Chapter Four

I SAW HIM TWICE in the next two weeks. Dinner both times: once at a pizza place in Borough Market, the next at a Japanese restaurant the size of a shoebox in a Knightsbridge basement. There, we sat at a counter while the chefs passed dainty plates of sushi straight to us from the kitchen and I was so happy to be on a fourth date that I didn’t even mind eating rice, which I normally avoided on the basis it was too fiddly to count. But here, I just did it. No fuss.

I’d started noticing that people looked inquisitive when I was out with Rory. First they studied him; drawn by his accent, they’d next take in the old-fashioned trousers and the braces.

Then they’d look at me, but only briefly before their eyes flicked back to him. This applied particularly to other women but I didn’t mind. I was just proud to be there, sitting, talking, laughing in his company.

There were only a couple of things that worried me. Firstly, I often felt quiet in his presence, as if I wasn’t dazzling or captivating enough while he talked about politics, about art and about the dozens of exotic cities he’d visited across the world. He seemed so much more worldly, especially when it came to his exes. He often mentioned them and there seemed to be dozens; it was ‘Tallulah this’ or ‘Sophia that’. I imagined the sort of women you see smiling from society magazines – wearing hairbands and showing off their perfect dentistry. Rory’s obvious romantic experience made me feel a tiny niggle of insecurity about my own.

Secondly, the ‘cowabunga!’ thing. It kept happening. After the Japanese, he’d slammed his hand so hard against my bedroom wall at the critical moment I worried that he’d punched through the plaster. But I didn’t want to spoil anything by asking him about it. Wimpy, I know, but what if I ruined everything?

I hurried along the pavement to my second session with Gwendolyn, keen to discuss the situation. You see very few people skipping along Harley Street. Mostly they amble along fearing the needle or a poke in the prostate. But I had questions to ask. I wasn’t sure quite how to phrase these – did you send a handsome blond man into the shop on purpose? Are you a real witch? – but I’d figure it out.

Rory had flown to Nigeria over the weekend with the Foreign Minister but WhatsApped me every day. I felt a tragic little thrill every time I saw his name pop up on my phone. He’d texted me back! And again! Byron might have written great love letters but, from Rory, even a message about what he was having for dinner or a photo of his hotel room gave me a buzz.

I counted myself upstairs to the fourth floor of the Harley Street building and knocked on Gwendolyn’s door. On her command – another shrill ‘Come i-hinnnnnn!’ – I pushed it open and winced, having forgotten the pinkness of the room.

‘Florence, poppet, wonderful to see you, have a seat,’ she said. She was dressed as if she’d just returned from her gap year in Thailand: baggy cotton trousers, white T-shirt, flip-flops, a purple bandana wrapped around her head.

I sat. She cocked her head and smiled. ‘How are you?’

I wondered when I should mention Rory. I was torn between wanting to announce that I’d met someone who shared several items on my list, and being unable, or unwilling, to admit it to her, lest she claim all the credit. ‘Good. I’ve, er, actually been on a couple of dates since we last met.’

Gwendolyn closed her eyes and smiled serenely. ‘Ah yes. I thought as much. I could tell it the moment you stepped into the room. Since I removed those love blocks, your energy is quite different.’ She opened her eyes. ‘Tell me about him.’

‘He’s, well, he’s got a few of the qualities on my list. That’s what I want to talk to you about,’ I said, reaching for the folded piece of paper in my bag. ‘Because it seems a coincidence—’

‘Is it a coincidence or is it the universe granting you your wish?’ she interrupted, with the same, wide smile. Maybe she was on drugs. Maybe you could only talk like this if you took heavy-duty medication?

‘It can’t be the universe,’ I said, smoothing the list on my lap. I ran my eyes down it. ‘I mean, it can’t be. It doesn’t make sense. You can’t have made this hap—’

Gwendolyn interrupted again by reaching towards me. Her hand, decorated with gold rings, looked like that of a medieval king.

I gave her the list and she frowned down at it. ‘Does he like cats?’

‘He says he does.’

She nodded as if that was to be expected.

‘Does he have an interesting job?’

‘Yes. He works for the Foreign Office but wants to be an MP beca—’

‘Does he have an impressive bottom?’

I blushed. Now I’d seen him naked, I knew he did. No spots. No hair. Not too insubstantial and bony but not too chunky either. That looked weird on men. At uni, there’d been a geography student with a curved, womanly bottom and he always wore jeans that emphasized it. Big Bum Bert we’d called him. Poor Bert.

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘And how is his…’ her voice dropped here to a whisper, ‘performance?’

My face turned as pink as the room as I heard the echo of ‘COWABUNGA!’ in my head. ‘It’s… impressive.’

‘Has he got a nice mother?’

‘Not sure.’

‘And his clothes?’

‘Definitely no pointy shoes or Hawaiian shirts.’

She continued running down the list and I agreed that Rory ticked all of them. I wasn’t sure about the bathroom habits yet, admittedly, and I hadn’t told him about my counting. But otherwise it was a perfect match.

‘It sounds as if the universe has delivered, darling,’ said Gwendolyn, folding the list and handing it back to me. ‘He seems very promising. You said you wanted someone with the sexual energy of Sean Connery…’

‘James Bond,’ I clarified. ‘I didn’t actually specify which one. And if we’re picking, Sean wouldn’t actually be my first choice. I’d rath—’

Gwendolyn silenced me by holding up a hand. ‘Florence, you’re getting distracted. Let’s stick to the point; what’s worrying you about all this?’

‘I’m not worried. I’m just not sure I can believe it, that writing this list has made it come about.’

She spread her hands in front of her. ‘Why should it matter if you believe it? It’s happened. You’ve met someone.’

‘But what if it’s too good to be true? What if it all goes away again?’

‘Ah,’ said Gwendolyn, waggling a finger at me. ‘That is something entirely different. That is your own self-belief. But I can do something about that.’

