Lucas laughs into the cushion. “Who knows?” he moans, turning his head to face outward, his sunglasses wonky on his face.
I crouch. “Coffee?” I say, and he nods. “Also, you stink, Luke.”
“Do I?”
“You smell like whiskey and garlic and… bed.”
“Oh,” he says sleepily. “Sounds quite nice.”
“It isn’t.”
“Harsh,” he says. “Just because you have a spring in your step. What happened? Were you in bed by ten with your best man book and one of Louise’s hippy teas or something?”
“Nope. Although you could so do with one of her hippy teas right now.”
“Coffee,” he says. “I need a fuck-off, massive coffee. Nothing less.”
I wondered the whole way home last night if anyone saw Eliot and me kiss. It was quick and it was dark, and when I’d pulled back from giggling in his chest like a giddy schoolgirl, all I could see was a sea of dancing bodies and chattering mouths. We didn’t dance anymore, and after we kissed, we hadn’t seen much more of each other. Amanda had taken Eliot off to see an uncle he hadn’t seen in years, and I got lumbered with a paralytic Lucille, who fell asleep on my lap, on the ballroom carpet.
“What on earth are you doing down there?” Jean had asked, eyeing me as if I was a rough sleeper on his path.
“Stopping her choking on her own sick. You know. The usual,” I said, and Jean had tutted and waffled, “But the carpet. Do not let her vomit on this floor. We do not want a cleaning bill.”
I looked for Eliot for the rest of the night, but I also couldn’t bear laying eyes on him for longer than a second when I caught glimpses of him between clusters of people on the dance floor, across the room, drink in his strong hand, smiling, chatting with that lovely mouth. The one that kissed me. That kiss. That kiss. Every time I think about it, the flurry of butterflies is so strong, I feel physically sick. His warm lips, the prickle of stubble, the brush of his thumb on my cheek, the tiny, slow touch of his tongue…
“Em?”
“Mm?”
“I said, what was up with Lucille?”
I push down the handle of the French press and take a cup off the mug-tree. “Same as you,” I say distractedly. “Pissed as a fart. Bladdered.”
He laughs croakily, still flat, stomach-down on the sofa, cheek pressed against the cushion. “She never drinks, though,” he says, voice muffled.
“Makes sense,” I say, holding out the steaming mug to him. “Come on. Up. Drink.”
Lucas groans and turns, pulling himself messily up on the sofa. He lifts his glasses onto his head and takes the mug. “Thanks, Em.” He sips. “Seriously,” he says, looking up at me. “What’s with you?”
“What?” I say, and laugh too easily. The way you do when you’ve been bottling up excitement, fighting off laughter, and finally get a chance to set some free.
Lucas’s brow furrows. “Did you get off with someone?”
“No.”
“Oh my God,” he says, stretching his head around. “Are they here? Tom? Tom, are you in there, buddy, come—”
“No!” I say, and chuck a tiny scatter cushion at him. He winces as it bounces off his head. “Seriously,” he laughs. “If he’d come out of there…”
“What?” I laugh. “What would you have done?”
“Well, smash his face in first and foremost, obviously,” he says with a matter-of-fact smile.
“Obviously,” I mimic, and he smiles.
“You all outdid yourselves last night, Em. And the band.” He puts a hand on his chest. “I know you said you couldn’t take all the credit, but that was so you. The band was an Emmie Blue move.”
“Did you like the Busted one?
“Fucking loved it,” he says, throwing his head back.
I smile. “I’m glad,” I say, and he looks at me.
“Only one thing that sucked,” he says.
“Go on.”
“I know you don’t like it but… I dunno,” says Lucas softly, “I was sort of hoping I could get a dance out of you. It would’ve been nice.”
Guilt trickles through my veins. I wonder, for a second, if he saw. It’s hard to look at him, but I do. “You big sap,” I say, and laugh, but Lucas doesn’t. “There’s always the wedding,” I say.
He nods slowly, flyaway bedhead bobbing as he does. “Yeah,” he says. “There’s always the wedding.”
* * *
WhatsApp from Rosie Kalwar:
oh my GOOD FUCKING GOD.
WhatsApp from Rosie Kalwar:
I AM DEAD.
WhatsApp from Rosie Kalwar:
He kissed you. YOU!!! KISSED BY THE GOD THAT IS THAT SEXY LIL CARPENTER WITH THE GIANT SCHLONG. (hearsay, but I believe it wholeheartedly to be true.)
WhatsApp from Rosie Kalwar:
He’s been desperate to do that Emmie. I told you. He’s probably been practicing on a potato or aubergine or whatever it is Shout magazine used to tell us to practice on to get it just right because why wouldn’t he?
WhatsApp from Rosie Kalwar:
You’re a queen. Seriously, I mean that Em. You stood under those disco lights and you did it. You danced. DANCED and kissed and let it all go.
WhatsApp from Rosie Kalwar:
The world is your lobster now.
WhatsApp from Fox Barclay:
Oyster.
WhatsApp from Rosie Kalwar:
Knew that’d get the fucker’s attention.
Emmie: Hi Marv, it’s been months since we last spoke. If you don’t want to be in my life, then I think it’s only kind you let me know. This waiting is unfair on me. I have waited long enough. If I don’t hear from you, I hope you understand that I will remove your number and we can go our separate ways. Be well. Emmie.
* * *
Even when Eliot reads Louise the sad stories—the heartbreaking love stories in which some poor bastard always ends up dead—I hear laughter float from her bedroom, and tonight is no exception. It’s just after nine, and I’ve not long finished washing up after dinner. Eliot cooked tonight, and it’s the first time I’ve seen him since our kiss at the STEN party two weeks ago. I could hardly look at him when he first arrived armed with two Sainsbury’s bags and a bunch of flowers for Louise. The butterflies in my stomach at the sight of him blindsided me.
“What’s new, Emmie?” He smiled, coming into the kitchen. “All good?”
“Yeah. Great. Perfect.” I’d pretended—and probably badly—to be struggling with the seal on a bottle of Louise’s vitamins as he unpacked the shopping. “Good good,” he said, and touched my waist as he passed. A brush of fingers against my skin.
“I thought I’d do some creamy, cheesy, bad-for-us bacon-y pasta thing with tagliatelle,” said Eliot, tossing an onion in the air and moving to stand beside me at the counter. “Sound good?”
I nodded, glanced up at him. “So… a carbonara.”
Eliot narrowed his eyes. “Um, I don’t like to pigeonhole my cookery, thanks very much, Emmie Blue.” Then he’d ducked his head and smiled at me, and whispered as if revealing a secret, tapping the side of my nose, “I totally just did pretend to invent carbonara. Keep it between us, yeah?”