Page 73 of Choose Us
“Duh, there’s a flight tracker online. I’ve been excited for your return.”
“Can we not talk about work though? Just for a day. I’d like nothing more than to sleep, eat and—”
“Come out for a drink with me?” she interrupted excitedly.
“I was going tosay shower.”
I dodged a woman with a double buggy and a suitcase taking up the width of four people. The weather in London had been exceeding twenty-five degrees for the past two weeks. Today was no different. It was a nice welcome home.
“Please? Just one?”
“I’m tired.” I yawned. “And it’s never just one. When was the last time we went out foronedrink?”
“We do it all the time.” Paula scoffed.
“A coffee break at work doesn’t count.”
“It’s still a drink,” she said, all smug. “Listen, I know you will have taken full advantage of the bed in first class, so don’t give me the whole I’m tired speech.”
I had actually, for about four hours. It was bliss, but I’d travelled through the night and four hours sleep wasnot enough.
“A little, but my mind has been too preoccupied to sleep.” I realised what I’d said as soon as I’d said it. I’d given her a way in. I loved Paula, but I wanted to get home, kick off my shoes, launch my suitcase in the spare room to deal with another day, and curl up in front of the TV with a long stemmed, large glass of wine and a boxset, ideally something scary or funny, not romantic—God no. That would be bad.
“Exactly, so there’s no point lying awake trying to sleep when you can comeand see me.”
“Fine. No work talk please. And no Brooke talk, or Francesca talk.” I didn’t have the energy for any of the above.
She tutted. “Well, what am I supposed to ask youabout then?”
“The weather, the news, Netflix, Jeremey’s latest mishaps. Anything that doesn’t give me anxiety or make me want to cry.”
Basically, the boring stuff.
“Right, well I’ll not talk aboutThis Is Usthen.” I assumed she was referring to the TV show. How many episodes are in that show? I wondered. She’s been binge watching itfor months.
“Are you still crying at the acting? Or the fact you’ll never be married to Justin Hartley?”
“Both. I watched three episodes last night and no word of a lie, it was like something out of a nineties rom-com. I sat with a box of tissues, some ice cream, and wiped the tears away with the old sweater I was wearing from my university days. You should have seen me; it was a picture. Oh god, this one scene was unbelievable. I’ll not tell you because I don’t want to ruin it if you ever watch it, but my god, my heart broke.” She fake cried on the other end of the line. I could comfortably say I wouldn’t be watching it anytime soon. I needed to stop crying, not cry more.
“Why watch it then? If it breaks your heart and makes you cry like a baby.” I laughed.
“Because it’s INCREDIBLE,” she yelled the last part so loudly I had to pull the phone awayfrom my ear.
“I’ll take your word for it. Where am I meeting you?”
I felt bad for sounding unenthusiastic. Any other day I would’ve been happy to meet Paula and “chew the fat” as she so often said—I really hated thatexpression.
Today was different.
Today was glum.
“The Botanist?” she suggested.
“The bar by Sloan Square?”
“Yes, that’s the one. We went once with the work gang. It’s mine and Jeremy’s new favourite spot.”
“That’s where I had the strawberry mojito isn’t it?”