‘What?’ I was instantly suspicious.

She glanced at my hands, first right, then left, and then flicked her eyes upwards. ‘Are you wearing any jewellery?’

I reached under my jumper for the gold chain I always wore with the capital letters ‘A’ and ‘F’ hanging from it. Dad had given it to Mum after I’d been born. She was called Amélie, so the necklace represented the first letters of our names mingling together. ‘This,’ I said, tugging the necklace towards her. ‘Why?’

‘Remove it and we shall enact a short ritual.’

‘What kind of ritual?’

‘A little ritual to help with your self-confidence, nothing to worry about. Hand me the necklace.’

I removed the chain and Gwendolyn laid it on the coffee table between us. ‘Now we need Venus,’ she said, standing to reach for the shelf. She picked up one of the naked statues, the purple wax one whose head had already been melted, and placed it beside the necklace. Next, she reached into a drawer under the table for a box of matches and lit the candle. ‘Close your eyes and imagine you’re sitting in a circle of pure light.’

‘What?’

She batted a hand at me. ‘Eyes closed, please. Imagine the circle. Are you doing that?’

I nodded, except I wasn’t imagining a circle of pure light. Instead, I was imagining how embarrassing it would be if anyone I knew could see me acting out the instructions of a sorceress in flip-flops.

‘Come to me now, the love and the energy of the four archangels.’

I held my breath to prevent a snigger.

‘I call upon Archangel Raphael in the east,’ she said, ‘I call upon Archangel Michael in the south, I call upon Archangel Gabriel in the west and I call upon Archangel Uriel in the north.’

Her voice became louder. ‘Venus, the power of love, please come to our little ritual!’

I wondered how long this would go on for. I wanted to be home in time for Masterchef.

‘I call on Venus and the archangels to bless this amulet,’ she continued, almost shouting by this point, ‘to charge it with love, with passion, with stability and with protection. Help the physical and spiritual qualities of Florence, er…’ she paused.

‘Fairfax,’ I muttered, eyes still closed. She might be a witch but she was terrible with names.

‘That’s the one! Florence Fairfax, to help her physical and spiritual qualities shine out into the world from now and for ever onwards.’

‘Amen,’ I said, thinking it sounded right in the circumstances.

‘No need for an amen. But you may now open your eyes.’

I opened them to see her blow out the candle and scrape the chain off the table. ‘Here,’ she said, handing it to me. ‘Wear this and you will be imbued with more positivity about life.’

I doubted this very much but fastened the necklace. ‘What’s the ritual supposed to do?’

‘It will encourage a powerful energy to develop within you, helping you to vibrate at a much higher frequency and draw people towards you. And it will encourage your new friend Roger…’

‘Rory.’

‘It will encourage your new friend Rory to fall magnetically in love with you,’ said Gwendolyn, clenching her fist and thumping it against her chest. ‘Now, we have two sessions left,’ she went on, ‘so shall we schedule them now or do you want—’

‘I’ll call you,’ I said quickly, standing up. ‘I’ll have a look at my diary and let you know.’

‘I look forward to it,’ she shouted behind me as I opened the door.

As I walked home, I tried to detect a growing magnetic field within me. My stomach rumbled as I crossed Lambeth Bridge but I think it was just hunger.

Later that evening, I was refolding my T-shirts when Rory rang. Seeing his name on my phone screen made my stomach somersault.

‘Hello, how’s Nigeria?’ I asked, smiling down the phone.

‘Hot,’ he said. ‘But listen I can’t be long as we’ve got an official dinner about to kick off. I just wanted to see if you were free on Thursday?’

‘I think so, how come?’

‘I’m having drinks with a few friends at the House of Commons. On the terrace. Would you do me the very great honour of being my date?’

‘Course,’ I said, still smiling. ‘Do I need to wear anything special?’

‘Absolutely not,’ he replied, ‘but bring some ID. They’ll make you go through security. And that’s marvellous news! I feel better about being away from you now. Got to dash. I’ll see you then.’

‘Great,’ I said, although he’d already hung up. I dropped my phone on my bed just as there was a knock on my door.

‘Can I come in?’ It was Ruby.

‘Sure,’ I said, surprised. Mia and Ruby were constantly in and out of each other’s bedrooms, borrowing shoes and stealing hair ties, but they rarely came upstairs into mine. I’d become used to this and pretended not to mind, even though it was another small but significant demarcation underlining that I was different to them, that I wasn’t quite in their gang. And to be fair, my room was more spartan than theirs. No cushions on my bed. Grey blinds on my skylight windows instead of curtains. The only photo was on my bedside table, taken on my third birthday in the kitchen downstairs. I was wearing a party hat, the elastic digging into my chubby chin, and beaming at my cake. It was shaped like a ‘3’ and covered in Smarties. My mother was crouched protectively around me, also wearing a party hat over an abysmal perm. It was the last photo taken of us together.

‘Hey,’ I said, as Ruby appeared from behind the door. ‘What’s up?’

‘Can I sit?’ She nodded at my bed.

‘Course. You all right?’

She pinched her lips together and inhaled. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, ‘but I was wondering if I could borrow some money?’

‘Money?’

‘You know the papery stuff that buys things?’

‘What for?’

She didn’t reply.

‘Ruby?’

‘It’s kind of embarrassing,’ she said finally.

‘Try me.’

‘A personal thing.’

‘How personal?’

Ruby pressed her hands to her face and spoke through her fingers. ‘I think there’s something wrong down there.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘An STD,’ she mumbled through her fingers. ‘I think Jasper might have given me something.’

‘OK, what are the symptoms?’

She dropped her hands and scrunched her nose. ‘Burning. Like a really bad burning. And itching.’

‘What about discharge?’

‘Gross! Can you not use that word?’

‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘that’s just a thing sometimes, isn’t it? Cottage cheese or whatever. But hang on, I’m not saying I won’t lend you money, but can’t you get a free test for this kind of thing?’

‘I can’t get an appointment until the end of the week and also…’ She paused. ‘OK, this is going to sound stupid, but what if I’m spotted?’

I pinched my lips together to stop myself from smiling. Ruby had been on television once in an advert for Andrex but, sure, she was going to get asked for her autograph in an STD clinic.

‘There’s a place off Harley Street that can do all the tests for £300 tomorrow and it’s same day results. Blood tests, swabs, the lot. But I’m broke and I don’t want to put it on my credit card in case Dad sees. I don’t want to ask Mia because it will go straight back to Mum. And I don’t want to ask Jasper because if he has given me something, I want to cut his blue-blooded penis into very small pieces and feed it to the birds. So I thought of you.’ Ruby looked up at me hopefully.

‘Flattered, thanks.’

‘Oh, go on, Flo, pleeeeeease. I can’t tell you the pain. It’s like I’ve chopped a chilli and had a good rummage down there.’

‘All right, all right.’

She leapt up from the bed and hugged me. Her hair smelt of cigarettes. ‘Thank you. You’re the best. Can you transfer it now and then I’ll book it first thing?’

‘Yes,’ I replied wearily.

‘Amazing, thank you, thank you,’ said Ruby, releasing me and heading for the door.

She vanished downstairs again leaving me standing in my bedroom, shaking my head. Was it OK to feel strangely proud that she’d asked me for this kind of help over anyone else? I decided it was, especially because Ruby didn’t seem that emotionally traumatized by her fiery private parts.

I was on the phone to a customer the next morning when Zach appeared by the counter and loitered.

‘I’ll wait,’ he mouthed, when I pointed at the phone to underline the fact that I was busy. It was off-putting, Zach hovering in front of me while I tried to concentrate on the demanding American who wanted me to find a book about the history of the tractor which was printed in 1942.

‘What is it?’ I asked, when I finally hung up.

‘Your Instagram poet has said yes.’

‘What? I thought she’d never go for it. And the dog?’

‘Yeah. The publishers are keen. Just spoke to them. I think they see it as a credible place for her. A grown-up bookshop instead of, well, reciting that dross to a million 16-year-olds from her bedroom. But they’ve suggested Thursday next week. Is that too soon?’

‘WHAT?’ I repeated, more loudly. ‘It’s way too soon. Have you told Norris?’

‘I have and he says we’re in charge of the whole thing. Come on, we can do it, you and me. Do you want to grab lunch and make a plan?’

I thought about the sandwich and apple in my bag. Having a different lunch to the one I had planned meant a change in routine and a change in routine, even if it was giving up my cheese and tomato sandwich, made me feel uneasy. Plus, I didn’t want to have an awkward, stilted lunch with Zach. I tried to think of an excuse.

Eugene shouted over a pile of books he was shuttling around the shop floor.

‘Go on, you big jessy,’ he urged, before looking at Zach. ‘She’s going to tell you she’s brought her lunch, which means she can’t possibly have anything else.’

Having worked alongside one another for five years, Eugene and I had learned each other's tricks and habits. He always left the Stanley knife out on the counter and he told every customer to ‘have a magnificent day’, which made me want to beat him over the head with a very thick hardback. He knew my lunch routine. But because we’d become friends over the years, he was one of the rare people who was allowed to rib me for my neuroses.

‘It’s wasteful to throw it away,’ I insisted.

‘Fine,’ said Zach. ‘Bring your lunch and I’ll grab a sandwich from somewhere. Then we’ll go sit in the square.’

An hour later, I unwrapped my sandwich and kicked my foot at an approaching pigeon, while Zach sat on the arm of the bench, his Doc Martens on the seat, already halfway through his baguette.

‘I’ve got a mate we can get chairs from, that’s easy,’ he said, his mouth full. ‘And the recording’s a doddle on my computer. Do you think we need to offer drinks?’

We were interrupted by the ping of my phone. It was Ruby. ‘Sorry, hang on,’ I said. ‘It’s my sister.’

Zach waved a hand as if to say no problem and I opened the WhatsApp.

IT’S GONORRHOEA! Can you BELIEVE it? I’m going to knee that asshole in the goolies so hard he’ll never be able to have sex again. But thanks for lending me the $$$! See you later! Xxxx

Yikes I’m sorry, I typed back. Antibiotics?

I put my phone down. ‘Sorry, family stuff.’

‘All OK?’

‘Kind of. Love-life stuff.’

‘Yours?’

‘No!’ I answered quickly. Zach had such a direct manner he made me feel exposed, as if I might say more than I intended, and I was uncomfortable at the idea of discussing Rory with him again, risking his scorn. ‘My sister’s love life.’

He opened his mouth to ask something else but I jumped in first. ‘OK, this event, if you really think we can pull it off, what are we asking a ticket?’

‘Twenty quid? I reckon that makes sense, and we could get seventy chairs in upstairs, which means £1,400.’

I nodded slowly and then squinted at him. ‘I think we need to give them a drink if we’re charging that.’

Zach ripped another hunk from his baguette – so big it could barely fit into his mouth. It was like eating next to a marauding Viking. ‘Fine,’ he said after a few chews. ‘Chuck in a few bottles of wine, some paper cups. Crisps if we’re feeling generous. Now all we need to think about is who’s going to interview her.’

‘Nobody needs to interview her. It’s a reading.’

‘Yeah, about that…’ he started.

‘What?’

‘I agreed with the publishers that we’d interview her. Do a quick chat, more like an introduction. She’s shy, apparently.’

‘Shy? She can’t be that shy. She tells a million people every day what she’s wearing and takes selfies in bed.’

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I guess it’s different if it’s a phone screen. So what I was thinking is, why don’t you do it? Intro, few haikus, quick Q&A, done.’

