and she starts Christmas shopping in July and … here we go. Her name’s popping up on my screen. Knew it.
“Hi, Hannah.” I answer my phone casually, as though I don’t know why she’s calling. “How are you?”
“Ryan, huh?” she says, ignoring my greeting. “What happened to that girl in L.A.?”
“Apparently it’s over.” I try to speak calmly, although a voice inside me is singing, It’s over! It’s over!
“Hmm.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “Fixie, I thought you were over him. Finally.”
I don’t blame her for that emphasis on finally. I’ve been spilling my heart to Hannah about Ryan pretty much since the first day we met. When we were eighteen I used to drag her around endless London pubs, just in the hope of bumping into him. She used to call it the Ryan Route. And it would be fair to say that last spring, after Ryan went back to Hollywood, every other conversation we had was about him.
OK, every conversation.
“I am!” I lower my voice so the whole coffee shop doesn’t hear. “But apparently he was asking after me.” Just the thought of Ryan asking after me makes me feel giddy, but I force myself to sound matter-of-fact. “So that’s interesting. That’s all. Just interesting.”
“Hmm,” says Hannah again. “Has he texted you himself or anything?”
“No. But maybe he wants to surprise me.”
“Hmm,” says Hannah for a third time. “Fixie, you do remember that he lives in L.A.?”
“I know,” I say.
“And your whole life is your family shop.”
“I know.”
“So there’s no prospect of you actually getting together,” Hannah carries on relentlessly. “Like having a relationship or anything. It’s not going to happen.”
“Stop spelling stuff out!” I hiss crossly, turning toward the window for extra privacy. “You always have to spell things out!”
Not for the first time, I wish I had a flaky, romantic best friend, who would say, “Oh wow, Ryan’s back! You two are meant for each other!” and help me choose what outfit to wear.
Nicole’s quite flaky and romantic, I suppose. But then, she’s not really interested in my life.
“I’m spelling things out because I know you,” says Hannah. “And what I worry is that deep down you’re still hoping for some sort of miracle.”
There’s silence. I’m not going to say, “Don’t be ridiculous,” because there’s no point lying to your best friend.
“It’s like … a ten percent hope,” I say at last, watching a traffic warden on the prowl. “It’s harmless.”
“It’s not harmless,” Hannah contradicts me with energy. “It means you don’t even look at any other men. There are nice men out there, you know, Fixie. Good men.”
I know why she’s saying that. It’s because she tried to set me up with this actuary mate of hers last month, and I wasn’t into him. I mean, he was nice. He was just so earnest.
“I get it,” Hannah continues. “Ryan’s good-looking and glamorous and whatever. But are you going to give up on finding a proper guy just for ten minutes with Mr. Hollywood?”
“No, of course not,” I say after a pause, even though the phrase ten minutes with Mr. Hollywood has instantly flashed me back to Ryan and me in bed last year, and just the memory is making me damp behind the knees.
“I think you need to draw a line and move on,” says Hannah. I imagine her at her desk, briskly drawing a line under a column of numbers with a ruler and then turning the page, no problem.
But then, Hannah was always immune to Ryan’s charms. In the sixth form she dated all the guys in the A-level physics set, one by one, and ended up with Tim, the second-cleverest one. (She was the cleverest.) They were together all through sixth form, broke up, went to uni and dated other people, then got back together again and married. His kissing has improved a lot since that first date, apparently. They both have good jobs and they’re trying for a baby and they’re basically sorted.
“So what am I supposed to do?” I say, a bit snippily, because I know she has a point and I resent it, even though I love her for caring enough to call me up and lecture me. “What if he’s there tonight, and—”
I break off. I don’t want to say it out loud, because I’ll jinx it.
“You mean, what if he’s all hot and sexy and wants to carry on where you left off last year?”
“I guess.”
“Well.” Hannah is silent for a few moments. “Here’s the thing: Can you