Page 29 of The One That I Want

‘Hear that? That distinction? Talk to – yes. Complain to – no.’

‘And when everything goes pear-shaped?’

‘What could possibly go pear-shaped with him?’ She nods at the photo.

‘Oh, I don’t know. He could have bad breath or be a rubbish driver or?—’

‘Are we having another round?’ she asks, cutting me off to save me from myself.

We’re at my favourite bar for after-work drinks – Gin Palace – only mine’s half undrunk because I’ve been reading Harrison’s biography on repeat, fixating on the words ‘wants to be a father’, which appears on page two. It’s a weighty –andenticing – addition to the short, snappy summary on the top of page one.

I eye Tiggy’s empty glass. ‘I’ll happily stay for another, but only if you’re having a proper cocktail and not just a G&T.’

‘I like G&Ts.’

‘So do I, but they do make specialty cocktails here, you know.’

‘Are you doing that thing where you’re a bossy cow because everything else feels out of control?’

I break into a grin. ‘You’re lucky we’re best friends,’ I say, shaking my head.

‘No,you’relucky we’re best friends,’ she says, returning my serve with a winner.

I wave over the bartender and order Tiggy another G&T and a Convent for myself – a sweet, fizzy cocktail with a hint of ginger.

I take a sip of the cocktail in front of me, my gaze sliding back to the photo. I’m guessing that if Harrison works as a voiceactor, he must have a deep, velvety voice to match those looks, something I’m especially drawn to.

An unbidden memory pops into my mind of Darren, the bloke I dated throughout my final year of uni. He wasn’t especially good-looking, but he was clever and funny and had the sexiest voice I’d ever heard. I would have married him had he asked. I’m glad he didn’t, though. He was sleeping with two other girls at the same time he was dating me, something Tiggy discovered one night at a party across town.

I’d been so cross with her for telling me, which is ridiculous, of course. With a nudge from my mum, who was providing post-break-up sanctuary by ferrying toast and tea up to my childhood bedroom where I was wallowing, my rift with Tiggy didn’t even last the weekend. By late Sunday afternoon, I was on the doorstep of her share flat, tail between my legs and bearing a bottle of her favourite plonk as an apology. Typical Tiggy, she called me a ‘daft cow’, hooked an arm around my neck in one of her I-am-so-much-taller-than-you hugs and invited me to share the wine while we bitched about Darren.

The realisation hits hard: Darren was my last serious boyfriend. Ican’thave been (practically) single for twelve whole years! I count back. Yep. Twelve years of the occasional date and the odd hook-up. And I mean ‘odd’ literally as well as figuratively, because there was a bloke called Miles who was visiting Tiggy’s friend, Trav, from out of town and, foolishly, I thought it was a good idea to take him home after a very boozy night at the pub. I woke up the next morning and he’d stolen my towels. All of them, including the flannel. Maybe he was setting up house.

I’ve been in my head for minutes now and look over at Tiggy, who’s scrolling Instagram.

‘I’m not great company tonight, am I?’

She angles herself towards me. ‘Eh,’ she says with a shrug, ‘you’re fine. I do have a question for you, though.’

We’re interrupted by our drinks arriving and we both thank the bartender.

‘What?’ I ask when we’re alone again. I down the rest of my first cocktail and slide the empty glass away from me.

‘Just…’ Something in the tone of Tiggy’s voice makes my head snap up. She meets my eye. ‘What happens to the assignment if you and Harrison hit it off and fall madly in love?’

‘Oh.’ I know immediately what she means, and I’m surprised I didn’t consider this before.Bollocks!

‘And not just because of that,’ she says, pointing to Harrison’s biography. ‘But because you’re amazing and he’ll adore you.’

‘I, er… Well, thank you.’

‘’Course,’ she says with a shrug. ‘But you didn’t answer my question. Do you have to keep dating blokes you’renotin love with?’

‘I hadn’t thought of that. I have no bloody idea!’ I wail.

Her brows lift and she presses her lips together, telegraphing something that resembles sympathy – or is that pity?

Poppy

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