‘ME? No way, uh-uh, sorry.’ I’d rather have eaten the one-legged pigeon pecking at crumbs underneath the bench than talk in front of an audience.

‘But it was your brilliant idea,’ he said, his tone more cajoling. ‘And you know about her. It’s got to be you.’

‘Zach, I can’t talk in public. I really can’t. Why can’t Eugene do it?’ I stared at the paving stones in front of the bench and instinctively started counting them in my head.

‘No way. He’ll start acting out one of her poems and nobody will ever come to an event again. And I can’t do it because I’m in charge of photos and recording.’

I stopped counting when my gaze reached the black railings on the edge of the square, and I brushed the crumbs off my trousers. Under the bench, the pigeon was now dragging itself towards a cigarette butt. The idea of speaking in front of an audience made me wish I could shape-shift into a bird and fly away. When I started going to NOMAD and Stephen invited me to share my story, I was so nervous that I stood up and said, ‘Hello, my name’s Stephen’ and everyone had laughed. My confidence had grown since then and I could usually remember my name but, still, a big audience of paying punters, Fumi next to me, Zach recording it. The cheese sandwich spun inside me.

But it wouldn’t help the shop if I said no, and perhaps I could invite Rory? He might be impressed to see me standing up in front of a crowd interviewing an Instagram poet. Confident, capable Florence making everyone laugh instead of nervous, sweating Florence worried about saying the wrong thing.

‘OK, I’ll think about it.’

‘You’re my hero,’ said Zach, holding a hand in the air.

Reluctantly, I high-fived him back.

Later that night, Rory called me from Nigeria again to retract what he’d said about not having to wear anything special for drinks at the House of Commons. Apparently there was a dress code, women had to wear dresses, and would I mind very much wearing one?

‘I have to wear a dress?’ I said, down the phone. ‘Are we going to a drinks party in 1929?’

Rory apologized and said it was ridiculous, that he didn’t mind what I wore at all and I could come naked, as far as he was concerned, although it would make him furiously jealous of all the men who would stare at me. ‘And indeed of all the women.’

‘Hang on, I thought it was drinks with friends?’

‘It is.’

‘Who are all these people? And how come there’s a dress code?’

‘It’s work friends,’ Rory told me, before reiterating that it was all ‘terribly absurd’ but he didn’t want me to feel out of place.

The result of this conversation was that I arrived at Westminster tube station that Thursday evening in a yellow dress and pair of block heels I’d panic-bought from Zara. Yellow seemed a cheerful idea at lunchtime, but now I felt like Homer Simpson and the shoes were already rubbing my heels.

I crossed the road and walked through a set of black gates, then down a slope to the entrance Rory had told me about. After showing my driving licence to a surly policeman, I found him waiting at the end of the security belt.

‘You look like a daffodil!’ he said, kissing me on the cheek.

It wasn’t clear if this was a compliment or not. ‘I hope it’s all right,’ I replied, wriggling my right foot to relieve the pressure of the new blister. ‘But how are you? How was your trip?’

‘Oh fine, fine, official business,’ he said, ushering me into a vast stone hall with a vaulted ceiling like a cathedral.

‘Wow, look at this place!’ I wanted to stop and gawp but Rory was hurrying us along the paved flooring.

‘So what’s the deal tonight?’ I asked, trying not to hobble. Hobbling isn’t alluring, Florence; ignore the throbbing on your heel and keep up.

‘Deal?’ he said over his shoulder.

‘You said work friends, so who exactly?’

‘There’ll be various of us, I expect, I won’t know everyone.’ He led me up nine steps (an uneven number, bad) and through a door into a corridor which smelt like school, a powerful combination of Pledge and stew.

‘OK, but who will you know?’ I persisted.

‘Just a couple of people from the office, a chap called Noddy and another colleague called Octavia. It’s a networking thing.’

‘Networking? Rory, I thought you said it was drinks with friends?’

He stopped in front of a door, through which I could hear bar noise, and put his hands on my shoulders. ‘It’s various friends, a few of them, just at a work event. OK?’ He kissed me on the forehead and took my hand. ‘Come on, I can’t wait for you to meet them.’

It was as he led me through the door that I noticed a sign outside it which said, ‘A Conservative Future wine reception’.

A political drinks party! He hadn’t said anything about that. What if I said something dim? What if I met someone who asked me to tell them the philosophical differences between Labour and the Conservatives and I had to admit I wasn’t sure? Who was the current home secretary, the one with the loud handbags, or the man who looked like a frog?

He pulled me through the stifling room, past people chatting and laughing in huddles. ‘Hello, hello, lovely to see you,’ he said, smiling broadly at them all as we passed, before tapping a tall man on the back.

‘Noddy, there you are.’

The giant swung round and grinned. ‘Hello, old bean, how are we?’

‘Tremendously well,’ Rory replied, releasing my hand to shake his. ‘Noddy, I’d like you to meet Florence. Florence, this is Noddy, one of my oldest school friends.’

‘Hi,’ I said, and tried not to wince when this man – Noddy? Could I really call him that? – crushed my palm with the strength of a Trojan. He had a square face and the bleached teeth of an American film star.

‘Florence, good to meet you.’

‘You too.’ I couldn’t call him ‘Noddy’. It was too ridiculous. I retrieved my hand and let it fall by my side, limp as a washing-up glove.

‘Who’s here?’ Rory asked. ‘Have we missed anything?’ He reached for two glasses of white wine from a passing waiter and handed me one.

‘No. Nothing to report. The PM might look in later. Didn’t you say that, Octavia?’ Noddy turned to a blonde woman beside him.

I felt immediately intimidated by Octavia because, quite apart from her very short black dress and cascading hair, she was wearing Ferrari-red lipstick. Every now and then, inspired by a celebrity photo, I tried a red lipstick in Boots but they all made my teeth look yellow, which was why I stuck to Carmex.

