Even though right now that idea feels kind of exhausting.
Lucas
It’s Thursday—my day. Lucas Day. My chance to change izzy’s mind.
I arrive at her flat at six a.m. It takes her quite some time to open the door.
“Oh my God, what is wrong with you,” she says, already walking back inside.
I take this as an invitation to follow, but she turns on her heels and holds out a hand.
“No crossing the threshold,” she says.
“It’s Thursday,” I tell her, stopping in the doorway, holding the door open with one arm.
“Yes, I’m aware.”
She’s in pyjamas—pink ones with spots. Her hair is pulled up in a topknot and she has the same adorably ruffled look she had that morning in Woking. She fetches herself a bowl of cereal and starts eating, standing in the middle of her flat in a lost sort of way, as if she can’t figure out how she’s ended up there.
“My day,” I prompt her. “Because I won.”
“But why are you here so early?” Her tone is slightly plaintive.
“We’re going to the gym.”
“The gym?” She spins. “Why?”
“Because I say so.”
Her stare turns into a glare. I suppress a smile.
“Do you have any sportswear?”
“Of course I have sportswear,” she says, looking slightly embarrassed. “I’m not—I do exercise sometimes.”
I think about her comment about my type of woman—their “tiny gymwear”—and realise I am being an idiot.
“We are going to the gym because it’s how I unwind,” I tell her. “It’s not about you. You don’t need to exercise. I’m not saying you need to exercise. I’m not trying to say that.”
Her expression warms a little as I squirm in her doorway.
“Stay there,” she says, turning her back on me. “I’m not inviting you in. I’ve watched way too many episodes of The Vampire Diaries to fall for that.”
I lean against the door frame as she closes the bedroom door. Her flat is the top floor of a converted house. She’s styled it in calm pastels: a fluffy cream rug, a pale blue throw over the back of the mint-coloured sofa. The decor reminds me vaguely of an old-fashioned British sweetshop.
Izzy emerges from the bedroom. She’s in gym gear now. Tight grey leggings and a pale yellow crop top, with red and orange stripes in her hair.
She looks gorgeous. For a moment I wish for the feeling I had before our trip to London—the way I used to be able to look at her and think, Yes, she’s beautiful, but she’s a pain in the arse.
I still think those things, but suddenly I also think about how badly I want to hold her. Sling my arm over her shoulder as we head out the door. Kiss her like it’s something we do all the time.
She bends to pull some trainers out from behind the door and hauls an oversized bag onto her shoulder. At my enquiring look, she says, “I’ve packed for every eventuality. I have a feeling you have some odd activities lined up for me.”
“We’re just going to work,” I say, amused. “This isn’t a stag do.”
“Mm-hmm,” she says, locking the door to her flat behind her. “Well, since we’ve been working together five days a week, I’ve been dunked in a swimming pool, danced with strangers at a divorce party, and fallen on my face in the snow outside a Papa Johns in Woking.”
I raise my eyebrows as we make our way down to the street.
“I didn’t know about that.”
“Oh. Right. Well, yeah, my walk in Woking wasn’t that fun.”
There is a stocky New Forest pony nibbling at the hedge by the side of the road. Neither of us remarks upon it. When I first moved to the New Forest, I was astonished to find myself caught in a traffic jam caused by a gaggle of unfazed ponies, but I’m used to them now. They roam wild around here—it’s no stranger than seeing a pigeon.
“God, your car is so shiny,” Izzy says as we approach it. “Do you polish it?”
I do, actually, but I know Izzy well enough to realise I’m better off not confessing to that. This car is my pride and joy. She’s third-hand and has seventy thousand miles on the clock; I fixed her up myself, painstakingly, with help from a friend who lives on my road. Now she looks as good as new. As a child, I always dreamed of living in England and having a car like this. Back then, it had been because I wanted to be James Bond, and didn’t know the difference between a ?200,000 Aston Martin and a fixed-up 55-reg BMW. Now, it’s because of what it means: the freedom to live and work in this strange, wet, awkward little country that I have fallen so unexpectedly in love with.