Page 42 of The Key to My Heart

‘He sorted out your dampness,’ Jodie says. ‘Andhe fixed your house.’ Jodie stares at me, widens her eyes, then bursts out laughing.

‘You need help, Jodie,’ I say, a laugh bursting out of me, despite myself. ‘That wasn’t even agooddouble-entendre. It was rubbish. Terrible. Didn’t even make sense!’

‘I thought it was genius.’

‘And I’m sorry to be a big ol’ disappointment, but I have no interest in seeing Joe in a white bloody tux and having Tom sort out my …’ I grimace. ‘Dampness.God, Jodie, you are actually quite gross, aren’t you?’

Priya laughs loudly. ‘She’s got a point though. You’re drowning in hot men.’ She pats her stomach. ‘I’m jealous. Sorry, but I am.’

‘Drowning in them.’ I laugh, look down at my watch, but my cheeks are taut with how much I’m smiling. It’s nice to have stuff going on. It’s nice to have met new people, have actual things to report when people ask how I am, what I’ve been up to. Even if I don’t, much to Priya and Jodie’s dismay, want to shag either of them. ‘Tom and I are going tile shopping because my house is falling down,’ I say. ‘Not exactly an aphrodisiac. So, maybe reel your expectations in.’

‘Thatisromantic, though,’ says Priya, looking up at the sky, like a philosopher looking for the answer to lifeitself. ‘Isn’t it, Jode? It’s like a glimpse into a future you could have. You and Tom, Nat. Married. Kids. DIY at the weekends—’

‘Joe, crying on the other side of the window,’ says Jodie, ‘rain pouring down, wishingso muchit was him, because,Goddamn it, Natalie, I’ll never love anyone like I love you.’

‘You had Joe in a bloody white tuxedo thirty seconds ago,’ I laugh. ‘You were writing yourspeechabout him. Now he’s lonely and heartbroken gazing through my window. Make your mind up.’

Jodie slumps, drops her hand to her lap, just half a crust of her sandwich left. ‘But do you really not, though? Fancy them? Fancy Tom?’

‘She doesn’t fancyanyone,’ says Priya, sadly. ‘Nobody. Not even Christian Slater anymore, and that’s saying something. She always loved him.’

I pull the cardigan off the back of my chair.‘Goodbye,’ I say.

‘And I don’t believe her,’ Priya says to Jodie as if I’m not even in the vicinity. ‘There’s got to be something there with one of them. A bit of lust.’

‘Well, Priya, you would say that,’ I say, smiling. ‘You’re the woman who keeps having orgasms in her sleep. Over the scaffolder with the beady eyes. Over that bloke. The one from MasterChef. With the head—’

Jodie bursts out laughing, a spray of lemonade misting the air. ‘You’re having sleep-gasms? Lucky bitch. I miss those. I had so many when I was pregnant with Nick. Poor Carl thought I was possessed. Almost called in the priest.’

‘Nat, I told you that inconfidence,’ says Priya as Mum appears and says, ‘A sleep-gasm? What’s a sleep-gasm?’

I meet Tom in a quiet residential street, just next to The World’s End pub. The car windows are down, and Tom is in the driver’s seat, fiddling with the radio, a finger and thumb at the round volume button. A sparkly shoe air freshener hangs from the rear-view mirror and I lean to the open window. ‘Nice shoe there, Thomas. Very fetching.’

Tom’s head swoops up then, and he grins. ‘Ah, it’s my kerbside pick-up. Car’s in for a service,’ he says. ‘So I’ve got the Shauna-Madden-mobile. Does it suit me?’ He’s wearing sunglasses, and a fitted, navy-blue T-shirt, a glimpse of tanned collarbone peeking above the neckline. I can understand why Jodie and Priya are keen for this to besomething.Tom is hot. Plain and simple. The sort of hot that’s hard not to acknowledge sometimes, not to let out, like a held-in breath, ‘Oof. What a sexy mouth,’ and ‘Nice jaw you’re gracing us with today. Bet it’s good to run a finger along …’

‘It looks good on you,’ I say, ‘especially the pink sparkly shoe. Shall I get in?’

‘That’s generally how this works, Natalie, yes, get in.’

We wind through streets in slow traffic, circling Regent’s Park, and the beautiful, three-storey Victorian houses of Primrose Hill. Everything is starting to come out in celebration of summer. The leaves are lush and the colour of ripe limes, hanging baskets overflow with waterfalls of colour, and gone are the heavy dark jacketsof winter, and returned are the flowing dresses and sandals, in yellow and florals. Everything feels fresh and new. And, okay, it’s a small thing, but it’s nice not to have to worry about the pipe freezing over as I sleep now the weather’s warm, too, and, hopefully, the sun is here to stay for a bit.

‘So, I’m intheShauna Madden’s car, am I?’ I say. ‘What a treat.’

‘You are indeed. She’s the only person I know that loves driving in London.’

‘Really?’

‘Loves it.Loves the bustle of it. Loves the sights …’

‘And you don’t?’

Tom’s brow furrows, and he looks at me, one hand holding the steering wheel. ‘Fuck no. Bunch of lunatics out there. But I need a car for work, especially this morning – had to take some photos over in Richmond. Promo shots for some emo band, actually. They’re trying to bring the noughties back, God fuckin’ help us. They even invited me to their next gig.’ He laughs to himself. ‘But I’ll take a car ride. Especially when I’ve got a decent passenger.’

‘Are we off to find one, then?’

‘Bloody hell,’ says Tom. ‘And she brings the dad jokes. What did I do to deserve this?’

It takes ten minutes to get to the tile place, and we park behind the warehouse, which is more of an aircraft hangar. The walls are corrugated iron, and a stark white square of a sign above the entrance has the tile shop’s name, along with a cartoon of a man with a trowel– something straight from nineties clip-art. Yes, Priya. How romantic. Me, Tom and a building that’s a big, hot, metal coffin on a stretch of grey, potholed concrete.

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