As if she could sense my wariness, she smiled at me with her red mouth but not her eyes. ‘Octavia Battenberg, how do you do?’ she said, extending a hand. She also had scarlet nails.

‘I’m good, thanks,’ I said, smiling back, hoping that my eyeliner hadn’t started running. What kind of name was Octavia Battenberg? Where were all the normal people?

‘Hi, darling,’ Octavia said, leaning into Rory and kissing him on both cheeks.

‘Hello, Tav, how are you?’

‘Extremely well. And yes, apparently we might be graced with the PM later but nobody’s entirely sure.’ She spoke in a posh drawl, as if ejecting every word was an effort.

‘Do you all work in the same office?’ I asked.

Octavia looked from Noddy to Rory, then me. ‘Sort of. We’re all fighting for the same team, if you know what I mean?’

I didn’t, but I didn’t want to let her know that, so I nodded. ‘Yes, totally.’

‘Do you work in politics?’ she asked.

‘No, for a bookshop in Chelsea.’

‘A bookshop! How adorable.’

‘How can bookshops possibly survive these days?’ interjected Noddy. ‘I buy all mine from Amazon.’

‘It’s where we met,’ said Rory, sliding his arm around my waist and pulling me into him. ‘I went in to collect something for my mother and there she was.’

‘Darling Elizabeth, how is she?’ asked Octavia, placing one hand on Rory’s arm.

‘She’s terrific. I’m off down there next weekend, as it happens. I’ll send your best wishes.’

‘Please do. And to your father,’ said Octavia, before switching her attention to me again. ‘Have you met Rory’s parents? They’re divine.’

‘No, er, no I haven’t.’ My blister was getting worse and I could feel a bead of sweat running down my stomach. This situation was intolerable.

‘Oh look, there’s Jacob,’ Octavia suddenly said to Noddy. ‘We must go and talk to him. Lovely to meet you,’ she said unconvincingly to me before blowing Rory a kiss and snaking her way through the room with Noddy behind her.

‘How do you know her?’ I asked, trying to sound light, as if I didn’t care about the answer.

‘Our parents live near one another so we grew up together. Isn’t this fun?’ He grinned at me as he said this, his eyes alight as if he actually meant it. ‘Come on, let’s have another glass of wine and I’ll introduce you to more people.’

He led me through the room, stopping every now and then to say hello to someone. Several congratulated him on being approved for the party list. One man, whose capillaried face was so maroon it matched his tie, clapped Rory on the back and said he was looking forward to working with him. I swallowed another glass of wine, ate several cheese straws and pretended to laugh at their obscure political jokes.

Just as Rory whispered that we could ‘run away’, a man I vaguely recognized stepped in front of us. He had wavy white hair and a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles perched on the end of a bulbous nose. ‘Rory Dundee, I believe?’

‘Absolutely, Secretary of State, a privilege to meet you,’ replied Rory. More hand-shaking.

‘And who’s this?’ asked the man.

‘This is my girlfriend, Florence,’ Rory replied.

‘Ah, good man. We all need a Florence in our lives.’ He leant towards me and winked.

But I was too stunned at being called a girlfriend to care about the pervy old dinosaur. He blathered on to Rory that the party was very lucky to have him and expecting great things while I stood there mute. In my head, there was a big neon light flashing: ‘GIRLFRIEND, GIRLFRIEND, GIRLFRIEND.’ Rory had called me his girlfriend, which meant I, Florence Fairfax, had a boyfriend. Other women seemed to bang on about their boyfriends all the time and now I could be one of them, although obviously I’d try to be less irritating about it.

I practised various lines in my head: ‘My boyfriend Rory works in politics’ or ‘My boyfriend and I went to the cinema last night.’ It sounded weird. Good weird, not bad weird. It had all just been very quick. A few weeks ago, the only man in my life had been Marmalade. Maybe Eugene, on a good day. Now I had Rory.

‘You know when you know,’ Jaz had told me at a NOMAD session some months before. Although that was just after she’d started dating the cheat who had a family in Solihull so she’d been wrong. Did I know about Rory? I glanced up at his face as if I could measure my feelings by examining him.

‘That goes without saying, Secretary of State,’ he said, nodding enthusiastically at the dinosaur. ‘Anything the party needs, I’m your man.’

I wasn’t sure I did know quite yet, but I had a good feeling about him. I just needed to pluck up the courage to tackle the ‘Cowabunga!’ thing.

We went back to his place in a cab, which meant I could slide my horrible shoes off in the back as we slid through dark London towards Pimlico. I hadn’t been to his flat yet and was intrigued. I wondered what his bedroom was like. Neat, I presumed. I couldn’t imagine Rory had a bedroom with bad linen and thin pillows.

‘Did you enjoy that?’ he asked, as he traced his fingers up my thigh. That alone was enough to set me off. Even if his bedroom wasn’t tidy, I told myself, I was about to have sex and should be too excited to worry about shirts on the floor.

‘Yeah, it was… interesting.’

‘Sorry,’ he said, pulling a guilty face. ‘I know it was probably more work than you’d imagined. But I’m glad you were with me.’

‘No, no, it was fun, seeing behind scenes. And girlfriend, huh?’ I said it while smiling coyly at him. I didn’t want to scare Rory out of it, to take it back.

He grinned. ‘I blurted it in the moment but I wanted to say it. I thought about you all trip.’ Then he leant over and pulled my face towards his, his fingers under my chin. ‘Will you be my girlfriend?’

I almost laughed at the corny absurdity of it but reined myself in. It would ruin the moment. Instead, I nodded very slightly and he closed his mouth on mine. Every nerve in my body danced at this, and my irritation about Octavia and her perfect lipstick vanished.

When the cab pulled up a few minutes later, I opened the door and tiptoed across the pavement in my tights.

‘What are you doing?’ he said, climbing out after me.

