a snack when we drop this back at the pontoon, and Rob and I will head back?’
If I didn’t know Becky better, I’d swear she was trying to put us in a situation where we were forced together, alone. But a) Becky’s not a matchmaking sort (she’s way too practical for that) and b) that’s not what today is about. We’re supposed to be taking Alex’s mind off his not-wedding. And she’s got absolutely no idea how I feel about him. I think I’ve done a pretty good job of hiding it. I hope I have, anyway.
We get off near Primrose Hill and meander back across the park, stopping to pick up sandwiches, which we eat, sitting on the grass, legs crossed, facing each other. The sun is still bursting out of the sky. It’s the perfect day for a wedding, I think. Alex is quiet. I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing. I lie back on the grass, looking up at the sky, soaking up the heat.
He lies down beside me, so close I can feel the fizz of my skin prickling at his proximity. My heart hasn’t got the there’s nothing going on memo and is currently banging very loudly in my ears.
‘Weird, isn’t it?’ he says, still looking at the sky. He shades his eyes against the sun.
‘What?’
He reaches out, so the side of his arm just brushes against mine. I feel a whole rainbow of butterflies burst into life in my stomach.
‘What might have been. Near misses.’
I think he’s talking about the wedding. He’s definitely talking about the wedding. Isn’t he?
I lie there, keeping very still.
And then he reaches out, and for a second his little finger touches mine. I can’t work out if it’s an accident or not. I don’t pull my hand away. I just lie there, looking up at the clouds, wondering how the tiniest bit of physical contact can leave me feeling like someone shot a bolt of electricity from my head to my feet. I’m fizzing like I’d glow in the dark.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Alex
8th June
What the hell am I doing?
We walk back to Albany Road together in what I hope is a friendly sort of silence.
All I did is reach out and touch her finger, for God’s sake. The voice in my head comes back with a fairly reasonable counter-argument.
You’re single for a reason. You’re not getting caught up in anything with Emma for a reason.
Two different reasons, I argue with myself.
It’s surprisingly hard to conduct a balanced and reasonable argument with your own inner voice. The truth is I really like Jess. Like her enough that I’m not going to screw up a friendship, and enough that I’m not getting myself caught up in a relationship when I’ve got enough going on with work and study right now, and after what happened with Alice – well, I promised myself I wouldn’t even go there until I finished my nursing course.
It’s not the same with Emma, my unhelpful inner voice says.
Hang on, I think. Weren’t you on the other side a minute ago?
It’s complicated, says the inner voice.
I groan out loud.
‘You okay?’ Jess’s voice makes me start. I’d half-forgotten she was there.
‘Yeah, just thinking about work stuff.’
‘I thought maybe it was, you know—’ She hesitates for a bit. ‘Alice. The wedding?’
I shake my head. ‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘Definitely not that.’
We turn the corner and get onto Albany Road. One of the kids from the house two doors down has set up a lemonade stall. They’ve got a table out on the pavement, and a stack of paper cups. A sign says, Lemonade £4 a cup.
‘Bloody hell,’ I say under my breath to Jess. ‘Definitely London prices.’
One of the children looks up at me. She’s got light brown hair and very piercing bright blue eyes. ‘The lemons are organic, and the sugar.’
‘Of course they are,’ says Jess, snorting with laughter. Only in Notting Hill. ‘I’m really sorry, I haven’t got any money on me.’
‘That’s okay,’ says the smaller of the two children. ‘We’re going to make some more so you can come back later.’
When we’re out of earshot and walking up the steps to our house, we both burst out laughing.
‘Well, you’ve got to give it to them. They’re enterprising.’
‘Those kids’ school fees probably cost more a term than I make in a year.’ Jess giggles. ‘Not surprised they’re enterprising. Their dad’ll own half the property in Notting Hill. He’s a private landlord.’
We’re still laughing when the front door opens. I