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having . . . company.’

  ‘Is that what you call it?’

  ‘Tom. I said no jokes about . . . that. I don’t make a habit of doing

  this. As in, like, never.’

  ‘Well, that does make me feel very special.’

  ‘It should,’ Esme said, the jokiness suddenly gone and replaced

  by sincerity, as she took hold of his hand beneath the duvet. It put

  him in mind of the first time it happened, the other night after the

  party. Now it felt familiar. As though these hands were always meant

  to link.

  Tom shifted his head on the pillow. He was on the right side of

  the bed, the side Esme never slept on because it was ‘too close to the wall’. The pillow was plump and barely used, there for decoration

  and symmetry rather than function.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘These rules of yours.’

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  ‘Ah yes. Okay, so, these are basically things that should govern our relationship. From day one until, well . . . day whenever.’

  ‘Relationship?’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Exactly. And that’s rule one. No asking if we’re together, when

  it should be perfectly clear if we are,’ she said, pausing for a second.

  ‘Assuming that you want to?’

  ‘I do,’ Tom said. And just like that, there they were: an item. It

  was as if a wand had been waved – although to Tom the process

  felt a tad more administrative than that. Every one of his ill-

  fated relationships had been preceded by weeks of preamble and

  uncertainty; questions over whether or not sex meant partnership;

  second-guessing if the connection was strong enough to be labelled

  with something other than the vague headers of ‘seeing each other’

  or ‘dating’. Before eventually being defined by a conversation about

  exclusivity that always implied a lack of other, better options. Tom

  had once suggested to a girl that he might ‘change my relationship

  status on Facebook’, rather than actually asking outright if they were together.

  ‘I hate not knowing where I am with things,’ Esme said, by way

  of explanation. ‘I always think it’s easier just to put a name on it.

  Then in three weeks, if it turns out it’s all wrong, it can change.’

  ‘You have a confusingly optimistic and pessimistic way of looking

  at things.’

  ‘I like to think so. Glass both half full and half empty.’

  ‘Do we have to arrange a check-in at three weeks? Like a proba-

  tion period or something.’

  ‘Trust me, you’ll know if we do.’

  Tom laughed and said, ‘So what about rule two.’

  ‘It’s a big one.’

  ‘Okay,’ Tom said, warily.

  ‘Rule two is that you have to – have to – accept that when I’m working I’m working. I’ve been with two men who constantly

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  arranged things or told me I was boring for catching up on the weekends. One of whom was a trust-fund idiot who never understood the idea of working and really didn’t get that if I skipped or rushed it might literally affect how some poor kid communicates.’

  ‘How long did that last?’

  ‘One month.’

  ‘What about the other one?’

  ‘That was Matt.’

  ‘Angry Matt?’

  ‘I hate that people call him that.’

  ‘Well I’ve only met him twice. But it was pretty clear that he is

  quite an angry person. What did he do, anyway?’

  ‘Oh, loads of things. He would come off tour and expect me to

  have all the time in the world. Once, he booked tickets to Alton

  Towers for a Friday afternoon when I had three therapy sessions back

  to back. Then turned up at a school to pick me up. I think that was

  when I realised it wasn’t going to work.’

  ‘And did that make him . . .’

  ‘Shut up,’ Esme said, with a smile. ‘Anyway, I care about my job

  so that’s that. And I’m starting on my paperwork at nine today, so

  you’ll have to bugger off before then.’

  ‘That’s fine. I like that you love your job,’ Tom said, trying to

  remember exactly what it was that she did. Something to do with

  kids, he knew that much.

  ‘It’s also that I’m still learning,’ Esme said. ‘I think you always are when you work with people. Especially children.’

  ‘I bloody hate teaching kids.’

  ‘Tom!’

  ‘Every week, I sit through an hour of a nine-year-old boy trying

  to play “Merrily We Roll Along” on the piano. He never gets any

  better. Never gets any worse. Every. Bloody. Week.’

  ‘That does sound awful.’

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  ‘It is.’

  ‘Though maybe it’s the teacher’s fault?’

  ‘Oi.’

  ‘Anyway. I don’t teach, as such.’

  ‘No . . . of course.’

  ‘You’ve forgotten. Haven’t you?’

  ‘Child psychologist?’ Tom said hopefully.

  ‘You’re not a million miles off.’

  ‘Psychiatrist?’

  ‘Speech therapist,’ Esme said. Right away Tom remembered her

  telling him. He felt bad that it had slipped his mind and he started

  to think about other things he might’ve forgotten. Her middle name

  for sure.

  ‘I look at why a child might struggle with language, or can’t talk

  at all,’ Esme continued. ‘I work with a lot of autistic children, and

  kids with learning difficulties. Sometimes it’s really sad. Especially to see the parents. But mostly it’s just uplifting and nice.’

