘Nice. Is she up for frozen water and sharp blades whizzing past her small child?’
‘She is indeed,’ he replies, happily. ‘We’re going Saturday night. And you’re coming with us.’
‘No chance.’ I laugh. ‘You can flutter those lashes at me all you like, the answer is no.’
