style="font-size:15px;"> ‘Sounds great,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you then.’
Nine hours later I sat in my kitchen opposite a man I’d only met once but felt as if he belonged there. And I was still in my work clothes, which I couldn’t decipher as meaning that I didn’t care, or I cared too much not to notice.
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘I told you about my failures at cookery, now tell me your most embarrassing story.’
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘As you know, I’ve played rugby since I was young…’
I nodded as he took a sip from his bottle of beer, slowly beginning the anecdote but starting to laugh already. His chuckle was contagious.
‘I was at school and playing rugby for the team. Now, this was a big game, the final of the county championships so basically the FA cup final of rugby for students. For some reason, I’d had an Indian the night before with the lads…’
I closed my eyes in anticipation. A small burst of laughter escaped my lips.
‘Eh… don’t look at me like that,’ he said, ‘go with it…’
He smiled widely at me but I couldn’t help it. I wiped my eyes, which had now filled with tears of laughter.
‘Wow, you’re a good audience,’ he said, chuckling. ‘So, anyway, it was half time and I made a quick dash to the changing rooms, as you can imagine, quite quickly.’
I put my hand over my mouth.
‘To cut a long story short, it was too late to check if there was any toilet paper: far too late. And there wasn’t.’
I screwed up my face. ‘What did you do?’
‘I took my socks off and used them,’ he laughed.
‘So what happened?’
‘I played sockless.’
Both of us burst out laughing: two loud and heavy laughs from the opposite sides of the table.
‘It was all well and good until I remembered that I still had to play the second half.’
I reached over to pull a piece of kitchen roll from the side, my face aching from the strain.
‘So, do you have any more stories for me?’ he said, pulling his chair closer. ‘Not necessarily in that… genre, of course.’
As I started to think I felt him lean into me. He kissed me.
‘Fucking wanking bastard taxi driver couldn’t find Hungerford Bridge.’
At that point I heard Amber slam the front door behind her and make her way through the hallway, shattering our rosy evening by turning the air blue.
‘Sorry, I’m late, Jess. It’s bloody pissing it down out there. Goodbye, summer.’
Christ, this is it, I thought to myself. The amount of men who could handle an angry, dripping wet Amber were few and far between.
‘Hi,’ she whispered, suddenly realizing that we weren’t alone.
‘I’m Harry, nice to meet you.’ He went over and shook her dripping wet hand, sliding the soaking umbrella off it and putting it down by the door.
‘I don’t want to interrupt, I’ll just go to my room,’ she said, quietly making an exit.
‘You don’t have to…’ I said.
‘No way!’ Harry continued. ‘Plenty of room for three. Why don’t you two go and put your PJs on and we can all get another beer and watch a film or something?’
Amber questioned me with her eyes as to whom this man was and why he was telling her what to do.
‘Come on,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll nip into the lounge and find a film.’
Before sauntering off to her bedroom Amber shot me another glance from behind the door, unable to hide her wry smile.
‘I like him,’ she mouthed.
‘Me too,’ I whispered.
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