Really, I’m not sure I did ever want him much. He was sweet, at first, and I’ve always gone for sweet guys—they’re safe and comforting, like milk chocolate, or boots with a two-inch heel. Nothing remarkable, but no risk of breaking an ankle, either.
But there’s no fire in Tristan. No grit. Tristan would never stand up for me; he’d never dunk me in a swimming pool fully clothed or dirty dance with me in a divorcée’s living room. In the entire time I was with Tristan, we never did anything more exciting together than start a new show on Netflix.
I turn away, abandoning the dress I’d considered buying, and head blindly for the car park. I can’t start comparing Lucas to my ex-boyfriends. I shouldn’t even be thinking of him in those terms. The man has already hurt me once, and everything I’ve seen of him tells me that he’s capable of doing it again without so much as blinking. He’s an emotionless, uptight perfectionist, and yes, we have great sex, but that’s all we have. And it’s very, very important that it stays that way.
But I can’t stop thinking about wishy-washy Tristan. Playing out scenes from our relationship. Imagining those moments with Lucas, and then trying very hard not to notice that if Lucas had been there, they wouldn’t have been blah, those moments. No single moment with Lucas ever has been.
Lucas
I am stuck. I don’t have a clue how to move things forward with Izzy without scaring her off, but I can’t go on like this for much longer, having her without having her. I know it’s exactly what I agreed to—but it’s also torture.
Surprisingly, it’s Pedro who finally gives me an idea. He comes over for a beer in the evening, and he tells me that if you want to change the way someone sees you, sometimes all you need to do is change the background. This is actually a comment about optimising Smooth Pedro’s Instagram page, but wisdom can come from the most unexpected of places.
So on the night of December twenty-first, I tell Izzy that we aren’t going back to my flat, we’re going to Pedro’s caravan in the woods.
“Pedro lives in a caravan?” she asks.
“A very nice one. He needed someone to look after it while he’s away.”
（Staying in my flat.）
“And it’s in the middle of the woods?” Izzy asks with suspicion.
“What, do you think I am leading you into these woods to feed you to the ponies?”
“Well, no,” she allows. “But I’m not really in the right footwear for this.”
I stop and crouch in the middle of the dimly lit woodland path. It’s a beautiful, sharp winter evening. I can smell pine and moss: the deep, ancient scent of these English woods.
“Are we doing squats?” Izzy asks.
“No,” I say as patiently as I can manage. “You are climbing on my back.”
“Oh!”
She jumps aboard without hesitation, and another fragment of my heart goes tumbling. Her body trusts me now, even if the rest of her doesn’t. I shift her slightly so we’re both comfortable; she laces her hands around my neck and settles in.
Pedro’s caravan really is very nice. He’s strung lights around his porch, and they dangle over the bed inside, too, tracing tracks across my eyelids as I lie back in the sheets and close my eyes. I wonder if I will ever be able to see a string of fairy lights without thinking of Izzy Jenkins.
“Oof.”
She lands right on top of me. Knees on either side of my hips, and—I open my eyes—no trousers on. She snuggles in, doubling over to lay her head against my chest.
“Mm. Good duvet.”
I close my arms around her and hold her like she’s mine, but she’s not mine at all. She starts to kiss my neck and my body responds instantly. I put my hands on her upper arms, holding her back.
“The lasagne will be done in ten minutes.”
She pulls back. “Lasagne?”
“It’s just a pre-made one,” I say. “I thought we should eat.”
We never eat together, usually. But there isn’t a specific rule against it.
“Well, I guess . . .” She frowns. “I am hungry.”
“We could wait for it outside on Pedro’s porch. You can see the stars.”
Her frown deepens. “Umm,” she says. “Or we could . . .”
She presses a slow kiss to my neck. My breath hitches. I brush my hands up and down her arms, trying to ignore the way she wriggles in my lap, making this plan significantly more difficult.
“Come on,” I say, closing my eyes for a moment and then rolling her over, pressing a kiss to her lips as I shift off the bed. “There’s a heater out there.”