After a quick stop at the gallery to check for a delivery, I’d passed by the off-licence and purchased a bottle of both red and white wine, just to hedge my bets and have something to offer Sophie. From there, I walked up to Adam’s inner-city duplex. It dwarfed mine, and came complete with a balcony, bespoke kitchen, marble fittings, outdoor entertaining area, and a refrigerator that talked to the internet. It was the perfect place to entertain, which coincidentally happened to be one of Adam’s favourite things.
And there he was.
Standing by the heater with a wine in his hand, John drew his fingers through his dark hair. What first struck me was his chalky-blue shirt. It pulled at his shoulders and stretched across his chest so tightly I thought the buttons might pop. His black jeans were ripped at the knee like mine, his boots were unlaced, and beneath that businessman bravado there was something completely magnetic about him.
‘Hello there,’ he said as I clambered next to him for some warmth.
‘Mind if I steal your warmth?’ I asked.
‘Only if you tell me your name.’ He took a sip of his wine.
‘Katharine,’ I said, holding out my hand.
‘Are you the Katharine I’ve been warned to steer clear of?’ The corner of his mouth rose in a mischievous smirk as he shook my hand.
I frowned and pushed my lips out though I was on the verge of laughter. ‘I don’t remember telling you that, no.’
It didn’t matter what direction I travelled in that night, whether I’d moved to talk to mutual friends or introduce myself to strangers, we continued orbiting each other. A shared joke turned into a flirt and, before I knew it, we’d spent a chunk of the evening buried in conversation by an oversized planter box.
He’d get a drink and offer to refill mine, we’d talk about my job and favourite pieces of art, and I’d laughed when he told me the last time he’d seen the inside of a museum was when he’d gone to visit his grandparents an age ago. Throughout it all, he made me feel like I was the only one in the room.
When he offered to walk me to the tube station later that night, we made a quick detour for his flat and were in bed not an hour later. Oh, and one of the buttons did pop.
‘It’s been going on that long?’
The car lurches to a stop while we wait for the lights to change. Adam turns to me, and I feel myself bristle. It irks me that he seems so het up about this. He has his own marriage to worry about, and it is my life. Surely, he could dial back the brotherly protection a notch or two.
‘Surprised?’ I try.
‘So, what,’ he stammers, ‘are you telling me this was love at first sight?’
‘I wouldn’t call it love,’ I say, fiddling with the audio controls until I find a radio station that isn’t classifying my favourite school hits as ‘classics’. I’m not that old. Yet. A cyclist whizzes by, precariously close to my side mirror. ‘It started as a bit of fun.’
‘A bit of fun?’ The light changes green. ‘Are you serious? Katharine, he’s so dull. Let alone the fact that you deserve so much better than that.’
Dull wasn’t a word I’d have readily used to describe John. He’s always seemed so exciting, refined, gentlemanly, accessorised with fast cars and country club weekends. Sure, he works long hours. But I do, too, and when we see each other, we do often talk. Oh God, we talk work. Does that make me dull, too? I’m not sure I want Adam to continue. Not because it’s not his business, but because I’m scared he might be right.
‘Well, when we both have a free moment—’ I explain.
Adam’s silent, too busy concentrating as we scoot towards the M1. Part of me hopes he’ll drop the topic.
‘A free moment?’ he blurts over the radio. ‘A free … Katharine?!’
‘You really do enjoy repetition, don’t you?’ I ask. ‘No wonder you’re a lawyer.’
‘And you say I work too much?’ Adam sighs. ‘That guy is worse than me. Hell, he’s even worse than you. I’m surprised he hasn’t got a Cyberdyne Systems stamp at the back of his neck like a Ken doll.’
‘He hasn’t,’ I quip back. ‘I checked.’
He retches dramatically as we merge onto the motorway. I hope he’s planning to wind the window down if he’s going to be sick. I’ve had to clean vomit from the footwell of my car before (mine after a bad batch of rhubarb) and it is no fun at all. Sun starts to peek through the clouds, so I let the sunroof open enough to feel the breeze through my hair. It’s the perfect day for a drive.
‘And where’s Sophie, then?’ I ask, desperate to change the subject. ‘Why isn’t she coming with us?’
Something flickers in Adam’s eyes and I know from years of sibling arguments that I’ve touched a nerve. He gives his head a quick shake and turns his attention back to the traffic. ‘She’s away with friends this weekend.’
Let me say this upfront: I love Sophie. She is bubbly and welcoming, warm and an absolute joy to speak to. Adam moved to London a few years before I did and, when he first arrived, lived in a Clapham share house he found through friends. Sophie’s parents owned the building, and she let rooms to pay the bills and get ahead financially. London wasn’t somewhere we’d ever visited a lot as kids, so Sophie soon became his tour guide, local directory and social circle.
Twelve months after moving in, he asked her to dinner as a thank you for looking after him that first year. The rest is now sandwiched between untold numbers of shared social media posts and a wedding album that’s always been proudly displayed in their living room.
‘Away with friends?’ I prod. If he’s going to put me up on the witness stand then it’s only fair I do the same.
‘Yes,’ he says with a sigh. ‘They planned it ages ago. Girls’ weekend at a hot spa.’
‘Oh.’
‘Oh,’ he echoes.
‘Not at some country club in Bath, then?’
‘Shut up.’
We fall into an uncomfortable silence, one where his knuckles go white around the steering wheel and his bottom lip becomes a chew toy. I stare out my window and wait for the moment to pass.
It doesn’t last long. By the time we hit the first services, where he fills the tank and I hide in the loos for five minutes of peace, he’s already talked me through his client list for the month. I love hearing about his cases and courtroom victories; it’s great to see him get so excited about what he does, but, boy, does he go on. And he calls John dull.
By the time we hit the last roundabout in Nottingham, he’s swung back to the topic of John again.
He wants to know the ins and outs and, of course, he knows exactly how to phrase a question so I can’t wriggle my way out of an answer. Handy for his job, not so handy for me, because all this interrogation is making me feel uneasy.
I deflect as much as I can. I don’t want to field questions I’m not sure of the answer to. Yes, it’s been going on a while. Yes, I really do fancy him. Yes, I hope it will become more and, no, I can’t explain why he won’t come to dinner. By the time we reach Sheffield, Adam’s so wound up he completely ignores my request for a café stop. I’m convinced he didn’t even hear me.