I turn around to look at my new housemates. Emma’s on her phone again, absent-mindedly twirling a lock of hair around her finger. I notice she has long, manicured red nails.
Alex looks up at me and grins. ‘D’you think you can cope with living with us lot?’ He starts stacking plates.
‘No,’ says Becky, firmly, tapping him on the hand. ‘I’ll do it in the morning. This is a get-to-know-each-other evening. When we’re all in and settled, we can sort out a kitchen rota and all that boring stuff, but tonight is margaritas. The night is young. Let’s play the name game.’
‘Oh my God.’ I roll my eyes at her. There’s a point in every evening when she insists we do this. Before anyone else realises what’s happening, she’s got a packet of Post-it Notes out and she’s handing them out. ‘Everyone has to write the name of someone famous and stick it on the forehead of the person to their left.’
‘And to think Rob’s missing this,’ says Alex, pressing the Post-it Note to my forehead. ‘D’you want another drink?’
I feel distinctly head-spinny already, but I nod. This is my new London life. I can drink tequila and have avocado on toast and be cool. Well, cool-ish. Cooler than I was living back home. Not that there’s anything wrong with back home, of course. I swallow a little gulp of sadness that sneaks up on me out of nowhere – just thinking about leaving Nanna Beth back there and me being all the way up here. She’s already lost Grandpa, and now I’m going, too.
‘Oh my God,’ says Becky, seeing the name written on my forehead. She snorts with laughter.
‘Am I a woman?’ I say, when it’s my turn.
‘You’re a phenomenon, I think you’d say,’ Alex replies, grinning at me.
Emma guesses hers almost straight away (I think she’s pleased she got to be Meghan Markle) and in no time there’s just me and Alex, trying desperately to work out who we are.
‘Do I have a unique blond hairstyle?’
We snort with laughter.
‘Am I a megalomaniac? Am I the best president ever in the history of presidents? Is this the biggest Post-it Note, bigger and better than any Post-it Notes that have ever been before?’
Alex has already guessed, but he’s making us laugh so hard with his terrible Donald Trump impressions that we’re all doubled over, and mine falls off my forehead and onto the ground where I can’t help sneaking a peek.
‘Am I … Kim Kardashian?’ I sit up, triumphant, waving the Post-it Note in the air.
‘Yes.’ Becky takes it from me. ‘You’re totally cheating, but you are definitely Kim Kardashian.’
‘And I am definitely going to bed.’ Emma pushes her chair away from the table and stands up, looking at the kitchen clock. ‘It’s almost eleven, and I’ve got a killer day tomorrow. Back-to-back meetings.’
‘But how can you leave us when we’re just getting started?’ Alex is standing by the sink now, brandishing a bottle of Prosecco and some sort of pink liqueur. ‘I was going to make one of my signature cocktails.’ He rummages in the fridge. I can’t help but notice his nice arms again – I’ve always had a thing about nice arms, the kind that look like they’d wrap you up and make you feel safe. Oh, and the way that when he reaches up to get some orange juice from the top shelf his T-shirt rucks up, showing a strip of faintly tanned skin.
But I am absolutely not looking at any of this, because I am here to work, and he is my new housemate, and there will be none of that here. I blame the tequila for making my imagination run away with me.
But if I was looking …
‘Night, all.’ Emma picks up her phone and heads off. ‘Have a great holiday, Jess. See you in the New Year.’
‘You got any more ice, Becky?’ Alex asks as he looks in the freezer.
‘Nope.’
I know she’s told us not to clear up, but I’m absent-mindedly piling plates and tipping leftover salsa into the bin. It’s a distraction. The alternative is sitting with my chin in my hands staring with undisguised admiration at Alex, and that wouldn’t be a good look.
‘God I’m dying for some chocolate. I tell you what, I’ll go get some and grab some ice from Tesco Express while I’m at it.’
‘We’ll clean up.’ Alex stands up from the freezer and turns around. ‘And then I’ll make cocktails. You don’t think Rob will mind that we’ve borrowed his blender thing to crush ice?’
I pull a face. ‘I dunno. I think it’s knives chefs are funny about. Anyway, that thing’s a monster. As long as we clean it out, I’m sure he won’t object.’
Alex pokes an experimental finger at the huge behemoth of a blender standing on the worktop. It roars into life for a second and he steps backwards.
‘Bloody hell. That thing could take your arm off.’
‘Back in a sec,’ Becky says, wrapping a scarf around her face and pulling on a bobble hat.
‘Don’t freeze,’ I say, looking out the window. ‘Oh look, the rain’s turned to snow.’
‘Really?’ Alex and Becky join me, looking out. The snow is falling in flurries, swirling in the spotlight glow of the street lamp outside the front of our new home. It’s disappearing as soon as it hits the wet pavement, but it looks gorgeously Christmassy and romantic nonetheless. For a moment we all stand in silence, watching it, all lost in our own thoughts.
Michael Blooming Bublé is playing in the background again.
It only takes me and Alex a moment to clear up the table, shoving the rubbish and recycling in the bins, and loading up the ancient dishwasher.
‘My last place didn’t have one,’ Alex says, unwrapping a dishwasher tablet and shoving it in. ‘This thing might be prehistoric, but it’s a luxury. No more waking up in the morning to last night’s dishes.’
‘Were you in a house-share before?’ I ask.
He pauses for a second. ‘Mmm, sort of.’
I get the feeling there’s more to it than he’s saying, but I don’t want to push it.
‘And you used to work with Becky?’
I am standing by the sink, rinsing my hands, aware he’s standing close beside me and putting glasses back on the shelf. I can feel the heat of his body and it makes the tiny hairs on my arms stand up. This is the tequila talking, I think. Tequila, and the fact that I have been single for a year and the only reason I fancy him is because I’ve been told there’s no relationships allowed in this house so my brain is being contrary. He is Alex, a friend of my friend Becky, and my new housemate. And he is one hundred per cent off limits. I take a step sideways, drying my hands on the dishtowel and spending an excessive amount of time hanging it back up, neatly.
‘I used to work with Becky, yeah,’ says Alex, after a long pause.
I turn around.
‘Turns out that thirty is the perfect time to have my first oh my God what am I doing with my life crisis.’
I find myself smiling. ‘Me too.’
‘So she’s found herself a houseful of strays. That’s very Becky, isn’t it? She likes to think she’s all corporate law and hard as nails, but I reckon she’s just as much of an old hippy as her mum. So what brings you here?’ he asks.