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Bridget rolled her eyes, then laughed her loud, throaty laugh.
‘I know what you mean, but honestly, despite being way more grown up than anyone I’ve ever had drinks with before… Seriously, we went to the most beautiful cocktail bar. Proper drinks, big fat olives. There was even a bloody piano player. We did talk about work a bit, but mostly we talked ourselves, about our lives. Well, mine, when I think about it.’ Stella paused. ‘He asked a lot of questions.’
‘What about him?’ Bridget signalled to Stella to pass her the glass of water Stella had just poured herself. ‘Gasping.’
‘Now you mention it, that’s the funny thing. I asked him just as many questions, but he always seemed to turn the conversation back to me.’
'Maybe he was just being polite?’
‘I know he’s an only child, he moved down here from somewhere on the west coast of Scotland when he was a teenager apparently and he’s worked in London ever since.’
‘Accent?’
‘Gentle lilt. Lovely, actually.’
‘What else?’ Bridget took a last gulp of water and put the empty glass on the table.
‘His mother died when he was young, so we have that in common. Not that we talked about it much, he obviously didn’t want to go into details. Doesn’t see his father, who is an alcoholic apparently.’ Stella felt sad at the thought. ‘But he seems quite together about it all. Like I said, he seems, you know, sorted.’
‘Must have been good if you didn’t come home for thirty-six hours.’ It was Bridget’s turn to raise an eyebrow at Stella.
‘Bridge!’ Stella laughed, handing her friend a cup of steaming coffee before picking up her own and blowing on it gently. ‘Very good, actually.’ She smiled broadly.
‘Excellent, then you may see him again.’
Their laughter brought the man from Bridget’s bedroom to the door. He stood there, in a crumpled shirt and boxer shorts, his hair tousled. He looked at them both expectantly, smiling nervously. There was an awkward silence.
Stella looked at Bridget, willing her to say something.
‘Oh god, sorry. So rude. Stella, this is Roger,’ blurted Bridget.
‘Richard,’ he corrected her.
‘Richard!’ Bridget repeated his name before looking back at Stella, her eyes wide.
‘Hi, I’m Stella.’ She waved from her seat.
He nodded. ‘Right, I’d better be off.’ He looked at their mugs of coffee longingly.
Bridget didn’t move. ‘OK, thank you, Richard. Thanks for a lovely evening.’
‘Yes, absolutely, I’ll be in touch.’ He waved and went back to the bedroom.
Stella and Bridget sat at the table silently. A few moments later, the front door of their flat shut with a heavy thud.
‘He seems nice,’ said Stella.
‘Stella, I got his name wrong.’
They looked at each other for a moment before dissolving into laughter once more.
* * *
Barely three months later, a tearful Bridget had stood on the steps of the front door to the flat they’d shared for years. They’d just loaded the last of Stella’s belongings into the boot of Simon’s car and Stella turned to hug her friend one last time before handing her the keys back.
‘God, I’m going to miss you.’ Bridget squeezed Stella tightly.
‘Me too. But I’m not far, I’m literally round the corner. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.’ Stella hugged her friend back. ‘We’ve got book club next week, remember?’
