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‘Psychic, are you?’ I teased.
I saw his eyes rest on my dirty running gear flung over the back of the armchair and wished I’d had time to do a proper tidy-up.
‘It’s nice in here,’ he said.
I watched him drinking in every detail of the room, and I was aware, again, of how little it said about me.
‘If I stick around much longer, I’ll need to do something with it,’ I said, feeling the need to explain. ‘Look, I’ve even bought some interiors magazines for inspiration.’ I pointed to the copy of Elle Decoration on the table.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked, relaxing back on the sofa, crossing his feet at the ankle.
‘I’d like a burnt orange wall,’ I said. ‘And some artwork. And some more bookshelves over there.’
He nodded enthusiastically. ‘A pop of colour.’
I watched him running his fingertip around the rim of the glass.
‘My ex – Dan – insisted on keeping it all white,’ I said. ‘He liked the minimalistic look.’
‘This is the guy you used to live with?’ asked Jack.
‘Yeah. We moved in here together and then he moved out six months later.’
‘Sounds like a wanker,’ he said, and then looked like he wished he hadn’t. ‘Sorry,’ he added. ‘I’m sure he was very nice.’
I smiled, sipping delicately at my drink, even though I felt like taking massive gulps of it in the hope that I’d feel relaxed enough to act like my normal self instead of this slightly anxious, edgy person I’d suddenly become.
‘It’s fine. He was a wanker, ultimately. But for some reason, I always seem to fall for them.’
‘Funny how we keep repeating the same old patterns, isn’t it?’ he said.
Our heads were both resting on the back of the sofa. He was looking up at the ceiling, at my lightshade with feathers stuck onto it, like a sort of lit-up swan. It was the first non-minimalistic thing I’d treated myself to when Dan had left.
‘Nice lampshade,’ Jack commented.
I tapped my fingertips on the sofa between us; I had the sudden desire to reach out and run my hand up the inside of his thigh but I was determined to hold onto the little bit of control over myself I still had. The problem was, when I was with Jack, my resolve seemed to go out of the window.
‘I’m sorry I thought you were seeing Nathalie,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t have assumed.’
He put his hand over the top of mine. Our fingers slotted effortlessly together. Part of me wanted to move away because it felt too much, too intense.
‘Well, I thought you were back with American boy,’ he said.
I burst out laughing. ‘Is that what you call him?’
‘Ooops, did I really just say that out loud?’ he grinned.
He put his glass down on the table and twisted in his seat to face me.
‘You’re really nice to talk to,’ he said.
I nodded. ‘I keep finding myself storing up things to tell you. You seem to be the first person I want to speak to about stuff these days.’
I couldn’t believe I was being so open about how I felt. Warmed by the drink and more confident than usual, I reached out and stroked his cheek with my thumb, still holding my glass, which felt too heavy and clumsy in my other hand now.
‘I enjoyed our kiss,’ he said.
‘Me too,’ I whispered. ‘So why has it taken us so long to do it again?’
