before.’ She gestures to Daniel, who’s now sitting bolt upright on the sofa as if he’s about to have tea with the vicar.
‘Yes, of course.’ I nod. ‘Hi, Daniel.’
‘Hi, Lucy.’ He stands up to shake my hand politely and I can’t help noticing his flies are undone.
‘Um . . .’ I gesture downwards with my eyes.
He looks puzzled and glances down. Seeing his zip, he turns beetroot. I’m not sure who’s more embarrassed, him or me. Or Robyn, who’s now vigorously plumping cushions like my mother when the relatives are coming.
‘We were just watching a DVD,’ she says briskly.
I glance at the TV. It’s turned off.
‘Great.’ I nod, playing along.
‘So did you have a nice day?’ she asks brightly.
The conversation is so stilted it’s like we’re in a bad amateur dramatics play.
‘Oh, you know . . .’ I consider telling her about my sister and Jeff and Adam, but decide against it. Now’s hardly the time to unburden myself. ‘How about you two? How was your day?’
‘Amazing,’ beams Daniel enthusiastically.
‘OK,’ says Robyn, speaking over him with forced nonchalance.
Glances fly between them and I feel the air prickle as if there’s a lot going on under the surface. I take this as my cue to leave.
‘Well, I think I’ll probably go to bed. It’s late.’ I start backing out of the doorway.
‘Oh, don’t go on our account,’ she says breezily. I notice she’s still plumping the same cushion. As does Daniel, who prises it from her gently.
‘Actually, I’m exhausted,’ I say, and throw in a yawn for good measure. Which is true, I suddenly realise. It’s been quite some day. ‘Night.’
‘Night,’ they say in stereo, from opposite ends of the sofa, where they’re standing awkwardly as if to prove there’s nothing going on between them.
Proving that without any doubt there is something going on between them.
I go into my bedroom, flick on a couple of lamps and turn on my fairy lights. That’s always a sure-fire way to make me feel better. I don’t know why it is, but there’s something about their soft, twinkly glow that never fails to lift my spirits.
Except for tonight. Tonight they have zero effect, I think glumly. Lighting an aromatherapy candle, I put on some cheery music, bš€heery mus³€, bš€heeut it’s hopeless. Not even my ludicrously expensive Diptyque candle, which I only burn on special occasions, and the Mamma Mia soundtrack Mum bought me can make a dent in my black mood.
Giving up, I resign myself to feeling miserable and ensconce myself on my bed with my wine, Kettle Chips and laptop. Maybe Adam’s replied to my message on Facebook, I tell myself. Maybe now he’s had time to think about things . . . Hope flickers, like the flame on my candle, and for a brief moment I feel a tiny pulse of anticipation, a ray of possibility. Maybe, just maybe.
Taking a large slurp of wine for courage, I check my emails. I have three. One from my mum asking me if I’ve spoken to Kate, as she can’t get hold of her, and that it’s ‘boiling hot here. Everyone is wearing T-shirts.’ Ever since I moved to New York, Mum and I have had an ongoing weather battle. For some reason she’s determined to prove Manchester is hotter than Manhattan. ‘You wouldn’t believe how sunny it’s been since you left!’
Quite frankly no, Mum, I wouldn’t, I think, clicking off her email and on to the next one, which is an engagement party evite from a friend in London. ‘Brilliant. Congratulations,’ I type with two fingers, while glugging back wine. ‘Sorry I can’t make it.’ Am in New York, becoming an alcoholic, I add mentally, pressing send.
The last one is from eBay, reminding me that the online auction for my spare theatre ticket is about to end tomorrow and that I’ve had several bids. I feel slightly cheered. Well, at least that’s something.
And that’s it. No email from Adam. I stare at my empty inbox, my mind turning, then log into Facebook. You never know, there could have been an error and his reply never got forwarded. That happened to a friend of mine once. Well, not an actual friend, a friend of a friend, or maybe it was in an article I read. I can’t remember. The most important thing is, it did happen.
Not to me, though, I realise, looking at my profile page. No new messages. Nothing, apart from a status update from Nathaniel Kennedy:
Looking at real estate!
This time I don’t even