‘Hello?’
‘Nella? I hope it’s not too late?’
I freeze, before I realise he means,not too late at night, rather than …not too late for us.
‘No, it’s fine. I’m just in bed.’
That sounds wrong, because I’monmy bed. And there’s a difference.
There must be a delay on the line, because he doesn’t respond.
‘I’ll have to talk quietly so I don’t wake my parents,’ I add.
‘You’re still at home?’ His voice is rich and deep, and it feels so intimate in my ear. Like he’s here.
‘Yeah, and my parents seem happy for me to stay. Zorbs is less happy because he likes to sleep in complete blackness, and I like to read in bed, but we’re slowly getting used to each other.’
‘Sorry, what was that?’ he asks carefully, like he’s not following. ‘Who are you getting used to?’
‘You know Zorbs,’ I say, without thinking.
‘I’m not sure I do.’
Wait, he thinks I’m talking about a man? And he sounds … affected by it?
A thrill shoots through me. Part of me wants to reassure him immediately, but a different part of me wants to hear that tiny break in his voice again that hints he might care.
I smile so hard, my cheeks hurt.
‘You do know Zorbs – he farts a lot, smells of tuna, has lost half his teeth but will still attempt to gum you to death if you cross him. I love him very much.’ I pause for dramatic effect. ‘He’s a cat, sweetie. He’s my parents’ cat.’
He laughs, rich and warm and I let myself ride a wave of bittersweet longing.
He has to leave before I’ve asked him how he’s getting on, but as first conversations go, it couldn’t have gone better.
Next time, we agree a date in advance, and the time after that Mark video calls.
I don’t remember what we talk about during that first FaceTime because he’s sporting three days’ worth of stubble and everything is drowned out by the thump of my ovaries playing maracas to the tune of ‘Feel Like Makin’ Love’.
I manage a couple of surreptitious screen caps, though.
After that, we regularly FaceTime and keep each other abreast of what’s happening in our lives. Like friends do.
I tell him how well Pen is getting on under the care of Dr Benson and a new OCD therapist. She’s dropped out of her accountancy degree, and until she decides what she wants to do she’s working at the STD clinic on reception – against my better judgement. She loves it, though, and she gets to enjoy our famous Friday night drinks.
I excitedly fill him in on the publishing contract I’ve signed. Amazingly, the advance might just cover a deposit on a small flat. In the meantime, I’m still at home, but I don’t mind. I enjoy spending time with my family. And I tell Mark he’s a big reason I’ve learned to appreciate them better.
He tells me about the time he almost got carjacked. And when a bullet missed him by millimetres and he felt it whistle through his hair. That titbit I could have lived without. But I think he secretly enjoyed seeing how much I worry and how badly I hide it.
I go on a couple of dates, but I don’t tell him about them. Not that they come to anything.
I don’t ask about his (ex?) girlfriend, and he doesn’t mention her.
I do keep him up to date about Yan’s new boyfriend, who’s called Spiros –another Praxitelis shacking up with a Greek, what is the world coming to?
I also keep Mark in the loop about Yan’s restaurant renovation. We’re having the grand opening tonight – 1 December. It feels like a good date for a new beginning.
It’s sunny in Venezuela when we FaceTime. I’m not sure what time it is, but Mark’s already got five o’clock shadow. His Ray-Bans are resting on his head, and he’s wearing a light blue T-shirt that shows off his tan.
