When the two-day hangover from the girls’ night out had cleared, I decided to text Rowan. I desperately wanted to mention Skye – to ask how she’d come hurtling back into our lives with such convenient timing. Assuming she ever even left, I thought as I typed, deleted, typed again. I didn’t want an argument over text; I didn’t want an argument, full stop. But I couldn’t not speak to him forever. So I sent a neutral message – Hey Row. I hope you’re okay. Thanks for the space. I’ve been thinking. Or trying to think. Ha. Let me know how things are? xx – and he’d dodged a written reply entirely, opting instead for a call.
‘I was so glad you messaged.’ He sounded glad, too; there was a breathlessness about him, as though the relief were a physical feeling, and the reaction set me back. ‘Edi, look, about everything that got said—’
‘Is Patrick sleeping with Skye?’ I let it out with an urgency, as though before that it had been trapped wind. There was an uncomfortably long silence after, though, so I added, ‘Or are you?’ I tried for a defiant tone, one that friends would be proud of, even though off-screen I was shitting a brick – boulders, even.
After another too-long silence, he only said, ‘No.’
I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding. ‘Rowan, I’m choosing to believe you for literally one reason, and I’m going to get it out there, and then we’re going to be done with it.’ I thought I heard his lips part but I didn’t leave the space for him to jump in. ‘You could be sleeping with Skye. As in, according to the deal. So I’m trusting you to be honest because right now there’s nothing actually wrong with doing it.’ It was a lie. A dirty great whopping lie. But once it was out there, there was no going back.
‘She’s friends with Hamish.’ He sounded genuinely sad. ‘I don’t even know how they know each other. She and I, as soon as we saw each other, we made out we were meeting for the first time. The lads, they don’t know.’ I nodded along while listening, but when he stopped, I found that I had nothing at all to say. I didn’t know whether I believed him. But I didn’t have the evidence not to. As though sensing a breaking-off point to move away from the awkwardness of it all, Rowan then changed the subject entirely and asked, ‘Anyway, I heard you had a night away with the girls. How was that?’
We managed idle small talk for fifteen minutes: he’d been out with the boys; caught up with work emails, despite it having been the weekend; then fenced a call from his parents. ‘Speaking of which, do you remember they’re visiting?’
No, I thought, because I don’t think you told me … ‘You told me they were coming?’
‘Yeah, like, a week or two ago, I definitely mentioned it.’ His tone was blurred with annoyance around the edges. ‘Anyway, they’re coming next week. You’ll be around, right? They’re booking us in for dinner so I’ll let you know when I hear from Dad. Probably looking at Thursday, though, or Friday.’
‘Okay, sure, I’ll keep those nights free.’
‘You’re a star, babe. Any plans for tonight?’
I was midway through rolling on a pair of tights. ‘I’m having dinner with Fred again.’
There was a lull. ‘Good,’ he finally said. ‘Good, that’s going to be good for you.’ I could hear he wanted to ask more, and I wondered whether he would. ‘Let me know when you’re home?’
‘I always do.’ Even when you don’t ask.
*
Fred came down to the front of her building to meet me. She was wearing skinny jeans with a loose-fitting polka dot blouse and she laughed when she saw my dress. ‘My God, we’re already co-ordinating.’ She kissed my cheek, light enough for my breath to catch. ‘You look amazing, Edi. Anyone would think you’re making an effort.’
I laughed. ‘Please, this is how I dress every night.’
‘Coming up?’ She held the door open. ‘I’ve taken a wild guess on dinner …’
For the second time in a two-hour window, I made small talk with someone. Only it felt easier doing it with a relative stranger than it had done with Rowan – and I tried not to lose my head over that. Lose your head over it tomorrow, I coached myself in between answering Fred’s questions about my work, and listening to her answers about her own.
‘I should hear back about the exhibition project soon anyway.’
Her job – away from the café, which she brushed off as nothing – sounded ridiculously interesting: creative and expressive and intense. I realised that from the short bursts of time I’d spent with her, I’d probably describe her in the same way. She set a hand on the base of my back to steer me the right way along the corridor to her front door.
