‘What do you mean?’
Meg rolled her eyes disbelievingly.
‘About David …’ She waited, and when I didn’t speak, continued, ‘He fucking loves you, man.’
I snorted. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Oh please, tell me you’re joking.’
‘What?’
‘Jesus, you’re serious. Anna, the boy is infatuated. Have you noticed that he can’t be more than two feet away from you at all times?’
Along with incredulity I felt a prick of pride. My voice was less convinced as I continued, ‘Yeah well, I don’t know, maybe that’s because he likes you and I’m always with you—’
‘Anna.’ Meg slapped her hands against her face. ‘Honestly, do you really not realise … You don’t. Wow. I mean you’re smart but sometimes you’re so fucking dumb. He’s in love with you. If you can’t see that then you really need to learn to read people better.’
The digits overlaying the image read 20.12. Sunday night. For the first time in my life, I had slept through an entire day.
Sipping gratefully at a glass of too-warm water from the tap, I moved from the counter towards the sofa.
Meg must have had a clean-up while I slept as the detritus that was usually scattered across the floor had been stacked into a pile in the corner of the room, the remote control neatly aligned on the coffee table in front of the sofa.
Scanning mindlessly between channels, I settled on a film I did not recognise, my thoughts gradually fading into nothingness before a harsh buzzing noise reverberated through the intercom, causing me to jump.
Pressing the volume on the television to mute, I lay back on the sofa, holding the edges of the blanket I had dragged in from the bedroom, waiting for whomever it was to give up. A moment later, though, the bell sounded again, longer this time.
Aware it might be Meg, having forgotten her keys, I reluctantly stood, brushing away the covers before moving to the window.
The light inside the flat was off. The only potential clue to my presence was the glow emanating from the screen behind me as I nudged the curtain with my fingers, pressing my cheek against the glass. Looking down, my eyes ached as they struggled to focus, my breath forming a screen on the pane in front of me.
Using my thumb, I smeared the condensation away. As if sensing my movement, his face flicked up at me.
‘Fuck.’ I pulled back.
The buzzer sounded again. I couldn’t let him see me like this, but what choice did I have? Besides, I had already made the decision as I moved across the room towards the door. Pressing my hand against my thigh, I leaned forward into the mouthpiece, pressing the button before I could change my mind.
‘Hello?’
‘Anna?’
My palms were prickling. My face, in the reflection of the screen on the intercom, was hollowed out, and tacky with sweat.
‘It’s Harry.’ There was a pause, and then, ‘It’s bloody cold out here – are you going to let me in?’
My finger hovered for a moment over the button, before pressing down again.
‘What are you watching?’ Before I had time to fully register his presence, he was moving across the room as if being here was the most natural thing in the world.
‘A film.’ I turned to the counter, pulling desperately at my hair, twisting it into a bun.
‘You alone?’
‘Yeah.’
It was too late to turn away, to shield him from the circles under my eyes, the unwashed skin.
‘Would you like tea?’
He nodded, his eyes smiling. ‘You feel like shit, right?’
‘I don’t know what happened, I’m not usually—’
‘Course you’re not.’ His laugh was familiar. ‘I’m just glad you’re OK. That’s what I came to check. The club, I couldn’t find you anywhere and then I saw Meg and she said you weren’t well and had to go home and …’
The moment our eyes locked there was a rush through my body and I instantly felt like a fool for imagining whatever it was I had imagined might have happened between him and Meg in the time that they were lost in the club.
He settled himself on the sofa as my grip tightened slightly around the handle of the kettle.
‘How did you know where I lived?’
‘You pointed it out last night, on the way back from the pub.’
‘Really?’ It was unlike me to forget things. Besides, everything else from the night before remained clear, before the club. Or did it? How would I know – was it possible to intuit where the holes in your memory lay? Harry’s claims were hardly surprising given the number of shots we’d consumed at the bar. Something about his presence had lured me into a state of off-guardedness, my usual restraint failing to kick in. The drinks had been endless, David galvanised by the presence of another male into buying round after round, each more elaborate than the last. If nothing else, this was a lesson. Or fate, perhaps. If I hadn’t passed out, would Harry have been here now? At the time, the thought struck me as reassuring.
He took the cup of tea I had made for him from my hand and our fingers touched.
‘Have you eaten?’
‘I still feel pretty sick.’
‘You’ve got to eat.’ He stood up straight, pulling his wallet from his pocket. ‘And have a drink. Trust me, it will make you feel better.’ He winked, taking a sip of his tea and passing it back to me.
‘I’ll be back in ten, buzz me in?’
I watched him pull the door closed behind him, and it was all I could do not to scream.
‘So how’s work?’
The question came out before I realised what I was saying. We were facing each other on the sofa, the box of pizza wedged between us, a half bottle of brandy on the coffee table, alongside the mug of hot chocolate he had stirred it into at first, to soften the impact.
Harry’s face straightened all of a sudden, and he shrugged. ‘Ah, you know …’
It was silly to imagine he would want to go into the details of his being fired with a relative stranger, yet I could not help feeling disappointed at his lack of confidence.
Sighing gently, he placed a half-eaten slice of Margherita back on the box, taking a swig of his drink. ‘Well, if you really want to know, I’ve been sacked.’
He continued chewing, his eyes locking on mine, and I held my body straight.
‘Are you serious?’
‘Deadly.’
‘When?’
A half-smile appeared on his face.
‘The day before I met you guys, believe it or not. That’s why I was … You know, shit-faced, on my own … That’s not my usual style, I’ll have you know. I had come in for a meeting with the editor, trying to get my job back, but what can I say, the man’s a prick. Still, he ran my story the same day though, didn’t he? Not too moral to miss out on a final scoop …’