‘That’s what makes it so scary. I know what they could be thinking,’ I say gravely.
He laughs even louder at my admission. ‘I want to ask, but maybe it’s best I don’t know.’
I shake my head in warning. ‘Trust me, it is.’
He nods in understanding, taking a sip of his drink and prompting me to do the same.
‘So, why don’t you just pretend she’s a guy?’ he asks.
I can’t help but laugh at his naivety.
‘It’s absolutely not the same.’ He stares back blankly, so I sigh and settle in further on the sofa. ‘If a guy has a big enough ego – which, if we’re being honest, most do – they really don’t requirethat much effort in terms of flirting. You can be nice, smile a bit and have a regular conversation with them, and they’ll assume you’re head over heels in love. Girls aren’t like that. They take more time, and attention and wit, and I tend to fail under pressure with it.’
‘Hey . . .’ he starts to argue.
‘How long into our first conversation did it take before you assumed that I wanted to shag you?’ I ask bluntly.
‘I never . . .’ he splutters.
‘Be honest,’ I say, straight-faced.
He looks down guiltily, heat rushing to his cheeks.
‘Okay, fair point,’ he concedes as I giggle in triumph. ‘But, from my experience, youarewitty andcanput in time and attention. This shouldn’t be that hard for you.’
He turns to face me head on, knocking his elbow against mine as he does.
‘Let’s practise. Pretend I’m Amelie,’ he says.
I protest. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘Come on, it will be fun!’ he says in the world’s worst accent (one I’m pretty sure is French, yet again).
‘I can’t! Especially not while we’re here! And keep your voice down.’
He rolls his eyes and looks around. Everyone’s so engrossed in their own conversations that there’s no way they’re listening to ours. But even so, I can’t run the risk of Amelie overhearing and concluding that I’m some socially inept weirdo who has to pre-rehearse conversations with her.
His eyes drift past my shoulder, focusing on something in the distance behind me. I twist to follow them and see her, by a wall, clutching a plastic cup of her own and laughing animatedly with some friends. Even now in this dimly lit house party, the light still manages to catch her, spotlighting her in the middle of the crowd.
‘I could do it for you – wingman it,’ Noah says.
‘What, so then she knows I’m not capable of talking to her myself? I’m too old for that,’ I sigh.
She glances over to the side, double-taking when she catches me staring. Our eyes meet again, locked together from across the room as she starts to make her way over to me.
‘Noah, help.’
‘Just breathe,’ he says, before shutting up as she reaches us to stand at our feet.
‘Having fun?’ she asks, smile as bright as ever.
‘Yeah, a great time!’ Noah replies, swooping in to save my wordless mouth.
She breaks our eye contact to look over to him, seeing him for the first time. Though she doesn’t look displeased, I can’t help but notice that her smile burns slightly less bright.
‘We’re just friends, by the way. Just in case you were curious. Where’s your toilet?’ he asks brashly. She gives some directions, amused. ‘Cool, I’m gonna head there. Want my seat?’
She nods as the pair start to awkwardly trade places.
