Page 54 of Still Falling for You

‘The flat is a dump,’ I warn him over my shoulder when we walk up the stairs.

He laughs behind me softly. ‘I’ve had my share of dump flats if you recall.’

We stop in front of my door, a bronzetwelvenailed wonkily to the surface. ‘Not like this. I think at some point somebody buried a dead body here. It stinks like decomposing flesh most of the time, and the other day I found a human-shaped stain under the bathroom lino.’ I’m stalling because I’m nervous, but the sound of Alex’s splutter behind me eases some of it. I unlock the door, and we step inside together.

‘As long as you haven’t buried any dead bodies here yourself, I’m OK,’ he quips. We take our shoes off and leave them by the door.

I give him a mock withering look. ‘I’m not that stupid. I’d mince them, make pies and sell them to people I don’t like. Make a business out of it.’

‘Isn’t that pretty much the plot ofSweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street?’

‘I did wonder why it sounded so familiar.’

He shakes his head in disbelief.

The flat is dark and smells a bit musty as we close the door behind us. Immediately, I abandon my bag on the bed hiding behind an antique partition to our left.

I motion for Alex to sit down on the threadbare double sofa in the middle of the large space. I head towards the kitchen counter tucked in the right corner of the studio.

For a single-room flat, the studio is fairly roomy and allows for a partition wall to divide the space into a lounge and a tiny bedroom. Alex looks down, and at the sight of the familiar rug, his eyes light up with mirth.

I rifle through the cupboards. ‘Tea? Coffee? I wouldn’t vouch for the quality of either, but it colours the water.’ I spin on my heel to realise that he’s made his way towards the kitchen.

He’s about to lower himself onto one of the stools attached to the breakfast bar. Lifting my hands up in the air, I shout, ‘Not that one.’ I catch his horrified expression. I force myself to say, much calmer this time, ‘Unless you want to break your back. The left one is semi-decent which means there’s only a fifty-fifty chance it’ll collapse underneath you.’

‘I feel so reassured,’ he responds uncertainly but sits, nevertheless. ‘I don’t mind either,’ he answers my previous question.

I turn my back on him again, filling the kettle to the brim. It’s in desperate need of descaling, but that’s only one of the minor shortcomings of this flat. My hands shake a little. I’ve never been this nervous in my entire life. I head to the fridge because I need something to steady my nerves, and coffeewon’t do the job.

‘Do you mind if I have a glass of wine? I think I need something stronger.’ After the day I’ve had, a shot of vodka would be preferable, but beggars can’t be choosers.

‘I’ll have a small glass if you don’t mind. It’s been a strange day.’ He pales. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…’ He rubs his face, unsure how to finish the sentence without offending me.

‘It’s OK.’ I reassure him.

The kettle abandoned, I pull out two wine glasses from the overhead cabinet. They’re those embossed deep-yellow glasses that were so popular in the eighties. I was really proud of getting them half-price on Etsy last year, but now I wish I had something lesstheatricalto serve the wine in. Not giving it another thought, I place them between me and Alex on the breakfast bar. I pluck the wine from the side. ‘I definitely don’t vouch for the quality of what’s in this bottle. It might be closer to vinegar than wine,’ I point out with embarrassment.

He leans over the bar and takes the bottle from my waiting hands, fingers brushing against mine for a fleeting moment. My cheeks flush. With a smooth motion, he unscrews the lid and pours me a generous amount, while only pouring an inch for himself.

He pushes a glass towards me, and the bottom of it scrapes against the speckled surface. ‘I think you should have guests more often. You’re a killer host.’

I snort into my drink as I take a sip. At least he finds some humour in this.

I take another sip and close my eyes for a moment, calming my nerves. When I open them again, I catch him staring at my lips. When he realises he’s been caught, he shifts uncomfortably on the bar stool. He must be getting sore sitting on the death trap.

‘Shall we sit on the sofa?’ I motion towards the shabby settee that came with the flat.

In unison, we head towards it. I park myself in the right corner, giving him space and time to choose how close he wants to be to me. When he’s about to sit in the opposite corner and as far away from me as possible, I warn him, ‘Mind the corner. It’s a bit collapsed.’

He seats himself in the middle of the sofa. If I wanted to, I could reach out and touch him. The question is not whether I want to, because I’m dying to, but whether I’ll find the courage to do that.

He takes a tentative sip of his drink and swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘I’d say it’s closer to wine than vinegar. But just about. I wouldn’t put it on my salad yet.’ I can’t stop myself from smirking.

I watch with curiosity as he takes another sip. He catches my perusal and his eyebrow quirks. He abandons the glass on the coffee table. ‘What is it?’ Interest deepens his voice.

‘I didn’t think you’d drink,’ I confess, not wanting to sour the mood but unable to help myself. I pull my legs underneath me, tucking my skirt under my knees. He follows the movement, but then his focus sharpens on the golden contents of his glass with contemplation.

‘After Mum?’ I nod. ‘I figured that that’s exactly the reason why to drink. To learn how to drink without it killing me.’ I get a sudden urge to understand what makes this Alex tick. He surprises me by adding, ‘The idea of being like her used to terrify me. That’s why I didn’t drink until my early twenties.’

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