I arrive at Edwin’s house forty minutes after we’d arranged and he answers the door in a state of breathless pandemonium. ‘They’re already on to the second challenge. The first was a Princesstårta.’ He shuffles me through the door urgently. ‘It’s a tart made with custard, whipped cream, marzipan and a bright green covering. Quite the thing if you’re at a Swedish dinner party. Quick – can’t miss the next one.’
He darts into the living room and leaps over the back of the sofa, in time to catch Paul Hollywood confide that he ‘prefers the big ones’, something I can only assume refers to the batch of macaroons in front of him.
As I approach the sofa, the scene is similar to the kind you’d expect from a bloke during the FA Cup Final. Only Edwin’s version is rather different. He is not surrounded by cans of Stella but there’s an empty bottle of Prosecco lying at his feet, along with half a plate of bruschette al pomodoro, garnished with rocket. I can tell before I sit next to him that he’s tipsy, and for a moment it feels nice to be the sober one after the fiasco last time I was in this flat.
‘You look gorgeous,’ he declares, taking a bite out of a bruschetta.
‘Thanks, Edwin,’ I reply awkwardly as he tears his eyes away back to the television. I have no wish to be here after what I’ve just learned from Emily, but I didn’t want to let Edwin down. Also, I thought it might distract me from the urge to throw myself under a bus. ‘Should I help myself to a drink?’
He is momentarily torn between good manners and Mary and Paul.
‘Of course. What can I get you, hun?’ he replies and, putting aside my abject shock at being called ‘hun’ by Edwin, I tell him I’ll have a glass of water but insist on getting it myself.
When I return to the sofa for the rest of the Bake Off, it’s fair to say that I’m fighting a losing battle for Edwin’s attention against seven Austrian tortes and a batch of rosemary-infused drop scones. The thing is, I don’t mind. I’m actually relieved that Edwin is so distracted, because it takes the pressure of his gaze away from me, at least until Mel and Sue say cheeri-bye and the closing credits roll.
‘Brilliant television,’ he concludes.
‘It’s a great show,’ I nod, though all I’ve done is let my eyes roll in and out of focus as I battle with thoughts of Emily, Joe, the baby . . . and last night.
He peers at my glass. ‘Oh, I forgot – I bought some fizz for us,’ he says, picking up the bottle. Confusion simmers on his brow as he realises it’s empty. ‘I must’ve spilled some. Sorry, Lauren.’
‘It’s absolutely fine,’ I reassure him.
He tuts. ‘Well, I’m annoyed with myself. I’d wanted everything to be perfect. I thought we’d do the Bake Off then chat about Singapore and . . . get to know each other even better.’ He holds my gaze. ‘Like the other night.’
‘Yes, about that . . . ’ But I can’t bring myself to go any further, even though I’d love to know what actually happened.
He leans in, gazing into my eyes, his mouth dropping as if lust and gravity are directly related. ‘Hmm.’ He focuses on my lips until he’s nearly cross-eyed.
‘I’ve been thinking about what happened,’ I cough. ‘Or what might’ve happened.’
‘I can show you if you like?’ he offers.
I freeze, engulfed by the certainty that I do not want to rediscover first-hand what happened with Edwin the other night.
It’s not even that my attraction to Edwin has diminished. It’s more than that. I am actively un-attracted to him. He is suddenly about as gorgeous as a fungal toenail infection.
If you’d told me I’d ever feel like this six months ago, when my feelings for Edwin were passionate and overwhelming – I might have almost felt relieved at being unshackled from these emotions. But I don’t. Instead, I feel terrible.
How can I not find Edwin attractive any more, just because I’ve slept with him, even if it was non-penetratively? What does this make me? A toxic female probably – because if some bloke had come along and done this to one of my friends, I’d unquestionably say that he was a commitment-phobe who loved the thrill of the chase. That he was a sad, pathetic cad who’d had his wicked way, then gone cold.
Well, here I am, doing exactly the same. And what’s worse, I can’t even remember the wicked way. All I know is that Edwin no longer sends me into fits of rapture when he looks into my eyes. He just alarms me. The manifest problems that this unravelling situation presents is enough to make my head ache. It’s not just in his flat, here and now, with him going in for the kill. It’s Singapore. It’s everything. It’s . . .
‘It’s all too much!’ I say aloud and he looks up, shocked.
‘What is?’
And although I can’t untangle the most pressing issue in my life right now, I can at least attempt to put things straight with Edwin. ‘Look, I’ve been attracted to you for quite a long time,’ I confess.
He grins. ‘I know.’
‘And . . . well, I suppose deep down part of me thought something like this would never happen between us.’
‘Well, I’m all yours.’ At that he opens his arms wide and goes to lean back on the other end of the sofa, but instead falls directly off it – and plonks, bum first, on the floor.
‘OHHH GODDD!’ he shrieks.
I scramble down to his side. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s my coccyx!’ he exclaims, and it takes a moment before I realise he’s not referring to the thing I apparently got to grips with last week. ‘It’s no end of trouble,’ he continues, clutching his lower back as he winces in pain.
I try and help him up, feeling as if I’m in a nursing home and about to give him a bed-bath.
‘I’m afraid this might put paid to anything too physical this evening. I’m so sorry.’
‘What a shame,’ I exclaim.
He does a double-take. ‘Lauren, can I ask you something?’
I cough. ‘Of course.’
‘Have you gone off me?’
Oh my God. This is my get-out clause, but suddenly saying this directly to Edwin seems horribly harsh.
‘I’m extremely fond of you, and er . . .’
‘You’ve gone off me,’ he concludes sulkily. You could never accuse Edwin of being stupid.
‘Edwin, you’ll always be my friend . . .’
‘I don’t want to be your friend, Lauren,’ he hisses. ‘I don’t want pity. You’ve led me on for two years, you do realise?’
‘I wasn’t leading you on,’ I argue.
‘I dumped my girlfriend for you!
‘I didn’t have anything to do with that!’
‘You had everything to do with that,’ he fires back. ‘I would never have looked at another woman had you not come along fluttering your eyelashes every morning and pretending you liked my mum’s baking.’
‘I wasn’t trying to lead you on. My feelings for you were real. I felt very strongly for you.’
‘Felt? Forgive me, Lauren, for noticing your use of the past participle. Come on, tell me: What have I done wrong?’
And as I sit, self-loathing once again sweeping over me, I’m not sure I can answer that question.