Page 59 of The Wake-Up Call

“Because I say so.”

Her stare turns into a glare. I suppress a smile.

“Do you have any sportswear?”

“Of course I have sportswear,” she says, looking slightly embarrassed. “I’m not—I do exercisesometimes.”

I think about her comment about my type of woman—their “tiny gymwear”—and realise I am being an idiot.

“We are going to the gym because it’s how I unwind,” I tell her. “It’s not about you. You don’t need to exercise. I’m not saying you need to exercise. I’m not trying to say that.”

Her expression warms a little as I squirm in her doorway.

“Stay there,” she says, turning her back on me. “I’m not inviting you in. I’ve watched way too many episodes ofThe Vampire Diariesto fall for that.”

I lean against the door frame as she closes the bedroom door. Her flat is the top floor of a converted house. She’s styled it in calm pastels: a fluffy cream rug, a pale blue throw over the back of the mint-coloured sofa. The decor reminds me vaguely of an old-fashioned British sweetshop.

Izzy emerges from the bedroom. She’s in gym gear now. Tight grey leggings and a pale yellow crop top, with red and orange stripes in her hair.

She looks gorgeous. For a moment I wish for the feeling I had before our trip to London—the way I used to be able to look at her and think,Yes, she’s beautiful, but she’s a pain in the arse.

I still think those things, but suddenly I also think about how badly I want to hold her. Sling my arm over her shoulder as we head out the door. Kiss her like it’s something we do all the time.

She bends to pull some trainers out from behind the door and hauls an oversized bag onto her shoulder. At my enquiring look,she says, “I’ve packed for every eventuality. I have a feeling you have some odd activities lined up for me.”

“We’re just going to work,” I say, amused. “This isn’t a stag do.”

“Mm-hmm,” she says, locking the door to her flat behind her. “Well, since we’ve been working together five days a week, I’ve been dunked in a swimming pool, danced with strangers at a divorce party, and fallen on my face in the snow outside a Papa Johns in Woking.”

I raise my eyebrows as we make our way down to the street.

“I didn’t know about that.”

“Oh. Right. Well, yeah, my walk in Woking wasn’t that fun.”

There is a stocky New Forest pony nibbling at the hedge by the side of the road. Neither of us remarks upon it. When I first moved to the New Forest, I was astonished to find myself caught in a traffic jam caused by a gaggle of unfazed ponies, but I’m used to them now. They roam wild around here—it’s no stranger than seeing a pigeon.

“God, your car is so shiny,” Izzy says as we approach it. “Do you polish it?”

I do, actually, but I know Izzy well enough to realise I’m better off not confessing to that. This car is my pride and joy. She’s third-hand and has seventy thousand miles on the clock; I fixed her up myself, painstakingly, with help from a friend who lives on my road. Now she looks as good as new. As a child, I always dreamed of living in England and having a car like this. Back then, it had been because I wanted to be James Bond, and didn’t know the difference between a £200,000 Aston Martin and a fixed-up 55-reg BMW. Now, it’s because of what it means: the freedom to live and work in this strange, wet, awkward little country that I have fallen so unexpectedly in love with.

I open the passenger door for Izzy. She looks surprised, and then wary.

“Why are you being nice?” she says.

“It is all part of the grand plan to torture you for a day,” I say, slamming the car door behind her. Her expectations of me are so low. But I can hardly blame her. We have baited each other for months on end—I’ve been petty, difficult, argumentative.

I’ve been just like my uncle, in fact. The thought is painful to swallow.

As I drive us to the gym, Izzy looks at something on her phone, biting her bottom lip. I glance across at her.

“Yet another no for the emerald ring,” she says. “These last two are so tricky.”

“You haven’t given up, then? After Graham Rogers?”

“Absolutely not. One bad egg does not make a bad egg box, you know?”

I don’t know if this is an odd Britishism or an Izzy-ism, but best to just nod.

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