Читать книгу We Met in December - Rosie Curtis - Страница 9

I think there is a strong possibility that my body is going to be bent into this position forever. We’ve been on a coach for twenty-one hours, and I can’t remember who I am. When I stand up, everything aches. I took a travel sickness pill and I’ve slept groggily for so long that I have to count on my fingers to work out what day it is. Victoria Coach Station doesn’t look any more glamorous at 5.30 a.m. than it does in the middle of the day – in fact, it probably looks worse without people all around. It smells cold and damp and grey, but inside I feel a tiny fizz of excitement that I’m back home – that London, the city I’ve always loved, is home.

I’ve done what feels like the scariest thing of all in changing career when I was perfectly safe and secure. My stomach contracts when I think about it and all the things that could go wrong. It’s a bit of a weird leap from managing a marketing company to working as Operations Manager for a publishing house where I’ll be in charge of making sure books go from finished manuscripts to products on the shelves. It’s still weird to think of books as products, if I’m completely truthful. I look at the posters on the bus station hoardings – half of them are for books. Someone like me helped that to happen. It feels like a huge, pretty terrifying responsibility. I swallow and turn back to the girls, who are organising their bags.

‘I want ALL the details on what happens when you get back,’ Gen says, hugging me goodbye before she hops in an Uber.

‘Come for dinner next Friday?’ Sophie kisses me on the cheek. Rich’s waiting by the road to give her a lift home. Getting up at five in the morning to collect her from the coach is the most Rich thing he could do.

‘Sure you don’t want a lift?’

I shake my head. There’s an early morning bus in ten minutes, and I want to stand up while I wait, stretch my legs, and think about what I’m going to do when I get home. And then I beam with happiness at a flock of unsuspecting pigeons. I think this year is going to be pretty bloody amazing.

Even though I’m so tired I feel like a zombie I can’t help smiling to myself as the bus makes its way along the streets. London looks so pretty, dusted with the finest icing-sugar coating of frost. It sparkles on the top of stone walls and expensive-looking black railings, making the red telephone boxes look picture-postcard pretty. This is home. I squeeze my arms around myself, because I can’t quite believe it’s true. I feel warm and sleepy in my thick ski coat. My head leans against the cool of the bus window and I watch the city coming to life.

Two early-morning runners, clad in thermals with reflective stripes, zoom past as we wait for a traffic light to turn from red to green. Christmas trees still light up the windows of houses, which makes me happy. I always feel sad for the trees I see lying waiting for collection on the kerbside, piled up with heaps of black rubbish bags. When I have a house of my own, I’m going to have a tree in every room and the whole place lit up with millions of tiny, starry white lights. I think about growing up and how I used to decorate my bedroom, and how my mum couldn’t wait to take the decorations down because she hated the mess and how Nanna and Grandpa used to make up for it with a tree they always let me decorate, hung with trinkets I’d made at primary school and riotous rainbows of tinsel. And then as we turn down into Church Street, my mind skips forward, imagining this time next year, and all of us celebrating Christmas in the house in Albany Road. Rob could cook – there had to be an advantage to living with a chef, surely – and I’d be there, dressed in something clinging and sexy, and—

I look out of the window, and realise I’m at Ladbroke Grove. After I get off the bus, I grab my bag and bump it along the street, the wheels sounding loud in the early morning silence. And then I turn the corner, and there’s the street sign that announces I’m home. Albany Road. I live in London now, I say to myself quietly, stepping back to take it all in.

‘Watch it!’

A man looms out of nowhere on a bike and speeds off, his wheel lights flashing. He’s muttering something and I don’t think it’s very polite, somehow. But nothing is going to take the tarnish off this moment. The house is in darkness and I climb the stone steps, lifting the suitcase up so it doesn’t make a noise. I’m aware that it’s early and I don’t want to wake anyone up. I stand at the huge red-panelled door for a moment.

I turn the key in the lock and open the door slowly. There’s a sidelight on in the hall, and a pile of junk mail on the wooden dresser. Hanging on a hook there’s a battered straw hat covered in tinsel. There’s a tired-looking plastic Christmas tree, and three empty wine bottles that look like they’ve been dumped on the floor by the door, waiting to go out in the recycling bin. The house smells of stale beer and leftover pizza, like a student flat. I guess the New Year celebrations must have been ongoing. I creep upstairs and open the door to my room. Becky has made up the bed (I love her so much for that at this moment that I could run upstairs and hug her, but something tells me she wouldn’t appreciate that) and the curtains are drawn.

I dump my case and my bag, and sit down on the edge of the bed for a moment. I feel completely wide awake, and as I sit there I realise that next door, with only a wall between us, is Alex. And – I hear a clonking noise, and the sound of footsteps – I realise he’s awake. I could go and say hi. That would be perfectly normal, if he’s awake. I mean admittedly it’s – I check my watch – quarter past six in the morning, but maybe he’s an early bird. I might just pop to the loo, and if I happen to bump into him … well, that’s just coincidence, isn’t it? Totally normal coincidence.

(Yes, I’ll check my face in the mirror while I’m in there, wipe the eyeliner smudges from underneath my eyes, and fluff up my hair. I do that every time I go to the loo. Doesn’t everyone?)

I open my bedroom door, and his door opens at exactly the same time. My heart gives a massive thump against my ribcage. This is meant to be.

And then Emma walks out, and heads towards the bathroom. She doesn’t turn around, so she doesn’t see me, and as the bathroom door closes I recoil backwards into my room like a snail into its shell, then floomp onto the bed with a groan. Why on earth is Emma coming out of Alex’s room? If they’ve swapped bedrooms, that means he’s across the other side of the stairwell, and I’ve been stealthily listening to her getting ready for work. She’s exactly the sort of person who would get up at six a.m. She’s probably done yoga already, and now she’s going to drink some green juice and meditate before she does an hour of paperwork then goes into the office. She’s a proper grown-up.

And then I realise that I’m still desperate for the loo, so I stand up and open my bedroom door, just as Emma walks out of the bathroom.

‘Oh! Jess. Hi,’ she says in a whisper, smiling with her perfect teeth. ‘Have you just got back? Did you have a lovely time?’

‘It was amazing,’ I say, and then I open my mouth again to ask if they’ve swapped rooms in my absence, and close it when I realise that she’s walking past me, in a kimono-style dressing gown made of some sort of swishy silk material, and heading for the bedroom at the end of the hall. Her bedroom.

I lean back against the door of my room, and it sinks in. Emma, our beautiful housemate, has spent the night with Alex.