we dropped off with your mum last night, for the Woking Players,’ Jesse says, scratching his head in a manner that suggests he’s not quite cottoned on to what’s happened.
Whereas it’s becoming fairly clear to me that the Woking Players are getting my furniture, and that I am getting the Woking Players’ set-dressing for whatever Noël Coward play or Stephen Sondheim musical they’re performing for the next couple of weeks.
‘I’m really sorry, Lib.’ Olly bends his knees to lower the sofa to the floor, and indicates that Jesse should do the same. I can hardly blame them; it must weigh a tonne. ‘Do you want us just to take it back to the van?’
‘Yes … well, no … I mean, did you bring that futon you mentioned?’
‘Futon …’ Olly looks blank-eyed for a moment, until recognition dawns. He slaps a hand to his head. ‘Shit. I forgot about that.’
‘It’s all right. But you’d better leave the sofa here. I’ve not got anything else to sleep on.’
‘Are you sure? I mean, apart from anything else, it’s a bit … well, up close, it’s pretty pongy.’
‘Sort of—’ Jesse leans down and inhales one of the overstuffed cushions – ‘doggy-smelling.’
He’s right, in one sense: the smell coming up out of the sofa cushions, now that they mention it, is distinctly doggy. More specifically, the smell of a dog that’s been out in the rain all morning and is now drying by a warm radiator, whilst letting out the occasional contented fart. Quite a lot like Olly and Nora’s ancient Labrador, Tilly, who farted her way to the grand old age of seventeen; she died five or six years ago but I can still remember her musty pong. Not to mention that there are deep grooves scratched into the wooden part of the arm on one side, as if the rain-dampened dog had a good old go with its claws on there before heading off to dry.
I stare up at Olly, despair taking hold. ‘Did you really think this was the sofa I’d chosen? You didn’t stop to question it at any point?’
‘Well, I don’t know your precise taste in soft furnishings!’ Olly says, indignantly. ‘You make vintage-style jewellery. I thought maybe you wanted a vintage-style living room.’
‘This sofa isn’t vintage style, it’s …’ I glower down at the sofa, blaming it, in all its apricot-hued vileness, for everything that’s gone wrong for me today.
I mean, let’s not beat around the bush: it’s been a torrent of crap ever since I got out of bed this morning. Losing half my hair, losing my job, getting short-changed out of a proper flat, Cass riding off into the sunset with Dillon …
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, plopping myself down, wearily, on the sofa, whereupon a cloud of doggy-smelling dust billows out. It actually makes my eyes water, which obviously makes it look like I’m crying. The irony being that, actually, that’s exactly what I feel like doing. If it were just Olly here, and not Jesse, whom I barely know, I’d probably be bawling my eyes out right now. ‘You’ve been so lovely,’ I sniff. ‘You, too, Jesse, for lugging the bloody thing all the way up here. I’m sorry.’
There’s a short, slightly awkward silence, ended by Olly folding his six-foot-three bulk onto the cushion next to me and putting a brotherly arm around my shoulders.
‘Look, Lib. Why don’t we leave the rest of the furniture in the van to take away with us, and then go and find your new local? Save you worrying about wine glasses.’
Much as a drink at the pub – even the inauspicious surroundings of the dodgy-looking one (no doubt owned by Bogdan) down the road – would probably do me good right now, I just don’t have any energy left to make a positive out of the evening. Honestly, all I want to do right now is stick to Plan A: dig my pyjamas out of one of the boxes, pop open the champagne so I can scoff the lot myself without having to worry about finding any glasses, and – oh, heavenly bliss, after the day I’ve endured – curl up in front of Breakfast at Tiffany’s (or Tea at Tesco’s as Olly calls it, in honour of our first meeting) on my iPad.
‘Thanks, Olly, but I’m really tired. I think the best thing is to get an early night.’
‘Ooops, sorry.’ Jesse makes a beeline in the direction of the front door. ‘You don’t want a third wheel around at this time of night. I’ll leave you two to it.’
‘Us two?’ I blink up at him. ‘God, no, no, me and Olly aren’t—’
‘We’re not together, mate,’ Olly interrupts, firmly. ‘I’m fairly sure Libby meant an early night on her own.’
‘Ohhhhh … OK, I just thought … still, I’ll be on my way, anyway.’
‘Thanks again, Jesse. You really must let me buy you a drink, I’m really grateful …’
But he’s already gone.
‘Sorry about that,’ says Olly, not meeting my eye. Which is understandable, because the Mistaken Thing is rearing its mortifying head for the second time tonight – twice more than it normally does in the space of months or even years – and I know he’d like to put it back in its box as fast and definitively as possible. ‘I’m not sure where he got that idea. But in all seriousness, are you sure you’re going to be OK here tonight? I mean, you don’t even have anything to sleep on.’
‘Yes, I do. What’s the point of having a colossal sofa if it can’t double up as a bed for the night?’
‘Well, if you’re sure … look, why don’t I come over tomorrow night and help you unpack, then we can talk more about what you’re going to do next? I’ll even cook you a slap-up dinner, how about that?’
‘In this kitchen?’
‘Oh, ye of little faith. Have you forgotten that time I cooked an entire three-course meal in Nora’s student bedsit? With only a clapped-out old microwave and a single-ring electric hob?’ He casts an eye over my minuscule ‘kitchen’. ‘This is professional-standard by comparison. I’ll do you a nice roast chicken. Easy as pie. Oh, and I’ll even make a pie, come to think of it. A pie of your choosing. Lemon meringue, apple and blackberry … your pie wish is my command.’
‘That’s lovely of you, Ol, but let me cook for you, for a change. As a thank you for all your help.’
‘Er …’
‘Oh, come on! I’m not that bad a cook! I can rustle up a tasty stew.’
‘Can you?’
I give him a Look.
‘OK, OK … well, that would be lovely, if you’re sure, Libby,’ he says, looking pretty un-sure himself. ‘And I’ll bring that pie for dessert.’
‘Thank you. For everything, I mean.’
‘Any time.’ He leans over and gives me a swift – very swift – kiss on the top of my head as he gets to his feet. ‘You know that.’
I can’t help but feel a bit empty, when I’ve closed the door on him and have the flatlet to myself again.
Well, to myself and the Chesterfield.
Which,
