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Lately, Smithy’s becoming more persistent about how grumpy I’m getting and how I need to “get a move on” before it’s too late.

“Too late for what?” I asked him a couple of weeks ago while we washed and dried dishes as Romana bathed the girls.

“You’ll get too used to being alone,” Smithy said, scrubbing at the chilli pan with a scourer. “Then when the right person finally comes along, you won’t be able to share your space or your time anymore. The longer you’re on your own, the more selfish you become. It’s a known fact.”

“I’m not on my own,” I replied, leaning against the worktop and twisting the damp tea towel between my hands. “I have Paul.”

“You can’t count a miniature dachshund, even if you did give him a human name.” Smithy raised an eyebrow, and I scowled at him before looking lovingly at Paul, hoping he didn’t understand the insult.

“Your worktops need oiling,” I told Smithy, running my finger over the dried grooves in the oak. To anyone else, it might have seemed like a diversion tactic, but by that point, I was genuinely concerned about the state of his worktops. “You have to look after real oak; otherwise, it dries out and cracks.”

“I’ll oil my worktops when you go out with someone,” Smithy shot back.

I shuddered at the thought of how long the oak would survive before completely drying out.

As my tea brews, I find myself wondering what Alice is doing now. Has she already met her old friend? Was it a happy reunion? Did it live up to her expectations, or has this woman turned into one of those sour-faced, perpetually miserable people who hates their house, their husband, their kids, and spends their time wishing they could turn the clock back?

Maybe that’s why she finally contacted Alice after all these years.

And where did they meet? What is Alice wearing?

I don’t go to the staff parties because they involve people talking to me and asking questions I may have to answer, which gives me a headache just thinking about it, so I’ve only ever seen Alice in the practical Kitchen City uniform she wears to work every day.

And although she looks beautiful in it—because, yes, she is beautiful; you’d have to be blind not to notice how stunning she is—I’ve no idea what she dresses like outside of work. Usually my fantasies about Alice involve very little clothing at all, but I still like to visualise what I’m taking off her. Unless it’s the fantasy in the Chilton kitchen where I pin her against the floor-to-ceiling cabinets and tell her to remove the uniform herself.

Clothes matter to me.

They’re armour. A mask. I like to look good, so I judge a lot about people by what they wear.

Is Alice fond of floral prints and bright colours? Sportswear with Lycra and designer labels? Or jeans and oversized shirts?

If her personality is anything to go by, she probably dresses the same way she speaks—like an explosion of colour and energy, incapable of doing anything quietly, the sort of person who walks into a room and somehow makes it feel less dull.

When I first met Alice, I thought she was going to be annoying. One of those people who never stop talking and seem to love the sound of their own voice a little too much.

But I quickly realised that Alice isn’t like that. She doesn’t talk for the sake of talking. She talks because she has to, because she seems incapable of keeping her inner monologue inside her head. Everything she thinks simply comes out.

I find this strangely refreshing.

For the first time in my life, I didn’t have to second-guess someone. I didn’t need to read between the lines, or assess their tone of voice, or wonder whether someone saying they liked my shirt was secretly mocking me.

I learned the hard way in secondary school that people rarely mean exactly what they say. Banter was how teenage boys talked to each other, and you were expected to either “give as good as you got” or go home and cry.

I didn’t literally go home and cry, but I spent most nights in a foul mood after being told I was too lanky, my forehead too shiny, and my legs too hairy. Anything they could pick at, they did.

Smithy was the exception. He’d have a dig every now and then, just to go along with the lads, but he always knew when to stop, when the joke had crossed the line from funny to cruel. Sometimes it was harmless. Most of the time, it was irritating and, quite frankly, soul-destroying.

It wasn’t just me. I wasn’t singled out. All the boys were like this. If you couldn’t take the piss out of yourself and all your mates, then there was something wrong with you.

I couldn’t wait to leave school and be free from the constant noise of raging hormones. That was when my life really seemed to improve. I discovered a talent for technical designs. I got a good job, went on a few dates, and slowly became better at socialising until eventually I fell in love.

And I genuinely thought that was it. I thought I was following the path everyone else seemed to follow. Heading in the right direction.

Then, three years ago, I fell off that path.

No. Fell is the wrong word entirely.

I was pushed, thrown from it with such force that I didn’t think I’d be able to stand up again.