‘Oh, shit. Oh, hell, Jane, but you don’t need to go away, do you? You can stay here, have some free time and …’ His voice tails off. Then his eyes twinkle at me. ‘We can play with kittens?’
‘What is it with you and kittens?’ I frown at him, suddenly worried that he has some unhealthy fetish and I’ve got him all wrong.
He sighs. ‘I was thinking about you, not me. But hands up I’m man enough to admit that I need cuddles and cute as much as the next person.’
‘Amy was quite cute …’ I pause. ‘And cuddly.’ Amy was the girl he brought back a couple of weeks ago, and boy was she into cuddles. In a man-eating, down the throat, kiss your face off, crawl all over you like a rash kind of way.
I’d hidden in the bedroom in case she’d accidentally got confused and clambered over me as well. And because it was making me feel a bit queasy.
‘Cuddly as a polar bear.’ He pulls a funny face and does a clawing gesture. Girls flock to Freddie like bees to a honey pot, but he rations the stuff, then tells them to buzz off after a very short time. If he hits three weeks with the same girl I start to get scared she’ll be moving in, or he’ll be moving out. Three weeks for Freddie is heavy. But the moment they get familiar with the contents of our cupboards, he starts the retreat. There was one girl, Annie, who he seemed to like; he ended up rearranging all our food (I nearly had an incident when I grabbed the coffee and it turned out it was gravy granules) so that he could kid himself that she hadn’t got her feet under the table. I’ve not got to the bottom of it yet, but I will. ‘But kittens don’t come with strings attached, do they?’
‘I hope not.’ Although strings might have been handy on the photoshoot front.
‘You can just chill with them, they have no expectations, they’re not planning the future you’ve not agreed to.’
‘Just their next meal.’
We both contemplate a relationship with a cat. Then I snap out of it. If I’m not careful it will be slippers and cocoa next.
‘I can’t have a staycation. I told Coral I was going to Ibiza, and she lives on social media so I’ve got to post photos on Facebook because if she gets the slightest hint that I’m still here, or pissed off or sulking then she’ll be onto me in an instant. She’ll be gloating, making my life even more of a misery, then she’ll probably sack me for being a wuss.’ I grimace. ‘She hates wusses.’ Coral loves to be in control, she’s an out and out bully, but she likes to think she’s controlling people with backbone, not easy targets. God, the woman is totally power crazy. And deluded.
Freddie munches on some pizza for a few minutes. Then swills it down with his beer. ‘Hate to tell you, but this anchovy idea is wrong on so many levels.’
‘Name one.’
‘Salt. Too much.’ He tries another bit, flicking the fishy bit off onto my slice. We’re like an old married couple, swapping the bits we don’t like. ‘I’ve got it!’ He sits upright, abruptly. ‘We’ll go to Brighton.’
‘I’ve got it’ and ‘Brighton’ aren’t two phrases I’d normally put together.
‘Come again?’
‘My parents place. Come on,’ he nudges me, ‘you’d be doing me a favour, it’s boring going on my own.’ I don’t know that much personal stuff about Freddie, but I do know that his parents are currently swanning around in their villa in Italy and his good-son duties including regular trips to check up on their house. Tidy up, move post, weed the path and generally make sure it doesn’t look neglected.
When we first lived together, his periodic disappearing act had intrigued me. Me and Rach had invented all kinds of elaborate scenarios – like he was a spy on a mission, or had a secret wife and family, or had a cannabis den.
Then I spoiled things by asking him, because I’m nosy.
I mean, Brighton is a bit of a killer on the exciting escapades front, doesn’t exactly say 007 or Mission Impossible, does it? Though I’m sure it’s a lovely place. And lively. And the home of DJ’s and raves and stuff.
‘We’ll use it as a hideaway, then you won’t get spotted and you can pretend you’re in Ibiza.’
‘I can?’
‘You can.’
‘Er, there are holes in that solution. Like no sun and a pier.’
He winks. ‘Post photos of Spain – I won’t tell if you don’t. I’ve got some rave ones from when I was a student.’
‘Oh, Freddie.’ I can’t help myself. It’s the wine and the emotion and the relief. I fling myself at him. He freezes for a second.
We do occasional clap on the back type hugs, but not this type. Then he pats my back awkwardly, in a there-there kind of way, then unexpectedly hugs me properly. Then disengages. We both launch ourselves at the pizza, gorging on chunks of stuffed crust, and surreptitiously edge an inch or two away from each other suddenly mega aware that our knees had been touching.
I clear my throat.
‘So, er, you got pissed in Ibiza? You went to raves?’
‘All-nighters, making the moves, babe.’ He makes a few very strange moves.
‘I think it might be better to stop doing that.’ I giggle.
‘You’ve seen nothing until you’ve seen techno, Freddie.’
‘Haven’t you got to go to work?’
‘I’m owed time off, and besides, it’ll be good going together. It’s fun. You really do need to tell that cow where to get off though.’
‘I know.’ I nod. ‘I know, and I will, just not yet.’ I’ve only just got used to the idea that Andy could change my life like he did and that I could do nothing about it. Right now, I’ve got a reliable income and a home I like, I’m not ready to risk losing it all.
‘I know. You’ll get there.’ He winks, then holds his beer bottle up. ‘What do you say? Brighton then?’
‘Brighton.’ We clink.
Desperate times require desperate measures – so, Brighton it is.
I need to pack for Brighton, and right now I’m thinking a rucksack with spare jeans and a few T-shirts is all I need.
This is partly because, 1. it is probably all I need, and, 2. I don’t want to have to unzip my flaming suitcase and face all my lovely US-bound clobber, which I still haven’t unpacked.
I’m not quite ready for a reminder that I should soon be heading to the airport for a long flight, and bubbly, and hilarity and jetlag and the promise of NEW YORK (yes, I know I’ve gone shouty) and cocktails and, well, New York.
‘Jane, door for you!’
Freddie’s yell stops me giving my innocent suitcase the evil eye. Sugar, I’m not supposed to be here! I’m supposed to have jetted off. Why is anybody at the door for me? Unless Coral actually has realised not even she can be that evil, and has sent a taxi?
I realise I’m flapping round, spinning in a circle. Trying to decide if I should dive in the wardrobe or under the bed, or if Freddie will come in after me and I’ll look even more foolish than I already feel.
I stop.
Stop panicking. That’s tomorrow.