‘Sore feet,’ I said, sensing that blisters were on the list of Bodily Things That Aren’t Very Sexy To Discuss, like moles and ingrown hairs.

He led me up a short path to his front door and reached into his suit pocket for the keys. ‘After you, madam,’ he said, pushing it open.

I wiped my damp feet on the doormat and blinked in the dark as Rory closed the door behind me. It was a house, not a flat, and I seemed to be standing in a hall with a chequered stone floor which led to a flight of stairs.

He dropped his post on a table beside us and stepped more closely behind me. ‘Hi,’ he whispered into my neck.

‘Hi,’ I whispered back, shivering as Rory ran his hands down the side of my body. I tried to turn around but he held me in place.

‘Don’t even think about it, stay right there, please, hands on the table.’

I laid my palms on it as he crouched down behind me, his hands running up my legs, and I suddenly wished I’d worn stockings instead of an 80-denier pair of opaques from M&S. Mia always wore stockings, claiming that they were more comfortable. I found this a dubious excuse and suspected it was simply another maxim that women told themselves because they thought men preferred stockings to tights. Stockings seemed unpractical – what if one fell down? Say what you like about a thick pair of opaques but at least they kept your bits warm.

Rory didn’t seem to mind the tights. He peeled them down with my knickers and I lifted each foot in turn so he could remove them. At the warm sensation of his hands on my bare skin, I dropped my head back and sighed. Then he stood, running his hands back up my legs as he did, one thumb brushing between them when they reached the top.

Next, pressing his erection into me, he reached around my waist and tugged the drawstring of my Homer Simpson dress.

‘Shall we go upstairs?’ I whispered. There was a mirror above the table decorated with wedding invitations and a newborn baby card which announced that Araminta had been born three weeks earlier. I couldn’t concentrate on sex while looking at a photograph of little Araminta in a woolly hat.

Plus, now my dress was untied at the waist it hung around my body like a Victorian nightie. I wanted to pull it over my head and feel Rory’s skin against me again. I wanted his hands and his mouth over every bit of my body. And I wanted to touch him. I felt lazy standing there, my feet on the cold floor, my hands on the table, as if I wasn’t pulling my weight.

‘We’re staying here,’ Rory replied, pulling the skirt of my dress up again so his hands could feel underneath it, running over my hips and up to my bra. He yanked the cups aside and pinched my nipples hard, making me gasp. As he pinched, I instinctively pushed my bottom out into his groin. OK, maybe the hall was all right for a moment. I just wouldn’t look at Araminta.

Rory dropped one hand back down to between my legs, lightly brushing the tips of his fingers back and forth along the skin there. I groaned, desperate for him to rub me harder and for this to be more of a joint activity. I reached behind to the crotch of his trousers and tried to undo the button at the top but, one-handed, facing away from him, it was impossible. Luckily, his hand found mine and he undid his flies so I could take hold of his penis. Making a circle with my fist, I lightly traced my fingers up and down it.

‘Harder,’ he moaned into my hair.

How hard? I was uncertain. It seemed a delicate thing, a penis. I didn’t want to pull on it as if I was ringing a church bell. I tightened the grip of my thumb and forefinger and Rory sighed again into my hair, which I took as a good sign.

‘Harder,’ he urged so I made the circle of my fingers smaller yet again. Could one break a penis? Please can I not break this, I thought, as I moved my hand up and down. It would be just my luck to get a boyfriend and then immediately snap his most precious part.

After a few moments, Rory moved my hand off him, lifted up my dress and pushed into me. It felt rough at first, so I shifted slightly, leaning further forwards on the table, his hands on my hips, the folds of my dress halfway up my back. This angle was better, and Rory sped up, back and forth, back and forth until the table was banging on the wall in front of it in time with his thrusts and my necklace was swinging from my neck like a pendulum.

‘Oh my God, oh my God,’ he started repeating, faster and faster until his body froze, glued to mine, suspended in the moment. ‘COWABUNGAAAAA!’ he groaned into my shoulder as we both remained rooted in place, my body bent at a right angle so my head was resting on my arms.

The trouble was, there never seemed to be a good moment to broach this.

Ruby, Mia and I were all at home the following night. This was rare for a Friday. Normally, it was just me lolling on the sofa with a book and they stayed out until late, returning home at two or three in the morning when the mingled fragrance of frying bacon and cigarette smoke wafted upstairs to the attic and woke me. But as Ruby had dumped Jasper, and Mia wanted to discuss her hen party, we were staying in. Ruby, in an astonishing first, had offered to cook but changed her mind later that evening and said why didn’t we get a Deliveroo instead.

‘I haven’t got my phone on me,’ she said, looking from Mia to me as we sat around the kitchen table. It was a cunning ploy she’d pulled before since it meant one of us had to order via our phone, thereby paying for the delivery.

‘I’ll get mine,’ said Mia. She went back into the hall to find her bag.

‘How was it?’ I quickly asked Ruby.

She frowned back.

‘Ending things with Jasper?’

‘Done,’ she replied, flicking a hand in the air. ‘Although do you know what he said?’

I shook my head.

‘How did I know I hadn’t given it to him? Ha! As if I’m the one who’s been shagging everybody between the age of eighteen and eighty in London.’

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Fine. Amazing. I didn’t even cry.’

‘I mean down there.’

‘Oh. Better. On these very strong antibiotics which mean I can’t drink so—’

‘Why aren’t you drinking?’ asked Mia, breezing back into the kitchen.

‘Having a night off,’ Ruby replied, putting a finger to her lips at me.

‘Seriously?’ Mia said, opening the fridge. ‘I’ve brought back a bottle of champagne to try. Although not champagne, technically. Sparkling English wine. Hugo says we should think about it for the wedding.’

‘Go on then,’ said Ruby.

‘That was difficult. Flo?’

‘Yep, please.’

