‘I was wondering why you didn’t even have eggs or bread? That’s wild. I went to the Waitrose and got some stuff, I, like… I mean, I figured you weren’t vegetarian because you had some tuna in your cupboard? I’ve only ever seen you buy salady stuff and wine. So, I got some smoked salmon and avocados and made you eggs? I can make toast, if you want.’
‘Waitrose?’ I say. ‘Bougie. I don’t do carbs, though.’
‘I figured,’ he says. ‘Toast is optional.’ He drops a plate on the coffee table in front of me. As promised, smoked salmon, avocado, and he poached the fucking eggs. ‘Why didn’t you come to bed? I missed you this morning.’
‘Don’t you have… work?’ I say. I shuffle up on the couch, my laptop still on my stomach. He sits on the floor with his legs crossed, on the other side of the coffee table, eating poached eggs and toast. Poached.
‘Not till twelve,’ he says. ‘Uh… Sorry if this is a bit much, I was just… hungry?’ He clears his throat. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘That’s my T-shirt.’ It’s big on him, and I only own like three T-shirts. It’s white, with a print of one of my photographs on it. Flo got it for me – a birthday present.
‘I didn’t want to put my work shirt back on, sorry. Is this one of your photos?’
‘Yep.’ I move my laptop onto the floor, and replace it with breakfast, which I eat slowly and carefully. He’s squeezed lime onto the salmon and the avocado for me.
‘So, um, when do you want me to come round for the video?’
‘Eh?’
‘For the show. Hackney Space? You said you wanted to try me out for your film?’
‘Oh. Yeah just… When are you off next week?’ He grins. He’s off on Friday. ‘Then. Just come over whenever. Not before one, though. And text me first.’
‘Cool,’ he says. ‘Cool, cool, cool.’
He does the washing up when we’re finished eating. I eat the avocado and the fish, but I leave the eggs. I poke them, and watch the yolk dribble out and soak the plate. He brings me a coffee when I tell him to. He says he needs to leave soon, to pick up a clean shirt for work. There’s a love bite on his neck now, just above the bruises. Who the fuck over the age of seventeen gives someone a hickey? I remember climbing all over him, picking him up, grabbing at him.
‘Are you gunna go, then?’ I call.
‘Yeah, as soon as I’m done washing up.’
‘Just. My friend is coming over soon,’ I say. ‘So… You know. Get a wiggle on.’
‘Sure, just gimme five, I’ll be out of your hair.’ The doorbell rings. I swear under my breath. It rings again. ‘Do you want me to get it?’
‘Nope.’ I pull my robe closed, realising I’ve been lying here with one tit hanging out, and jog to the door. There’s Flo, brow crinkled. Her lip wobbles as soon as she sees me. I cut off her apology, and tell her I have company. Before I can send her upstairs, Eddie from Tesco wanders out of my kitchen, drying a pot and smiling.
‘Hey, I’m Eddie,’ he says.
‘I got you that shirt,’ says Flo. She looks at me like I’ve slapped her.
‘This is Flo,’ I say. I watch her, watching him. I see her clock the bruises on his neck. She side-eyes me.
‘Hi. It’s a cool shirt,’ says Eddie from Tesco, cheerfully. ‘Really neat.’ Flo hums, and he smiles, turning on his heel and going back to the kitchen. Flo points at her neck, and mouths what the fuck at me. I mouth fuck off at her, then bitch. She raises her eyebrows, and sits on my sofa.
Is he washing up? she mouths, making a scrubbing motion with her hands. I shrug. Oh my God, then she mimes a whip. I scowl. Sorry.
Don’t be a cunt, I mouth, and stomp into the kitchen. The checkout boy is in there, putting pots away. I tell him I can put them back, not to worry about it, to go. He asks me if everything is okay, and I say it’s fine. Honest. Me and Flo just had a bit of a falling out, and we’re trying to patch things up. He apologises – is it okay if he keeps my T-shirt for the moment? He’ll wash it and bring it back on Friday. He asks me if I want to go for lunch first.
‘Sure, whatever.’
Satisfied, he rushes ahead of me, puts on his trainers, and picks up his backpack.
‘It was nice to meet you, Flo!’ he says.
‘No, it wasn’t,’ I say. ‘See you next week, then.’
‘Maybe before then?’ I shrug. I’m slouching, so he stretches to kiss me. He aims for my lips, and lands on my jaw because I jerk my face away. He laughs, and tries again, and I sidestep over to the front door and open it.
‘I put the flowers in some water for you.’
‘Cool. Bye.’
‘Okay. Um. Bye bye!’ He steps outside, opening his mouth to say something, but the door’s already shut before he can get it out.
‘I’m not interested in your opinion,’ I say, immediately. ‘I don’t want to hear it.’
‘He seems nice. I’m glad you’re happy together,’ says Flo. ‘I’m getting choked up just thinking about it.’
‘Fuck off,’ I snarl. ‘Like you get to blank me for weeks then come in here and get judgey. Seriously, fuck off. I’m like… I’m actually foaming with you. Actually foaming.’
Then she cries.
I shout at her, she cries, she pleads, then we kiss and make up. Not literally. We both agree Flo has been very unfair, and Michael is due a bollocking. Maybe a dumping. She just wants the two of us to get along. I’m trying – and she knows I try. She knows, but he’s so jealous.
‘He seems super controlling.’
‘Um… Like… It’s… It is genuinely coming from a place of concern,’ she says, her nose stuffy. ‘He knows I’m here. He’s not happy about it, but he isn’t like you can’t see her, or anything. It’s difficult. I don’t like being stuck between the two of you.’
‘I’m not doing anything,’ I say. ‘It’s him.’
‘I know,’ says Flo. ‘I don’t want to talk about him anymore. I just want you to know…’ Her voice breaks. ‘I love you, and I’m sorry.’ She sniffs. ‘Can I have a hug?’
So I hug her. I’m feeling very generous today. She wipes her eyes, and then tells me to dish about my weird choke sex.
I hate it when Flo talks about sex. Basic feminist internet discourse has made her think she’s sex positive, comfortable discussing the minutiae of her sex life and other people’s sex lives. She isn’t. I know she isn’t, because I’ve fucked her, so I don’t know why she even pretends with me.
There was a time when I was still with Frank – Flo had invited herself along to drinks in Soho with us. I told her I needed to nip into a sex shop to pick up a new vibrator, because the motor had gone on mine the previous evening. She flinched when I said vibrator, and I told her she could wait outside, or go, but she insisted on coming along. ‘Maybe I want to get something,’ she’d said, with the same forced, casual tone she’d used to say weird choke sex a moment ago.