Page 58
“I already look guilty.”
“Fair point.”
I point a warning finger at him as I start backing away. “Not. One. Word.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” James says, grinning in a way that suggests he absolutely would. Before I can accidentally divulge any more of my secrets to him I power walk down the corridor in a way that definitely doesn’t scream casual.
***
Sophia has already let herself into my house by the time I get home. And she opened a bottle of wine… and started cooking. She’s officially my heroine. Everyone should have a younger sister like Sophia. Preferably one with a set of spare keys, an impressive repertoire of recipes, and an ability to understand the shared emotional burden of growing up with a mother like ours.
“Tough day?” she asks, stirring the sauce. The smell of spices wafts through the flat, cumin and paprika. “I haven’t had a weekday Code Red from you in ages. I think the last time was after you broke up with Joe years ago, and then dropped your phone into a pot of soup trying to block him.”
“It was a very dramatic lentil situation,” I mumble, kicking off my shoes.
Sophia hands me a glass, and I take it like a woman recently rescued from the battlefield. Because yes, I do feel like I have just endured a gruelling and exhausting experience fraught with danger. My pulse has been racing most of the day, probably a mixture of residual shame about not texting Tom all those weeks ago, the fact that I’m still attracted to him and can’t act on it, and maybe even just the stress of a new project.
Sophia turns back to the stove and starts stirring the sauce again.
“So?” she prompts. “What happened? Did the school burst into flames? Did you have to run an ice-breaker?”
I sit down on the stool at the kitchen island and take a long sip of wine before answering.
“Tom Ford is one of the teachers at the school.”
Sophia pauses mid-stir and turns to face me, smoothing her hair back from her face with her spare hand.
“Before you say anything, not the designer,” I deadpan. “Yes, the history teacher.”
“Oh my god!” she shouts, waving the wooden spoon and splattering sauce on the counter. “Tell me everything. From the moment you saw him to the moment you inevitably fell into a bin trying to avoid him, even though your new mantra is ‘no avoidance’.”
“I didn’t fall into a bin.”
“So you did try to avoid him?”
I down the rest of my wine and gesture dramatically for a refill. She reaches to pour me another glass before taking a sip of her own.
“Unfortunately, there was word vomit and a maths teacher involved.”
She stifles a laugh, but looks at me with empathy.
“You know how I feel about Tom,” I tell her. “And then I saw him, in person, and the feelings I’ve been squashing just sort of came rushing back. And despite all our pep talks I felt awkward and a bit overwhelmed.”
Sophia’s expression softens and gentle blue eyes bore into mine. The exact same shade as my own. She opens her mouth to say something but I cut her off.
“I messed up before, so now I need to make sure to be professional and act normal.”
“That sounds entirely achievable, especially given the fact that you texted me a Code Red and definitely still like him.”
I scowl at her and take another sip of wine.
“Well, I want to know the highlights of the awkward reunion,” Sophia grins at me.
“He was teaching a lesson about the French Revolution.”
“Oh my god,” she squeals.
I try to eat my curry in peace, but Sophia keeps interrogating me about the encounter with Tom as we sit at the table. By the time we’ve finished she’s learnt all about my accidental confessions to James.