Mia reached into the back of the glass cupboard for the champagne flutes which had been my parents’ wedding present. They were almost never used. Drinking from glasses that Mum would have unwrapped at the start of her marriage gave me a pang of wistfulness but Mia soon interrupted that.

‘Christ, these are dusty,’ she said, blowing into one.

‘Can we have Thai?’ said Ruby, re-establishing control over dinner now that she didn’t have to pay for it.

There followed a fifteen-minute discussion on which Thai we would order from, which nearby Thai had the best ratings, whether it was the Thai we ordered from last time which did the prawns that gave Ruby a dodgy stomach, and whether we should order one coconut rice or two. Thai menus – long on noodles and rice – were a problem for me, so I ended up ordering a soup and some vegetable spring rolls.

Dinner sorted, we carried our glasses to the TV room and took our usual seats: Mia and Ruby spread across the sofa, me in the armchair by the window. Tonight I barely noticed the divide because I needed to reply to Rory’s latest message without interference.

Earlier that day, I’d texted him saying we were preparing for a big event next week with Fumi, hoping that he might be impressed with the coup of landing such a star. He replied but didn’t mention this. Instead, he asked if I was free the following weekend to stay with his parents in Norfolk. But then Zach had appeared upstairs and bossily said could I order the wine for the event because he only drank beer, so Eugene and I spent an hour on the Majestic website sniggering at the pretentious reviews. And while we were doing that, Jaz dropped in after school with Dunc in order to show off his new reading badge and I’d completely forgotten to reply to Rory.

Mia picked up the remote control; I stared down at my phone.

‘I’m thinking London,’ she said, flicking through channels.

‘For what?’ replied Ruby.

‘My hen. I don’t want to go away. I don’t want us to do the walk of shame through Luton wearing sombreros. I want it to be chic. Drinks and dinner somewhere and then a bar afterwards. No penis straws. No penis anything. If I see a penis on my hen I’ll scream.’

Ruby rolled her eyes. ‘What’s the point in a hen party if the bride isn’t neck-deep in penises? I’m going to buy you one of those giant penis outfits! Owwww,’ she said loudly, as Mia thwacked her on the leg with the remote control.

‘I mean it, Rubes. None of that. And absolutely no stripper. If I get even a whisper that you’ve paid some greasy waiter to grind his bottom into me I’ll demote you from maid of honour. I’ll make it Fl—’ Mia looked across the room and caught my eye. ‘I’ll make it someone else instead. And no Mr and Mrs either. None of my friends need to know what my favourite position is. Or Hugo’s, for that matter.’ She pretended to shudder. ‘Unedifying.’

‘What’s Hugo doing for his stag?’ I asked.

‘Prague.’

‘The same weekend as the hen? The one before the wedding?’

‘Mmm.’

‘Isn’t that risky?’ said Ruby.

‘Why?’

‘What if he gets in a fight and has a black eye or someone shaves his eyebrows off?’

‘Have you met Hugo?’ said Mia, glancing at each of us in turn. ‘Come on, even paintballing’s been deemed too dangerous. They’re going to play crazy golf and have a few beers.’

‘Sure,’ snorted Ruby.

‘And anyway, it’s tradition.’

‘What is?’

‘Having the stag and hen parties closer to the wedding. I read about it in Be More Bride magazine. Traditionally, it was known as the last night of freedom and always held the night before the wedding. The ancient Greeks used to do it, apparently.’

‘Yeah, but the ancient Greeks probably just overdid it on wine and threw a few javelins,’ said Ruby. ‘I’m not sure they travelled abroad in matching T-shirts to drink thirty-eight pints and pay a tenner to watch some poor local woman strip.’

‘Is that all they do it for? A tenner?’

‘I don’t know, do I! I’m just saying that’s what stag dos are. Beer and strippers. And drama. Always a drama.’

‘It’ll be fine,’ insisted Mia. ‘Who needs a top-up?’ She held the bottle up from the sofa. ‘Flo? You’re very quiet.’

‘Sorry. I’m trying to write a message to Rory.’

She squealed as she stood to top up our glasses. ‘How is your boyfriend?’

‘Er, good. Officially my boyfriend, actually.’ I wondered when saying that would stop feeling so weird. Ever?

The bottle froze in Mia’s hand. ‘Oh my God, when did that happen?’

‘Last night. I met some friends of his, well, it was more of a work thing. But he introduced me as his girlfriend and then actually asked me on the way home.’

‘Sweet! But you don’t sound very excited.’

‘No, no, I am. And I really like him. I’m just a bit dazed. It’s all happened so fast.’ My mind briefly flitted back to the night before: one moment as single and sexless as one of Mrs Delaney’s gladioli; the next bent over a hallway table while my new boyfriend went at me like a Black & Decker power tool.

Mia shrugged and lowered herself back down on the sofa. ‘When you know, you know.’

There it was, that saying again. ‘But what if I don’t know?’

‘That’s fine too.’

‘Then how are you ever supposed to know? If you know when you know but, also, you don’t have to know when you know?’ I wasn’t sure I was making sense. Maybe it was the champagne.

‘All I know is that I never want to have sex again,’ interjected Ruby.

‘What?’ said Mia, turning from me to her sister.

‘I broke up with Jasper yesterday.’

‘What? Why? You all right?’

‘Various reasons,’ said Ruby. ‘And I’m fine. But I’m off men for the time being.’

‘I give that all of three minutes,’ replied Mia, before looking back to me. ‘Flo, listen. I didn’t know with Hugo for ages. Months. He was perfectly nice but not that exciting and his morning breath could have killed a horse.’

‘But you’re marrying him?’ I said, feeling a sense of relief at asking the question. I glanced at Ruby who widened her eyes at me and shook her head, indicating that she didn’t want to get involved.