‘I hope you’re hungry. Stuff will be done in half an hour or so.’
The front door was a bright and bulbous red, but everything behind it was white. The hallway, the rooms I could see branching out from it, the open-plan sitting room right at the end of the walk; the walls were all a brilliant white. There were splashes of colour everywhere, though, lighting the space up like a paint chart: the colour blocks of blue on the wall; the teal lampshade; the scarlet sofa that came into view as we walked towards the living area. It was a grown-up space.
Fred must have read something into my silence. ‘What did you expect?’
‘I have no idea.’ I looked around like a child stepping into a National History Museum: And here we have a replica of the lesbian, at home in her natural nesting space. ‘Is white your favourite colour?’
‘Good question.’ I heard something clunk and when I turned to find the source I spotted the kitchen, tucked out of sight on the other end of the large living space. Everything was so open. ‘Are you in the mood for red wine or white wine?’
I panicked. ‘What goes with the food?’
She laughed. ‘Beer?’ She pulled out a bottle and reached next to her to pull two wine glasses from a shelf well-stocked with them. ‘We’ll start with white and see how we feel.’
‘Is that how you decided on decorating the place?’
‘Sort of.’ She brought the glasses over and landed heavy on the sofa, so I matched her. ‘I like having things that I can add to. White is clean, neat, it makes me feel like the whole flat is a gallery. Plus, it makes it easy to swap and change things around here.’
Opposite us, there was what looked to be a single line drawing framed and positioned pride of place on the jut-out of an old chimney breast. The portrait was impossible to miss. It showed a woman’s body, I realised, after looking for longer than I maybe should have. The hips were wide and the thighs were thick and there was something—
‘She’s caught your eye?’
I smiled. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I love it when people stare at my work.’ She sipped her wine. ‘Well, and my body.’
Heat gripped my cheeks and I was painfully aware of turning a colour that matched the sofa. ‘It’s your … I mean, it’s your work, a self-portrait?’ She murmured a yes. ‘It’s really beautiful, Fred.’
‘Well, I think highly of myself.’ Her tone was light, relaxed, and it was starting to brush off although my cheeks were still blooming roses.
‘That’s how you see your body?’
She stood and looked at the drawing, then tilted her head from one side to the other, like someone inspecting it for the first time. ‘Shaky lines, bold curves.’ She nodded. ‘Strong.’ Without another word she disappeared behind me and, I guessed, into the kitchen. ‘Now, you’re banished from turning around while I get food sorted because I’m a sucker for suspense. But take a look about the place, why don’t you? You can try to guess which work is mine.’
I stood up, covered my eyes and said, ‘Yes, boss.’
‘Hm,’ I heard, then, although her voice was nearly a whisper. ‘I like that.’
The heat in my face flared, and I wondered how much of my hand might be covering the creep of red. Fred would probably call it crimson or bloodshot or magenta. To keep my cool – whatever was left of it – while I walked around the flat, I tried to name as many colours as I could that meant the same or similar to red. If nothing else I’ll impress her with my palette, I thought while I stared over a distorted bouquet of sunflowers that was framed and hung in another part of the hallway. Beyond the white, I realised, nothing else had to match. The colour-blocked blue was close to the burnt orange and then, when I took brave steps into the bedroom, I found teal and purple and greyscale – none of which matched the green in the bathroom.
‘Ready when you are,’ she soon shouted, and I felt the dip of something in my pelvis.
I traced my way into the open space of the living room and rounded the corner to the kitchen, where the table stood loaded with food. There were slices of what looked to be garlic and herb flatbread, bowls of pasta soaked in different sauces, and were those vegetable spring rolls? Fred kept quiet for a second while I took in the sights of rice, small pots of curry, and – Christ, is that a cheese board?
She crossed the space to meet me. ‘Beyond what you ate for dinner the other night, I was kind of shooting in the dark. But statistically, there must be something here that you like.’
I sighed and felt a sink of something drop from my chest and settle between my hips.
‘I think I’d like you?’
Fred narrowed her eyes and waited a second, as though giving me the chance to take it back. But when I didn’t, she pulled me by the waist, leaned in and kissed my jawline. ‘That, I can do.’