Was it weird to ring Nick on a Sunday?
A couple of rings before it went to voicemail, he picked up.
‘Zoë? Is everything okay?’
‘Everything’s great,’ I replied automatically.
He paused. ‘Would you like to talk about it?’
He’d obviously heard something in my voice, because his had a note of concern.
I suddenly felt overwhelmed. ‘I’m in Clapham. I’ve just left Jessica’s flat.’
‘Do you want me to come and get you?’
‘No, no, nothing like that. I just wondered if you were around to talk.’
‘That train comes into Waterloo, doesn’t it?’
I nodded, then realised he couldn’t see me. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Okay, I’ll meet you at Waterloo in half an hour. Then we can go somewhere to talk – I promise it won’t be on the London Eye.’
‘I appreciate this, Nick. Thank you.’
*
My train took about ten minutes to get to Waterloo, so I sat in the station coffee shop and sent Nick a text to let him know where I was.
I drank my tea staring into space.What a bloody disaster. It was bad enough that Simon was so oblivious to how hard it was for me to see him with Jess. But then he’d told me I was acting crazy about Marcie, and that still smarted.
He’d sounded so callous, and that was hard to forgive. Had he spoken in frustration and now regretted it? I didn’t know because we’d barely spoken for the rest of dinner.
I was lost in thought when Nick walked in and I almost didn’t recognise him. ‘You’re wearing jeans,’ I said, as if this fact had somehow escaped him.
‘You didn’t mention a dress code.’ On top he was wearing a long-sleeved black T-shirt with buttons. The first couple were undone. ‘Can I get you anything?’
I shook my head and he went to the counter to order.
It was so odd to see him out of a suit, but it was a welcome distraction from my ruminations about Simon. Nick’s blue jeans were faded and well-worn; I bet if I stroked them they’d be impossibly soft. Although why I was thinking about stroking Nick’s legs I had no idea. The young woman serving him giggled nervously as she took his order. Nick flashed a wide smile of thanks and her giggles got louder, making the other baristas shake their heads. Nick’s hair was different, too. Wilder; he must use gel to tame it during the working week, but I’d never noticed before.
He sat down opposite me with his lovingly made double espresso, his admiring barista no doubt disappointed that she could only see the back of his head.
‘What have you been up to today?’ I said, suddenly curious.
He shrugged. ‘I got up, went for a run, did some laundry.’
‘Are all your suits at the dry-cleaners?’
‘Contrary to what you might think, I don’t live my job twenty-four-seven. Sometimes I can go a whole hour without thinking about it.’
It was a bit mean to accuse him of never clocking off. He was here now for work because of me, wasn’t he?
‘You don’t play football on Sunday mornings, or veg out on video games with a buddy?’ Why had I picked those two things? Not all blokes were as lame as my brother.
‘Playing football is a British thing.’
‘So what did you do at school for sport?’