‘Yes,’ went on Mia, with an exaggerated nod. ‘Because one day I woke up and decided that this was what I wanted. I’d had enough of dating. I wanted to be married, a family, all that stuff. So I bought him some dental floss and a bottle of industrial strength mouthwash and that was that.’

Briefly, I thought back through the great romances I’d read. In none of them did the heroine buy her hero a bottle of Listerine. But who was I to judge another person’s relationship? If this was what Mia really wanted, then I had to stop worrying about it. I must have still looked concerned, though, because she arranged her face into a sympathetic expression. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘A few doubts at the start of something is totally normal, Flo. Especially when, no offence, you haven’t got anything to compare this with.’

‘It’s not doubts. It’s kind of the opposite. I’m worried that I’ll do something wrong and it’s all going to disappear again. I suppose I’m worried that it’s too good to be true.’

‘I get it,’ she replied. ‘But you’re overthinking it. He likes you, clearly. He’s asked you to be his girlfriend.’

‘He’s invited me to meet his family next weekend too,’ I added. ‘Is it not just a bit quick?’

Mia narrowed her eyes at me. ‘How old is he?’

‘Thirty-seven.’

‘So he just knows what he wants,’ she said, with another shrug.

‘Also,’ added Ruby, ‘if he wasn’t messaging you and inviting you to stay with his family, you’d be sitting here complaining that he’d gone silent.’

‘True,’ I said, thinking back to the few flings I’d had where they’d done just that.

‘And what’s the sex like?’ Ruby went on. ‘If I’m never having sex ever again I need to get my kicks where I can.’

I wondered if I should ask them. Encouraged by the champagne, I decided I should. It was comforting, talking like this. I couldn’t remember a time when we’d had such a frank joint conversation. ‘OK, so the sex is amazing. He just sort of… knows exactly what to do. But there is one thing.’

‘What?’ they both chorused together.

‘He does this thing…’ Then I stopped again, unsure how to explain it.

‘Cough up,’ ordered Ruby.

‘OK, but it’s got to stay between us, promise?’

‘Obviously,’ said Ruby, waggling her fingers at me to indicate more speed was required. ‘Come on, what is it?’

‘OK, so he does the thing,’ I repeated, ‘like, at the end…’

‘When you’ve finished shagging?’

‘Rubes, can you let her speak?’ said Mia.

‘I am! Flo, continue. He does this thing…’

I sighed. ‘It’s not afterwards. It’s right before. Or actually right when he…’ I stopped again. I didn’t want to say the word ‘comes’ out loud but what else was there? ‘Orgasms’ seemed too sex therapist and ‘ejaculates’ too biology teacher. ‘It’s when he comes,’ I said quickly. ‘He says something. He always says “Cowabunga!”’

Ruby laughed and then clapped a hand over her mouth. Mia pressed her lips together and frowned as if thinking over a challenging crossword puzzle.

‘OK,’ she said, after a few beats of silence. ‘It’s not that bad.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘No! Hugo likes talking dirty but he’s really bad at it.’

‘Not him too?’ said Ruby, her mouth and eyes wide with mirth. ‘This is too good. What does he say?’

Now it was Mia’s turn to look embarrassed. ‘Just stuff like “Has someone been a naughty girl?” or “Who’s a hungry girl, then?”’

‘Hugo! Jesus Christ,’ said Ruby, laughing so hard I thought she might choke, which made me laugh harder, and eventually even Mia joined in, so all three of us were almost crying, shoulders shaking, faces creased.

‘Blimey. I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him,’ I said, a few moments later when I’d regained control of myself.

Mia smiled and nodded slowly. ‘Yes, every now and then he can surprise me in that department.’

‘On Sundays before golf?’

‘Exactly,’ she drawled.

‘You cannot possibly marry someone who says “Who’s a hungry girl, then?”’ Ruby told her, wiping her cheeks with her thumb. ‘Imagine being ninety and still having to listen to that.’

‘I won’t be having sex when I’m ninety,’ said Mia.

‘What? I will be.’

‘I thought you weren’t having sex ever again?’

‘I’m not. Not for a bit anyway.’

‘So it’s not that bad?’ I said, still wanting reassurance. ‘The “cowabunga!” thing?’

‘Noooooo,’ Mia insisted again, shaking her head. ‘In the grand scheme of things, it’s really not.’

‘Not compared to “Who’s a hungry girl then?”’ said Ruby, still laughing. ‘Honestly, I’m never going to forget this.’ She nudged Mia with her foot. ‘Hey, what time’s he home tonight? I’m going to ask if he’s hungry and wants any leftover takeaway.’

‘If you dare,’ said Mia, kicking her back.

‘OK,’ I said, trying to distract them before a fight broke out. ‘So I should forget about it and not say anything? Not even a joke?’

‘No! Definitely not a joke,’ said Mia. ‘Men aren’t into jokes about their performance.’

I made a mental note of this. ‘And I should say yes to the weekend with his parents?’

‘Yes, go.’

‘I agree,’ said Ruby. ‘And I don’t think you should be put off by it either. He’s showing his appreciation, if anything. In fact…’ She paused.

‘What?’

‘I think you should raise him.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Why not send a little nude, just to show you’re thinking about him?’

‘Rubes,’ warned Mia.

‘What?’ said Ruby. ‘Flo is new to all this, I’m trying to help.’ She looked from Mia to me. ‘Just a flash of nipple or something to encourage him. But keep your face out of it.’

‘Thanks,’ I replied, deadpan.

She shook her head. ‘No, only because then you can’t be recognized by anyone else.’

I grimaced at the idea of trying to take a photo of my own nipple. And just a nipple on its own, a singular nipple. Was that sexy? Wouldn’t it look like a lone flesh tag? ‘I’m not sure it’s my kind of thing, a nude. But thank you, both, for the advice.’

‘You’re welcome,’ said Ruby, happily, before turning back to Mia. ‘How far away’s the Deliveroo man? I’m hungry.’