We Met in December - Rosie Curtis Page 0,99

or something, and we can catch up. It’s ridiculous that we’re all living in the same place and we go weeks and weeks without seeing each other.

Shortly after I’d finished talking to Sophie, the train ground to a halt at Waterloo and I’d bumped my bag out, walking up the platform towards the gate. As I was showing my ticket, I saw James, taller and blonder than almost anyone else, like a huge Viking (if Vikings wore suits and had neat, well-kept haircuts). His face beamed with a huge smile of welcome and I thought to myself how lucky I am to be loved by someone who feels so safe, and solid, and sweet. He wrapped his arms around me.

‘I didn’t want to be one of those people who does the whole pack your bag, we’re going on a surprise trip thing,’ he’d explained, taking my case and wheeling it along as we headed for the tube. ‘But I thought you’d had enough stress, and you could do with a break.’

He’d stayed on the tube and I’d kissed him goodbye, heading back to Queensway where I got off and bumped my case along the streets to Albany Road. There was a parcel in the porch, and I’d picked it up and opened the door, balancing it under my chin. Inside the house had smelled faintly of one of Emma’s expensive scented candles.

It’s weird. We’ve been living together for almost a year and I still feel like I know nothing about her. I’ve spent hours standing in the kitchen, helping Rob prep vegetables and learning how to cook some of his favourite dishes. Alex and I have walked so far over London that our Fitbits have given us all kinds of badges for effort. Becky – well, she’s never here because she’s always working, but I know her so well from uni that it doesn’t count. But somehow, Emma and I have always kept each other at arm’s length. I guess it’s the Alex thing – not that there’s an Alex thing from my perspective, I remind myself. We’re just friends.

I told her I was off to Venice with James and she looked genuinely delighted for me.

‘Oh, it’s gorgeous. Hang on – I’ve been a couple of times with my ex,’ she said, running up the stairs. ‘I’ve got a couple of really good guidebooks.’

And then, once I’d gone into my room to get my stuff together, Alex appeared. And there was a moment when my heart leapt as his head popped round the side of the door and he stood there chatting to me. I felt weird, somehow, telling him I was going away with James. But he was his usual self, and waved me goodbye and wished me a happy birthday when it comes. I need to get over myself. And him. I’ve created a whole thing between us when there’s nothing there, and there’s a real live James who was messaging me that second. I clicked on my phone screen to read his message, telling myself to forget about Alex once and for all.

So now we’re sitting in Terminal 5, drinking Prosecco and eating cashew nuts and looking at Emma’s guidebooks.

‘We have to do a gondola trip,’ James says, pointing out a photograph on one of the pages. ‘You can’t go to Venice without doing that.’

I make a non-committal noise. There’s something a bit weird, I’ve always thought, about sitting on a boat looking self-consciously romantic while a bloke stands at the end, trying not to look at you.

‘How’s Sophie?’ James asks.

‘Says she feels sick.’ I’ve told James Sophie is pregnant – I checked it would be okay when she called and she said she didn’t mind, but she’s not telling anyone else at work.

‘I’ll cover her back in meetings,’ he says, kindly.

We get on the plane; British Airways, of course. I don’t know why I guessed it would be, but it’s very James. We sit back and relax whilst they come round with champagne. It’s a bit of a change from my last flight, which was a Ryanair last-minute job to Madrid with the girls.

And then, once the flight and taxi are out of the way, we arrive in Venice, and it is so – Venice-y. I mean Venetian. I mean, it’s not like one of those cities where you get there and there are two streets that look like the brochure and the rest of it’s all Holiday Inns and high-rises and dodgy-looking side roads. Literally

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