Page 128 of The One That I Want

‘It’s been afortnightin a day,’ I retort. ‘This morning feels like it happened ages ago. Do you think he’s home yet?’ I ask, changing the subject.

Tiggy gently takes me by both shoulders. ‘Again, I’ve never met Ewan. I have no idea if he’d be home yet.’

‘Right, of course – sorry.’

She drops her hands and I move past her and go back to the lounge.

‘So, when are you planning on taking it to him?’

I flop onto the sofa while Tiggy leans against the breakfast bar.

‘I keep going back and forth,’ I say. ‘It still needs polish, as you said, but I could do that first thing in the morning – let it marinade overnight and approach it with fresh eyes. I also haven’t decided if I want to place it in Ewan’s hands or somehow leave it in his mailbox. Tomorrow night, maybe.’

‘I’ll go with you if you like? To drop it off.’

‘I thought you had a date.’

‘Babes, my “dates” are hook-ups and none of them mean a thing next to you.’

‘Thanks, Tiggy, but I don’t know. I keep going back and forth. Poppy offered too, but I think I need to go alone – in case heishome. Maybe he’ll talk to me.’

‘Whatever you decide.’ She yawns loudly and I look up from the coffee table, which I’ve caught myself staring at – again. God, I really am inside my head. My eyes flick towards the clock: 8.08p.m.

‘Have you eaten? I’ve just realised, I didn’t have dinner – or lunch. I’m hungry. Are you hungry?’

She crosses to me, her hand extended. ‘Hello, Tiggy Marsh. I don’t believe we’ve met.’

‘Hilarious,’ I say, swatting her hand away. ‘So that’s a yes, then.’

She flops down next to me. ‘If you’re buying, that’s always a yes.’

The early-morning Uber ride to Ewan’s is an out-of-body experience.

The streets of London are a surreal blur, yet punctuated with these distinctive details that leap out at me. A red postbox, gleaming as if freshly polished. The faded paint of a yellow box junction on the road, still doing its job of keeping an intersection clear. A sixty-something woman wearing a red vest on a corner sellingThe Big Issueto commuters, smiling at passers-by. A huddle of smokers outside a BeanVibes (the sad bastards – both for the smoking and drinking sub-par coffee). Shopkeepers sweeping the footpaths outside their shops, stopping to chat to each other. Shiny back doors of terrace houses flanked by topiaries. Double-decker buses ‘merging’ into traffic. The meandering Thames dotted with barges.

I notice these details with a proud interest. They encompass London. TheyareLondon.

I love this city.

I’ve toyed with the idea of an overseas stint – an adult gap year, or two – but I suspect that even if it eventuates, I’d be happy to return to London. It’s home.

And as true as they may be, these thoughts are also an effective distraction from my building nerves – make that panic. Because I am about to lay my heart bare.

The car pulls up outside Ewan’s at 7.32a.m. and I take a deep, bracing breath.

I’ve had less than five hours of fitful sleep, and have been up since four, revising my letter. I’ve shown up straight from the shower wearing leggings and a long-sleeved T-shirt, with my hair tucked behind my ears and no make-up.

I am as ready as I will ever be to face the man who may or may not be – but I really hope is – the love of my life.

By bedtime last night, I’d decided to leave the letter at Ewan’s while he was at work, then message him to say, ‘Check your mailbox!’ But in the wee hours of this morning, as I climbed out of bed, exhausted but wired, I knew I had to deliver it in person.

Ewan deserves that.

I deserve that.

‘Thank you,’ I say to the driver as we arrive.

I climb out and look up at Ewan’s building. My stomach is doing gymnastics, but I don’t waver. I walk up the short flight of steps and press the buzzer to his flat. There’s a security camera on the console and I know that as soon as he answers, he’ll be able to see me.

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