I let the evening wash over me for a while, and because they’re all so chatty, nobody really notices that I’m not saying much. Emma hands me a drink. She’s still in work clothes – very neat in expensive-looking boots and a shirt dress printed all over with tiny foxes.
‘So. When are you joining us?’ she asks.
She’s very formal, I think, watching her as I take a sip. Alex and Becky have whizzed up some sort of pomegranate cocktail with the ice and tequila he brought. It tastes like something you’d drink by the pool, instead of on a rainy December evening in London.
‘Not until after New Year. I’ve got a holiday booked with friends – we’re going skiing.’
‘Ooh, lovely. Christmas skiing.’ She looks impressed.
‘It’s not quite as fancy as it sounds. My friend Gen got a last-minute deal through a contact of hers, so we’re going to Val d’Isère on a coach.’
Gen’s friend – an actor, like her – was working in a call centre for a travel company when the deal had come through. We’d been making promises to each other for years that we’d go skiing again, after a school trip to Andorra a million years ago, and when this came up it felt like the perfect time. As soon as I’d said yes, the prospect of living every moment on a twenty-one-hour-long coach ride had started to pall slightly, but that was a minor detail.
‘Ouch.’ Emma looked sympathetic. ‘That’s a whole day on a coach. Still, it’ll be worth it for all the apres-ski and the gorgeous posh ski totty. You might meet a millionaire.’
I steal a quick look in Alex’s direction, thinking that actually, I’d be quite happy with someone like him, thank you very much, but give Emma a smile of agreement. ‘You never know.’
Becky fiddles with her phone, changing the music. She’s wrapped some silvery Christmas ribbon around her head like a halo, and starts singing along as Michael Bublé begins crooning from the speaker on the shelf above the sink.
‘Oh God, Becks,’ I groan. ‘Do we have to have Bublé again?’
‘It’s Christmas,’ she says, pulling me up by the waist and waltzing me out of the kitchen door and into the hall. She puts a finger to her lips, shushing me before I can protest. The hall is painted an odd shade, somewhere between violet and grey, and hung with a collection of floral paintings that must’ve belonged to Becky’s grandparents. There’s a huge spiky-leaved plant towering over us in the corner by the stairs. I dodge sideways before Becky waltzes me straight into it.
‘What d’you reckon?’ Her voice is an urgent whisper.
‘They seem nice.’ I try to sound non-committal when what I want to know is why on earth she’d omitted to mention that one of our flatmates was ridiculously gorgeous. ‘How’d you know Emma again?’ I ask.
‘Oh, she’s one of those friend-of-a-friend people. You know, you’re in the same pubs, vaguely know each other through a WhatsApp group, that sort of thing. I can’t remember how we met in the first place. But she was looking for somewhere because the girl she was flat-sharing was moving her boyfriend in, and I had one room left. I’d already sorted you and Alex—’ my stomach does a disobedient sort of swooping thing ‘—and it just seemed like she’d be a nice addition. Everyone’s pretty chilled out, so it should be quite a nice laid-back sort of house.’
‘She seems nice,’ I say, lamely.
‘God, I must pee,’ says Becky, and leaves me standing in the hallway.
I hadn’t noticed, but the carpet looks like someone threw up on a giraffe – it’s yellow and brown with greenish swirls and it clashes so badly with the lilac walls that it must have been the height of fashion at some point in the 1970s. Nobody could choose that colour scheme just randomly, surely?
I head back to the kitchen, realising that I’m feeling a bit fuzzy round the edges. Emma’s kicked off her boots now, and she’s sitting at the table chatting animatedly to Alex, who is sitting opposite. He pushes out the dining chair next to him, beckoning me to join them.
‘Come and get something else to eat.’
He passes me a plate stacked high with tortillas. I think perhaps it’ll soak up some of the alcohol.
‘So how do you know Becky?’ He stretches across the table for the cheese, placing it between me and Emma.
I take a tortilla and spread it with sour cream. ‘I feel like I should make something up that doesn’t make me sound as tragic as this will.’
Alex raises an eyebrow. He really does have a very nice face. Emma gets up and goes and throws a load of ice and stuff in the blender, shouting, ‘Sorry,’ as she turns it on, drowning out my words as I’m about to start explaining.
Emma tips a pink slush into our glasses and Alex tastes it, pulling a face. ‘Bloody hell, that’s like rocket fuel. I’ll make the next one, or we’ll all end up with alcohol poisoning.’
‘We met at uni,’ I say, starting again. ‘I was crying in the loos because I’d just dumped my boyfriend back home for someone who’d promptly cheated on me a week later.’
Emma laughs, but not unkindly. ‘Oh God, we’ve all been there.’ She picks at some slices of red pepper while I’m stacking a tortilla wrap with chicken and cheese and more sour cream, just for good measure. I roll it up and realise there’s no way of eating it that doesn’t involve half of it falling down the front of my top and the other half spilling all over my chin, so I end up sort of dangling it in mid-air.
‘So I took her out, bought her three vodka and limes, and told her the secret was to go out and lay his ghost,’ Becky chimes in. I hadn’t even noticed her coming back.
‘The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else?’ Emma says, taking a drink. She’s one of those people who manages to just radiate cool. If I’d said that I’d have blushed extravagantly and probably got my words all tangled up into the bargain.
‘I think so,’ I say. ‘I wish I could remember lines like that. I never think of the right thing to say until hours later, when I’m lying in bed reliving the whole conversation.’
‘God, me too.’ Alex looks at me and does an upside-down sort of smile, and the sides of his eyes crinkle a bit as he looks directly at me. I feel like we’re on the same team for a second. It’s nice. He lifts up the tequila bottle, waving it in Emma’s direction. ‘Oh go on,’ he says. ‘Throw caution to the wind. D’you want to make another one of those – whatever it was you just made?’
I feel like the world is starting to sway gently – or maybe I am. But I’m just the right sort of happily pissed where I feel like the edges have been blurred a bit and I don’t feel as self-conscious as I usually do.
The other half a bottle of tequila later and we’ve managed to persuade Becky to put on something other than Christmas music. We’re all sitting round the table, which is scattered with empty plates. The window isn’t even open, but we can hear a gang of teenagers passing, singing Christmas carols and laughing loudly. I get up and look outside, marvelling at the idea that outside there are eight million people, all living London lives, and in just a couple of weeks I’m going to be one of them. It’s just an ordinary street, but to me it feels full of magic and promise.