Nell through his eyes for a moment. Her squat, determined body, her jutting chin, her six earrings, her pink hair, her three tattoos.
I know Nell would rather keel over in the street than have this guy feeling sorry for her. For a few moments she’s silent. Then, with the deepest reluctance, her face like thunder, she says, “I have…a chronic condition. And even that’s none of your bloody business.”
“My friend has a blue badge from the authorities,” says Maud, her eyes flashing dangerously. “That’s all you need to know.”
“The authorities can be mistaken,” persists John Sweetman, undeterred. “Or hoodwinked.”
“Hoodwinked?” Maud’s voice rises in rage. “Hoodwinked? Are you seriously suggesting—”
But Nell raises a hand to stop her.
“Don’t waste your energy, Maudie,” she says a little wearily, then turns to John Sweetman. “Fuck. Off.”
“Seconded,” says Maud briskly.
“Thirded,” I add.
“Fourthded,” puts in Sarika, not to be outdone.
“Spider-Man!” yells Bertie from the top of the 4X4, and lands with an almighty thump on John Sweetman’s shoulders. John Sweetman gives an agonized yell and I clasp my hand over my mouth.
“Bertie!” exclaims Maud reprovingly. “Do not thump the man and call him ignorant.”
“Ignorant!” yells Bertie at once, and punches John Sweetman. “Ignorant!”
“Children these days,” says Maud, rolling her eyes. “What can one do?”
“Get him off!” John Sweetman’s voice is muffled and furious. “Argh! My leg!”
“Harold!” squeals Romy gleefully, and I realize that Harold has dashed out to join in. He’s grabbed John Sweetman’s trousers between his teeth and is snuffling with excitement, and any minute now we’ll be paying for a new pair of gray flannel slacks.
“Come here.” I grab Harold’s collar and with a supreme effort manhandle him away, while Maud reclaims Bertie. Somehow we all make it back inside, close the door of Nell’s flat, and look at one another, breathing heavily.
“Fuckers,” says Nell, which is what she always says.
“Onward,” says Sarika firmly, because she’s all about eyes forward, stay tough.
“Drink?” says Maud, which is what she always suggests. And now it’s my turn to pull everyone in for a group hug.
“It’ll be OK,” I say into the dark, cozy warmth of us, our foreheads touching; our breaths mingling. The rest of the world is shut out; it’s just us four. Our squad.
At last we draw apart, and Nell pats me reassuringly on the back.
“It’ll be OK,” she says. “It always is. Ava, go and have your hot date. Go to Italy. Write your book. And do not give that bad dog a single thought.”
Two
Hot date. What a joke. What a joke.
The most humiliating thing is: I’m still thinking about it. Here I am at my expensive writing retreat in Italy. Our instructor, Farida, is giving her introduction to the week, and my pen is poised dutifully over my notebook. But instead of listening properly, I’m having flashbacks.
It felt wrong from the first moment we met in the pub. He was different from how I expected—which, to be fair, they always are. All online dates. They walk differently from how you imagined, or their hair’s longer, or their accent isn’t what you conjured up in your head. Or they just smell wrong.
This guy smelled wrong and drank his beer wrong and sounded wrong. He also had a lot to say about cryptocurrency, which…you know. Is only interesting for so long. (Ten seconds.) And the more I realized that he was wrong, the more I felt like a fool—because what about my instincts? What about the look in his eyes?
I kept peering at his eyes, trying—but failing—to find the life and intelligence and charm that I’d seen in his profile photo. He must have noticed, because he gave an awkward laugh and said, “Have I got foam on my eyebrow or something?”
I laughed, too, and shook my head. And I was going to change the subject—but I thought, Sod it, why not be honest? So I said, “It’s weird, but your eyes don’t look exactly like they did on the website. Probably the light or something.”
Which is when the truth came out. He looked a bit shifty and said, “Yeah, I’ve had some problems with my eyes recently? They went a bit septic. Gunky, you know? This one was kind of greeny-yellow.” He pointed to his left eye. “It was bad. I went through two lots of antibiotic cream.”
“Right,” I said, trying not to heave. “Poor you.”
“So hands up,” he continued. “I didn’t use my own eyes in my profile picture.”