Page 47

“Do you want me to take you home? Or call for a taxi?” he asks.

“Neither.”

“So, what do you want?”

I know what I want is illogical. Impulsive. Irrational. I know Felix will give me seven shades of shit when I tell him. But all I can think about is how snake antivenom starts with collecting venom. That the cure contains the poison.

What I want is to lean into the idea that I can erase some of the hurt I felt after Joseph left—the fears that what we had meant nothing—by having one more night and experience. One night where I can feel that connection and convince myself it’s pure before I am the one who decides to walk away. In the morning, I can be the one who walks out, leaves him behind, never looks back. I can feel like I’m in control, that for once, I’m the one doing the leaving.

But I can’t tell him that. It would likely scare the life out of him, make him immediately call a taxi to take me home and remove me from his life. I’ve often wondered if he saw me as a wrecking ball, a destructive force that derailed his plans and his life. Does he see me that way now? Would he, if I told him what I was thinking?

I may lack the confidence to be forthright about what I want, but I can start leading him to reach the same conclusion. Let him lead me down a route he thinks he’s planned himself.

“Show me around the house,” I suggest.

“Sure,” he agrees. He rises from the sofa, gathering the dishes and taking them to the kitchen countertop where the packaging sits for the lava cake.

“Don’t buy that again,” I tell him. I was truthful with my assessment earlier. It wasn’t a bad cake, but it wasn’t great.

“Next time, homemade banoffee pie,” he promises.

I don’t allow myself to focus on the words “next time.” There will not be a next time. I’m sure he knows that as well as I do. There would be nothing logical about the idea of another meeting between us.

He leaves the bowls and then gestures for me to walk with him. I follow him back through the rest of the downstairs. He takes me from room to room, pointing out various things, telling me about different pieces of furniture or what he plans to do with the decorating in certain areas he wants to redo. Almost like he knows I don’t care about anything downstairs, he doesn’t take a long time there, and we’re soon walking up the staircase together.

“I’m a little disappointed that you don’t have some gaudy decoration going on, but given the house isn’t finished, maybe the glass animals and wild prints will come later,” I tease as I climb the stairs behind him.

He chuckles. “I’m a little more reserved than what you think is a showbiz lifestyle, I’m sure.”

“Never been at a party where somebody has thrown a piano out of a window?” I ask, thinking of some of the wild stories that I’ve read over the years in the newspapers. It’s usually the outlandish and extravagant celebrities it applies to.

All he does is laugh again. It sounds amused rather than mocking.

We reach the top of the stairs, and he clears his throat.

“What do you want to see?” he asks.

“Why don’t you show me your bedroom, so I can be a judgemental bitch if you’ve got leopard-print bedspreads and mirrors on the ceiling,” I joke.

“Why on earth would I have mirrors on the ceiling?” he shoots back, and when I look at him, I see nothing but amusement in his expression.

“To look at yourself from the moment you wake up, obviously.” I shrug.

“Hmm, I wondered if you were going to suggest it was so I could watch myself having sex with somebody.” He laughs heartily. “Neither, by the way. No mirrors at all in the bedroom.”

“Then you don’t know what you’re missing out on,” I jest.

For a second, he looks shocked, and then he smiles.

“I know it’ll sound stupid, but when we’re talking, I forget twelve years have passed between us.”

“You mean you’re just realising I’m not the same innocent, virginal girl I was back then?”

Something flashes across his expression, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same as me, about the night we talked and I told him I was a virgin. He was surprised. I can’t say I blamed him, given he knew I would go home with men for a safe night of sleep. All that had ever cost me was a few kisses and gropes, plus a lot of dry-humping of their erections against my thighs in the club.

“Dee.” He groans slightly and runs his hands through his hair.

“Are you going to show me your bedroom, Joseph?” I challenge.