“So,” Lauren said as they pulled out of the absurdly overlong driveway onto winding country lanes, “that’s not the guy?”
Rosaline leaned back against the headrest, trying to let go of everything that had gone wrong that weekend. And to hold on to the few things that had gone right. “I know they all look the same to you, but no. I mean, he seems nice, and looks . . . and you’ll have to take my word for this . . . very nice. He’s just a whole world of not my type.”
“I think,” offered Amelie helpfully, “it would have been better if he was a Viking. Then he’d have a long boat that could go up rivers because of its flat bottom. And he’d have a helmet but it wouldn’t have horns because Miss Wooding said that was a common misconception. Which means made up.”
Her eyes at least mostly on the road, Lauren grinned. “I doubt he’ll be showing your mummy his helmet anytime soon.”
“Definitely not.” Exhaustion was creeping slowly over Rosaline again. “I mean, can you imagine my dad’s face if I came home with an electrician?”
Exhaustion was not a feature of Amelie’s world. “Would Granddad have been upset even if he was a Viking?”
“Probably,” Rosaline admitted. “Granddad only approves of doctors.”
There was a very slight pause. “Does that mean I have to be a doctor?”
“You can be whatever you want to be.”
A slighter longer pause. “Can I be a Viking?”
“Absolutely.” Lauren swooped in while Rosaline was still working out the least harmful way to contradict herself. “Only nowadays they call it ‘historical reenactment.’”
I enjoyed spending time with you this weekend. The text came in not long after Rosaline had persuaded Amelie to go, if not to sleep, then at least to bed. And I’d very much like to spend more. Perhaps you’re free to visit some time? I’d love to show you my garden. A pause. Three little dots. Then: Not a euphemism.
“That’s your I’ve-received-a-flirty-text look,” observed Lauren over her second glass of wine. “I know because it’s the look you used to get when I sneak-messaged you in maths.”
“Excuse me, I got an A* in maths.”
“Yes, and you also got a lot of pussy.”
“Not in maths. And mostly just yours.”
Lauren grinned. “Mine’s more than enough for anybody, darling.”
“It’s the guy from the show,” said Rosaline, mainly to steer the conversation away from comparative pussiology. “He wants to show me his garden.”
“As a professional playwright I’m far too sophisticated to fall back on ‘Is that what they’re calling it these days,’ so I’ll say, ‘No, he doesn’t; he wants you to touch his penis.’”
Shrugging, Rosaline refilled her glass. “Well, maybe I want to touch his penis.”
“Oh, Roz”—Lauren gave a deep shudder—“heterosexual sex sounds excruciatingly dull.”
“I’m just pointing out that I’m not a debutante in a Victorian novel. It’s quite possible we’re two mature adults who want to get laid.”
“You know you’re not the fuckgirl sort. You never have been.”
“I could be,” Rosaline protested. “I’ve had casual sex.”
“Name three times.”
She did actually have to think about it. “Um. Tom?”
“You dated Tom for eight months and literally had his baby.”
“Yes, but my original plan was for it to be casual.”
“Original plans don’t count.” Lauren finished her wine with gusto. “Hitler’s original plan was to be a painter. It’s not what he’s most famous for.”
“Ignoring the fact that you just Godwin’s Lawed my love life, what about Carolyn? I hooked up with her at your wedding, and you can’t get more casual than that.”
“Didn’t you also nearly buy a dog together?”
“Very casually.”
“All I’m saying,” Lauren went on, “is that you should be honest with yourselves and each other. There’s nothing wrong with being fuckbuddies, and there’s nothing wrong with holding out for the love of your life, but you need to be clear about which one you’re offering and which one you’re looking for.”
Rosaline sighed. “It doesn’t really work that way in straight people land. At least, not very often.”
“That seems like a significant flaw in the system.”
“It’s not . . . it’s . . . it’s complicated. Even if we’re both only in it for the sex, he has to pretend otherwise so he doesn’t come across as a predator. And I have to pretend otherwise so I don’t come across as a slut.”
Lauren’s eyes narrowed. “Did you just slut-shame yourself?”
“No. We’ve had a long discussion about how not-a-slut I am despite my best efforts to be one. But I still have to navigate a world where that’s a thing.”
“And you can’t both decide to . . . make it not a thing?”
“How?” asked Rosaline. “Do I text him back and say Sure, but can we also step outside the social paradigm into which we’ve both been inculcated from birth? ”
“Well, I’d certainly find that hot.”
“This may surprise you, Loz”—Rosaline gave her a wry look—“but I suspect you and Alain are quite different people.”
“His loss. And, indeed, yours.”
“Anyway.” Deep breath. Gulp of wine. “I’ve already kissed him. Twice.”
“Is this a course of action you want me to encourage you in or discourage you from?”
Alain was a tall, good-looking man with an impressive career, a caustic sense of humour, and a garden he wanted to show her. He was, by any objective standard, perfect. “Encourage me, I think?”
“You think? Couldn’t have been much of a kiss, then.”
“What? No. It was fine.”
Lauren gave her a flat stare.
“I mean, it was nice. Good. B-plus. Solid seven out of ten.”
“Darling,” said Lauren, “you’ve never been satisfied with a B-plus in your life.”
“It was a first kiss. Some things take a while to build.”
“It’s sex. Not Lego.”
“Look.” She hadn’t quite meant to slam her wineglass down with that much force. “I’m staring down the barrel of thirty. I’ve got a kid. I think I’m a little bit past the idea that true romance is a horny snog behind a bike shed.”
“You know I just want you to be happy. And”—Lauren drained yet another glass—“if this mysterious baking man greases your cake tin, then I’m all for him. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to pass out. Your daughter made me take her swimming this morning and it made me use muscles I’ve been happily ignoring for years.”
They hugged, Rosaline inadequately trying to thank Lauren for adding another weekend to eight years of unfailing support. And then Lauren vanished into Rosaline’s bedroom, leaving Rosaline to make up the sofa for herself. She could really have done with a night in her own bed, but when somebody offered you three months of free childcare, five-hundred-pound gorilla rules applied and they got to sleep where they liked.