glance at Robert, who is really overdoing it on the grumpiness front today. I wonder if he can read me. I hope not as I keep replaying some of the more R-rated activities from last night over and over in my head . . .
After an hour of playing, the entire game falls apart. We keep arguing, and though Dave announces himself victor, Bella and Sophie and I agree that we won. Vix and JimmyJames start cheerleading, and everyone joins in. It’s one of the few genuinely successful, light moments of the weekend, and Sophie looks thrilled. Bridal party bonding at last.
Dave also spars with me for the rest of the boules game, the more I push him away and play it tough, the more he loves it. It’s exhilarating.
But he hasn’t asked for my number.
Of course I’ll see him at the wedding next year, he’s a groomsman. And I could probably organise a night out with him, with Robert and Luke’s help . . . but I want him to just ask me out. I really do.
If he doesn’t, then I just had another one-night-stand. Oh, God, what the fuck was I thinking?
‘Time to go,’ says Luke, looking at his watch. ‘Everyone in the cars.’
I hate flying, I reflect, as we make our way to the airport. It was alright yesterday morning, as I was kind of on early-morning autopilot, plus Robert, who knows I hate flying, distracted me by talking the whole time. I don’t think he’ll be as chatty today. He’s so grumpy that he hasn’t even taken his sunglasses off, and when I offer to get him a Coca-Cola and a baguette to help with his hangover, he just grunts ‘I’m fine’. So moody.
We get to the airport, check in, and go through the security.
‘I should pee,’ I say to no one in particular. The group has gone very silent, as hungover groups tend to.
‘Thanks for sharing,’ says Vix. ‘Have fun.’
I always go to the bathroom before I get on a flight, even if I don’t actually have to go, as otherwise I’ll have to go in the air and I’m scared of the sound of the toilet flush in planes. (Yes, it’s a completely rational fear.)
I wash my hands, and take a dismayed look at myself in the skewed mirror above the airport sink. No wonder Dave doesn’t fancy me. My lack of sleep, stubble rash and mild hangover have combined to make my face eat my make-up. I slap on some more and head back out to the boarding lounge, sighing deeply.
‘Hello, angel,’ says a voice. It’s Dave, leaning against the wall, waiting for . . . me? The others are all sitting down on the other side of the lounge.
‘Well, hello,’ I say.
‘You and me. Tonight. My house. I’m not quite done with you yet.’
I start laughing despite myself. ‘Oh . . . Dave. What an invitation.’
Dave leans forward and looks me in the eye, and despite my laughter at his terrible line, I feel my chest contract with the familiar nervous, squirmy heat. ‘It’s not an invitation. It’s a fact. I stole your number from Sophie’s phone. I’ll text you my address.’
‘Um . . .’
Then Dave leans forward and kisses me, and I swear to you right now my ovaries actually twist. The kiss, like the first kiss last night, is just soft lip-on-lip pressure for five seconds, but I almost collapse. God. The sparks. I’m actually tingling.
‘Coming to my place later?’
‘Yes,’ I say. I’m helpless.
‘Don’t look so serious, darling,’ he says. ‘We’re going to have some fun.’
Oh God, I adore him.
In the 27 nights since the weekend in Autignac, my entire world has turned – upside down isn’t quite right, it’s more like inside-out. I’m starry-eyed, bow-legged, mushy-headed, chafe-chinned and swollen-lipped. I’m constantly tingling with adrenaline, post-coital euphoria and an awful lot of caffeine.
My high starts at 6 am. Dave rolls over, smiles his sexy lazy smile, and reaches out for me. I fit into him almost perfectly, one leg draped over his waist, my head on his shoulder, and my lips against his. We snog lazily for a few seconds until he wakes up properly, and then . . . well, you know.
Then I hurry home, change and go to work.
My next favourite part of the day, seeing him for the first time every night. I dash home to shower and dress before hurrying off to meet him. (Kind of a date pit stop.) I walk up to him, our eyes meet, he stares at me intensely for a second, and then we kiss and my brain short-circuits. Sparky McSparkerson.
‘Got what you came for?’ he always murmurs, and I nod and pretend to pick up my coat and head for the door. He grabs me and pulls me back towards him, kissing me again. ‘I’m not quite done with you yet,’ he says.
Then we drink mulled wine next to the badly-decorated Christmas tree in his local pub, grab a very quick dinner, and go to bed. That’s the average school night. On the weekends we go out to dinner or parties with Sophie and Luke. Robert hasn’t been around much, I think he has a few new ladyfriends who are taking up his time and attention.
My discovery that Dave loves friction with his flirting means I spend a lot of time lining up ingenious put-downs. It is, I admit, slightly exhausting. I love verbal thrust and parry as much as the next girl, but straightforward conversation wouldn’t go astray now and again. And any real intimacy is so rare, it’s practically endangered. Those chats always take place in bed, in the dark. He never reveals much, but when he’s giving me all his attention like that, I feel so close to him that it’s worth waiting for.
And he’s so gorgeous. I mean really, phenomenally, stupidly good-looking. I almost can’t believe that someone like him could be attracted to me. I love his total self-assurance, his blasé attitude to everyone and everything and his ridiculous charisma.
I know his confidence borders on arrogance, but I find even that kind of attractive. And he can be a tiny bit selfish sometimes, but I don’t mind that either, really. In an ideal world, your boyfri— sorry, the guy you’re seeing would offer you coffee in the morning when he makes himself one, right? Maybe give you a towel if you shower at his place on the weekend? I made a sarcastic comment about that last week, and Dave said ‘I’m not the cosseting type, angel. You need to tell me what you want. I can’t guess your every wish.’ Which, I guess, is fair enough.
A couple of times, he’s also been a little distant, and it makes me feel sick all day, thinking that he’s about to end – uh, whatever this is. But he hasn’t. Anyway, I can be distant too. Detached! In control!
Sort of.
The truth is: all of my newfound dating confidence and singledom tactics went out the window the moment we kissed. I’m sure that’s normal for the start of any relationsh— I mean, the start of anything.
At least I’m not as nervous around him anymore. I actually feel more nervous when I’m not with him, if that makes sense. When he hasn’t got in touch, or when his last text or email was a bit cold or rushed, it’s all I can think about. I wait and worry and ugh, it’s
