We Met in December. Rosie Curtis
my own, I’m going to have a tree in every room and the whole place lit up with millions of tiny, starry white lights. I think about growing up and how I used to decorate my bedroom, and how my mum couldn’t wait to take the decorations down because she hated the mess and how Nanna and Grandpa used to make up for it with a tree they always let me decorate, hung with trinkets I’d made at primary school and riotous rainbows of tinsel. And then as we turn down into Church Street, my mind skips forward, imagining this time next year, and all of us celebrating Christmas in the house in Albany Road. Rob could cook – there had to be an advantage to living with a chef, surely – and I’d be there, dressed in something clinging and sexy, and—
I look out of the window, and realise I’m at Ladbroke Grove. After I get off the bus, I grab my bag and bump it along the street, the wheels sounding loud in the early morning silence. And then I turn the corner, and there’s the street sign that announces I’m home. Albany Road. I live in London now, I say to myself quietly, stepping back to take it all in.
‘Watch it!’
A man looms out of nowhere on a bike and speeds off, his wheel lights flashing. He’s muttering something and I don’t think it’s very polite, somehow. But nothing is going to take the tarnish off this moment. The house is in darkness and I climb the stone steps, lifting the suitcase up so it doesn’t make a noise. I’m aware that it’s early and I don’t want to wake anyone up. I stand at the huge red-panelled door for a moment.
I turn the key in the lock and open the door slowly. There’s a sidelight on in the hall, and a pile of junk mail on the wooden dresser. Hanging on a hook there’s a battered straw hat covered in tinsel. There’s a tired-looking plastic Christmas tree, and three empty wine bottles that look like they’ve been dumped on the floor by the door, waiting to go out in the recycling bin. The house smells of stale beer and leftover pizza, like a student flat. I guess the New Year celebrations must have been ongoing. I creep upstairs and open the door to my room. Becky has made up the bed (I love her so much for that at this moment that I could run upstairs and hug her, but something tells me she wouldn’t appreciate that) and the curtains are drawn.
I dump my case and my bag, and sit down on the edge of the bed for a moment. I feel completely wide awake, and as I sit there I realise that next door, with only a wall between us, is Alex. And – I hear a clonking noise, and the sound of footsteps – I realise he’s awake. I could go and say hi. That would be perfectly normal, if he’s awake. I mean admittedly it’s – I check my watch – quarter past six in the morning, but maybe he’s an early bird. I might just pop to the loo, and if I happen to bump into him … well, that’s just coincidence, isn’t it? Totally normal coincidence.
(Yes, I’ll check my face in the mirror while I’m in there, wipe the eyeliner smudges from underneath my eyes, and fluff up my hair. I do that every time I go to the loo. Doesn’t everyone?)
I open my bedroom door, and his door opens at exactly the same time. My heart gives a massive thump against my ribcage. This is meant to be.
And then Emma walks out, and heads towards the bathroom. She doesn’t turn around, so she doesn’t see me, and as the bathroom door closes I recoil backwards into my room like a snail into its shell, then floomp onto the bed with a groan. Why on earth is Emma coming out of Alex’s room? If they’ve swapped bedrooms, that means he’s across the other side of the stairwell, and I’ve been stealthily listening to her getting ready for work. She’s exactly the sort of person who would get up at six a.m. She’s probably done yoga already, and now she’s going to drink some green juice and meditate before she does an hour of paperwork then goes into the office. She’s a proper grown-up.
And then I realise that I’m still desperate for the loo, so I stand up and open my bedroom door, just as Emma walks out of the bathroom.
‘Oh! Jess. Hi,’ she says in a whisper, smiling with her perfect teeth. ‘Have you just got back? Did you have a lovely time?’
‘It was amazing,’ I say, and then I open my mouth again to ask if they’ve swapped rooms in my absence, and close it when I realise that she’s walking past me, in a kimono-style dressing gown made of some sort of swishy silk material, and heading for the bedroom at the end of the hall. Her bedroom.
I lean back against the door of my room, and it sinks in. Emma, our beautiful housemate, has spent the night with Alex.
3rd January
Oh. My. God. My head feels like someone used it as a punchbag. I reach down the side of the bed where Past Me has thoughtfully left half a bottle of Coke. It’s completely flat and tastes like crap, but it washes down the double dose of ibuprofen and paracetamol I’m hoping might crack this hangover. What the hell was I thinking last night? Today’s going to be a killer – a twelve-hour shift in A&E, full of half-pissed Christmas casualties (and that’s just the staff). Oh bollocks – and I’ve just remembered that effing assignment I was supposed to do last night on Modern Nursing Practices and the Something of Something.
I rub my chin. And I need to get my beard sorted before I tip over into looking like someone who’s been lost in a cave for a month. God, I should’ve been working that essay last night and yet instead I found myself sharing a bottle of red with Emma. And another one. And – I open one eye carefully, because it feels like someone’s shining lasers in my direction – how the hell did I end up in bed with her, when I’d made a resolution that the last time was the Last Time? Capital letters, no going back.
I stumble to the bathroom and stand under the shower for ages, trying to wash off the hangover and straighten my head out. I didn’t even mean to start something with Emma. In fact – I run my hands through my hair and groan again – it’s probably best to not think of it as a something at all. Definitely not the sort of something that would get in the way of Becky’s no-couples rule. After all, we’re just two people, who’d ended up in a bit of a situation, and who were looking for the same thing. People do that sort of thing all the time.
Not me, admittedly, because I’ve never been a one-night stand sort of guy, but then – well, that all got screwed up last year when Alice walked out and I swore I was going to focus on work and absolutely definitely not on relationships. Not that I was planning on being a player or anything – that’s not me, either. Just that I was going to focus on work, and studying, and leave the complications out of it. That’s why Becky’s no-relationships rule didn’t make me flinch, even if it did seem a bit weird. To be honest with you, I’d have taken a vow of chastity for the next five years if it meant I could get a place like this for the ridiculously low rent she was willing to take.
Just as well she didn’t make me take one, mind you. I switch off the shower and think back on how it all happened as I’m drying myself off.
I’d been working a late shift, and when I’d got home at eleven the house was empty. Rummaging through the fridge, I’d found a beer, cracked it open and sat down at the table, scrolling through my phone. The thing was just about falling over with a million notifications from friends – half of whom I hadn’t heard from in ages because of the whole Alice thing – sending mass WhatsApp invites to New Year’s celebrations. The old me would’ve been up for it, but the new Alex – wrecked after a night working supply as an HCA on A&E – couldn’t think of anything worse. As I went to put my phone down, another notification had buzzed through. It was a text from Jonno:
We’re in the Pig and Bucket. Come and find us when you’ve finished playing doctors and nurses. Fizz on ice.
Oh, piss off, I thought, and chucked the phone across the table. The joke was wearing a bit thin at this point. I’ve heard a million and one variations on the doctors and nurses theme, countless boring jokes about male nurses, and I still get the odd bemused message from former uni friends who’d heard through the grapevine