Page 18 of Not in a Million Years

‘Right,’ he said. ‘I see I’m going to have to stage an intervention here.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ll start. Oxford Circus.’

‘What?’

He sighed. ‘Oxford. Circus.’

And then I got it. He was challenging me to Mornington Crescent, the silly and arcane sort-of-game in which players have to make their way around the London Underground, with random rules made up as they go along, which he, Andy and I used to play for hours back in the day.

‘Are we playing under the expanded ultra-low-emission-zone rules of 2021?’

‘No, let’s follow the 2004 Livingstone Protocol.’

‘Gotcha. And are Elizabeth Line interchanges permitted at Bond Street?’

‘Only for westward travel, with a transfer onto the Reading branch at Paddington.’

‘In that case…’ I conjured up the Tube map in my head. It didn’t really matter what route I took – that wasn’t the point. The only aim of the game was to spin it out as long as possible, while accusing your opponent of the most absurd infringements of the non-existent rules. ‘I’ll go to Earl’s Court.’

‘Oooh, an impressive start. Although I’m not convinced it’s permitted following the 2008 Hounslow decision, I’ll let it go. Clapham South.’

‘Clapham South? Sneaky. Looks like you’re aiming for the Seven Sisters manoeuvre, which relies on my taking the former Circle Line, before trains terminated at Edgware Road. So I’ll foil your cunning plan by going to Mile End.’

‘A transverse diagonal?’ he said. ‘Nice one. I fear I’m going to have to invoke the Overground exception and travel to Dalston Junction.’

My hand wasn’t gripping the armrest so hard any more. And not only that, it felt oddly warm. I glanced down and saw that Daniel had placed his hand over mine, just resting there, natural and – quite amazingly – comforting. Part of me wanted to swat it away like an annoying fly, but a much bigger part simply felt relieved that it was there.

But I didn’t say anything about it – I just returned to the game. ‘Damn it. That forces me to Dalston Kingsland, and I miss a turn.’

‘Correct. Which leaves me free to perform the Plumstead Bus Garage change – which you might remember was the decisive move in the Willis versus Cummings 1974 World Cup – and go to Shepherd’s Bush via Walthamstow Central.’

‘Walthamstow Central, you say?’ I sucked my teeth. ‘A bold move. But the 1974 World Cup was played under Three-Day Week rules, you might remember. Which leaves me with…’

I’d barely noticed it, but the seat-belt sign had been illuminated again while we were talking, and the plane was descending, smoothly and benignly, before touching down on the runway as lightly as a cat. Relief flooded me – along with a startling surge of gratitude for Daniel’s steadfast presence. He gave my hand the smallest, almost imperceptible squeeze, then moved his away.

My skin felt cold without it there.

‘Mornington Crescent,’ I said.

Eight

Then

2008

Hands on hips, I turned in a slow circle, surveying my domain. Mine. It had been mine officially (although, even more officially, most of it still belonged to the bank, but I didn’t allow myself to think about that too much) for three weeks, and I’d moved past the stage of kissing the walls every time I got home from work.

But the sense of pride, of ownership, was still intoxicating. All the weekends working in pubs and at supermarket checkouts while I was at university, saving every penny I possibly could, never going abroad on holiday, deliberately choosing the pokiest, cheapest bedroom in every houseshare, had paid off. I’d scraped together enough of a deposit to buy a home of my own. Even my heady excitement couldn’t blind me to the fact that, objectively, it was a bit of a dump. The estate was undeniably sketchy, the bedroom was so small I had to keep one side of the bed firmly pressed against the wall and anyone who slept with me would have to climb over me to get out. The bathroom was dated and shabby, and there was nowhere to put the ironing board.

But still, it was mine, and tonight I’d be sharing it with my friends for the first time.

I’d taken the previous day off work and prepped mountains of fancy canapés, imagining I was Nigella Lawson having one of her glamorous soirées. Handmade blinis were in the freezer, ready to be warmed up and topped with smoked salmon and snipped chives. Cocktail sausages were wrapped in bacon ready to be roasted. Sticks of carrot, cucumber and pepper were in the fridge waiting to be artfully arranged around a bowl of bagna cauda, a dip so fancy and sophisticated I hadn’t known it existed until a week before.

Admittedly, my chive and gruyere choux buns had collapsed in a manner worthy of the ‘Nailed it’ meme, but I’d hidden the evidence in the bin and done an emergency dash to Iceland for pre-made vol-au-vents instead.

My ill-matched assortment of IKEA wine and champagne glasses were arrayed on the kitchen counter, flanked by paper plates and napkins. Fairy lights were strung over the door to the balcony. Tall white candles stood in the fireplace, and white towels were neatly folded in the bathroom next to a fresh cake of soap.

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