boil the kettle. The fridge absolutely honks. I grab the milk, close the door quickly, and make my coffee and pour water over Becky’s expensive-looking peppermint tea bag.
‘There’s something dying in the fridge,’ I say, going back to the hall and handing her a mug. She sniffs it and takes a huge sip, making ecstatic noises.
‘It’s Rob.’
‘In the fridge?’
‘No, it’s Rob’s stuff. He was given some enormously posh French cheeses from a salesman, and he’s brought them home because – oh, something complicated. Anyway, they’re in the fridge. He said he was bringing home some artisan bread and stuff and we could have it for dinner, if anyone was around.’
My stomach rumbles at the thought, and it would be nice to get to know Rob better. Six months into our lease and Rob’s still a bit of a mystery. We sort of adjusted to him being here but not here pretty early on. When the rest of us are hanging out in the evenings, shovelling in Ben and Jerry’s and watching Netflix movies, he’s out doing chef things until midnight, by which time we’re usually staggering off to bed. He lies on the sofa reading the sports pages (he’s a massive football fan) and unwinding until about two a.m. Then when we get up, he’s fast asleep downstairs in the cellar. It’s a bit like living with a Hobbit, only one who’s really good at cooking and occasionally brings home leftovers to die for.
And really stinking cheese.
I take a sip of my coffee, and—
‘Ugh.’ I look down at my mug realising I’ve handed Becky my coffee and I’ve got her peppermint and fennel stuff. It tastes like someone dipped a pair of used socks in muddy water.
‘I wondered when you’d notice,’ Becky says, holding the mug tightly in both hands.
‘I’ve got your tea.’
‘And I—’ she takes another sip, eyes closed in bliss, a beatific smile on her face ‘—have your delicious, sleep-depriving, adrenal whatsit-damaging, blood-pressure-raising coffee.’
I reach across, laughing. She’s not letting go of that mug any time soon.
‘Gerroff,’ growls Becky. ‘This is mine.’
I make another cup, and we flop on the sofas in the sitting room. We’d made all sorts of plans to sort the place out when we all first moved in, but somehow none of us had done anything. It always felt a bit like sitting in your grandma’s sitting room as a result. I notice that the potted plant on the windowsill is looking like it’s in danger of dying of thirst.
‘How’s work? You must be feeling quite settled in now?’ Becky asks as she flexes her foot against the arm of the sofa, leaning her head backwards. Something gives an alarming crack. ‘God, I’m falling to pieces.’
‘Was that you?’ I say, alarmed. ‘I thought it was the furniture.’
‘No, definitely me. That’s why I’m trying to do this healthy eating thing. This job is bloody exhausting. I’m not surprised Alex gave it up for an easy life working as a nurse.’
We both laugh.
‘So go on then, spill the beans. Any exciting gossip from the glamorous world of publishing? I was expecting a lot more invites to posh book launches and meeting famous people.’
‘Yeah, me too,’ I say.
‘Not enjoying it?’
‘Oh, I am. I really like it. I mean it’s way more pressurised than I expected – I think I was imagining us all drifting about reading books and discussing literature, and it’s not like that at all, but – yeah.’ I nod. ‘I feel like I’ve found my feet a bit. It helps that a couple of new people have started, so I’m not the new girl any more. And Jav’s lovely.’
‘You should invite her round sometime. We could have a house party. A housewarming. My God, why haven’t we had a proper housewarming?’ Becky says.
‘Because we’re only ever all in the same place at once about twice a month, and that’s usually a Saturday lunchtime?’
‘Oh. Yeah. That.’ Becky flips through the pages of one of Emma’s magazines. She buys them all – Vogue, Marie Claire, Tatler …
‘Look, there’s a launch for Nigella Lawson’s latest book. Why aren’t you going to stuff like that?’
‘Because I work for a tiny publisher who mostly does romance, and we don’t do stuff like that.’
‘You should. You’d get loads of publicity. And I’d get to meet—’ she peers at the photographs on the social pages of Tatler ‘—Robert Pattinson. D’you think he sparkles in real life?’
‘I do not. And your sad Twilight addiction needs to be addressed. I saw you’d been