‘I can’t . . . live here,’ I manage. ‘If that’s actually what you mean?’
Marcus swigs his beer, throwing himself back on the sofa. ‘You absolutely can live here. Look.’ He wipes his mouth. ‘We both know London and your dad’s company isn’t the right move for you, and fuck knows you don’t want to go live at home in Wiltshire. Where else are you going to write your life’s opus?’
‘I’m moving to Chichester,’ I say. ‘I told you. I’m going to get a job there. Live with Addie’s parents until I find a place I like.’
Marcus snorts. ‘Shut up, you pillock,’ he says. ‘You’re not actually doing that. You can’t move in with the parents of some girl you screwed this summer. In Chichester.’
I recoil. The cold beer sweats in my palm.
‘She’s not just some girl. It’s Addie.’
Marcus turns his face away for a moment. He’s almost finished his beer already; he bounces up, heading to the fridge for the next one.
‘How long have you known Addie?’
‘You know how long.’
‘Just answer me.’
‘I met her in early July.’
‘And?’
‘It’s January. So I’ve known her . . . six months.’
‘And how many days have you spent with Addie?’ Marcus’s bottle of beer hisses as he flicks its lid off.
‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘Except it does, clearly. Otherwise we’d still be marrying girls we met one time at a country dance like people did in the olden days. We’ve evolved past that, Dylan. Nowadays we date. We shop around. If we really like someone, we spend more time with them, then we move in with them a few years down the line. Then . . . maybe, if we’ve lost the will to live or whatever it is that compels people to settle down, we marry them. We don’t rearrange our lives because of a good shag.’
I put my beer down, then pick it up again and reach for a coaster. My heart is thudding against my ribs.
‘She’s not just a good shag. I love her.’ My voice sounds strangled. I push my hair out of my eyes; it sticks damply to my forehead.
Marcus growls under his breath and throws his hands in the air, then sucks at his beer as it begins to froth over.
‘Dyl, I get it. She’s gorgeous, she’s smart, she doesn’t take shit from you. I get it, believe me. But Addie . . . she’s not right for you.’ He runs a hand through his hair. His movements are even more frantic and erratic than usual; I wonder if he’s taken something. ‘She’s not right.’
I gulp down three cold mouthfuls of beer. My head is spinning. ‘She is,’ I say. ‘She’s perfect.’
‘Stop that,’ Marcus shouts, and I jump, beer running down the back of my hand. ‘Don’t you see what you’re doing? You’re turning her into something she’s not. You don’t understand her. She’s not your beautiful muse, Dylan, she’s messy and dark and raw. She’s a disaster waiting to happen. She’s got power and she doesn’t even know it yet, you know? She’s like . . . she’s untapped.’
I stare at him. He’s pacing now, tugging at his curls.
‘She’s not right for you,’ he says. ‘OK?’
‘Well, I think she is,’ I say, a little helpless. He’s definitely high – I don’t know how I didn’t clock it earlier. He hasn’t even seen Addie since France, and we hardly even talk about her – I can’t fathom when he could have got around to deciding she’s so catastrophic for me.
I watch him try to gather himself, pausing mid step and pivoting on his toes to look at me.
‘Role reversal,’ he says. ‘What if it was me doing this? With her? What would you say if I was changing my whole life and being a different person and idolising this girl? You and India would be teaming up for a full-scale intervention and you know it.’
I pause. That’s actually true, to be quite honest. But I’m not Marcus. He falls in and out of love with women the way he falls in and out of love with everything: rapidly, thoughtlessly, with flair. Whereas I . . . I’ve never felt this way before.
‘I know this maybe looks – fast – or a bit spontaneous, but I might as well be in Chichester as anywhere while I figure out what I want to do, and . . .’
Marcus stretches his arms out. ‘Fine. You can do the whole buying-a-flat-in-Chichester thing if you must. But crash here while you’re looking. Don’t tell me squeezing into Addie’s parents’ house is better than this.’