  Tom shuffled closer to her. The overpowering vanilla and thyme

  scent of the diffuser on the bedside table was stronger on her side

  of the bed.

  ‘How’d you get into it, anyway? Kids’ speech and all that.’

  ‘I did English Language at uni and always found the way words

  develop the most interesting thing about it. Then an MA in early

  years speech development and things went from there. Got my first

  job at St Bart’s.’

  ‘But now you work in a school?’

  ‘Some school stuff. Some NHS. It’s bits and pieces, really.’

  ‘It sounds amazing,’ Tom said. ‘And important. Unlike being say,

  a guitarist in a pub band.’

  Esme laughed.

  ‘You’re making a difference in your own way I’m sure.’

  ‘I like to think so,’ Tom said. ‘So you’re not, like, a doctor then?’

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  ‘Just a therapist.’

  ‘Cool,’ Tom said, a little distracted, his own history with therapists suddenly front of mind – the small rooms he had been in; plush

  offices with plump sofas in unassuming urban townhouses. And the

  more functional, plasticky NHS rooms, their walls plastered with

  peeling posters raising awareness of flu jabs, meningitis, asthma.

  ‘You alright?’ Esme asked, noticing his sudden blankness.

  ‘Fine. So what’s rule number three then?’

  ‘Eeerm.’

  ‘Are you making these up as you go along?’

  ‘Not at all!’ Esme said, in such a way that it wasn’t possible to

  completely believe
her. ‘Rule three is that I hate – no, despise – words like holibobs, nom, foodie. Basically any word or saying that might appear on the side of a fruit smoothie bottle. Use them and we’ll

  have problems.’

  ‘I’ve never even heard of most of them.’

  ‘I keep a list of them on the fridge. Laura adds some she hates,

  too.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Tom pictured an A4 piece of paper with these words

  scribbled angrily out in red pen.

  ‘Absolutely. There’s a place in hell reserved for people who use

  those words.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Tom said.

  ‘You mean to tell me that there are no words that literally make

  you want to kill someone?’

  ‘No. I mean, there are words I dislike.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Can’t think of any.’

  ‘Well think harder then.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, half thinking of something. ‘Okay. I don’t like it

  when people say things like “it’s wine o’clock”.’

  ‘Urgh.’

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  ‘But I wouldn’t necessarily hate someone if they did.’

  ‘You’d be entitled to. Awful. Consider it on the fridge.’

  ‘I’m honoured. Can I ask where this aversion to certain types of

  word came from?’

  ‘There’s a woman I work with who uses them all the time. Angie.

  She makes me grind my teeth.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of her either,’ Tom said, picturing a slightly

  overweight woman wearing boot-cut jeans and a slogan T-shirt.

  ‘That’s probably for the best,’ Esme said.

  Tom laughed. As he did a shard of sunlight crept through the gap

  between where a grey curtain met a magnolia wall, lighting up the

  varnished oak floorboards and Esme’s slightly tatty, blue and white

  striped rug, onto which was dropped Tom’s jeans from the night

  before. The sight reiterated the unusual nature of this situation. He

  was not the kind of person to often wake up in a stranger’s bed. And

  he knew that Esme was the same, as she had been at pains to point

  out. So was this, he wondered, a collective, excited impulsiveness? Or was it what they both really thought and hoped it was? They would

  come to know the answer soon, he thought, as Esme stretched and

  reorganised the Glastonbury 2005 T-shirt that constituted pyjamas.

  ‘Now,’ she said, looking up at him. Her brown eyes locked on his

  and he knew he would find that comforting and wonderful every

  time it happened. ‘Rule four is a serious one.’

  ‘ Serious serious? Or are you winding me up?’

  ‘ Serious serious,’ she said, sitting up in bed. As if to say it was impossible to have a proper conversation about something like this

  while lying down and staring wide-eyed at each other.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I don’t want to get into full histories, big issues and where they

  come from right away. But you should know that I hate lying and I can’t forgive cheating. Like ever. I know some people can get over

  that stuff. But for me it’s non-negotiable.’

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  ‘Right.’

  ‘Not saying you will, obviously. But I’m just putting it out there.

  That kind of thing sort of fucked up my family.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine. It was a long time ago. These things just have a way of

  lingering, don’t they?’

  ‘I suppose they do,’ Tom said, unsure of what to say next and

  letting a brief silence descend until Esme took over again.

  ‘I’ve always thought that if you talk about things before they

  become a big problem you can work your way out of them. Whatever

  it is. Unless the thing is that you’re a career criminal or something.’

  ‘Well, about that . . .’

  ‘Seriously? You know I could see something in your eyes.’

  ‘Two years for armed robbery.’

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘Well it’s been nice while it lasted,’ Tom said, pretending to climb

  out of bed, before Esme grabbed his arm and he fell back in next

  to her.

  ‘My point is,’ she said, clearly keen to return to the topic. ‘I’ve

  always known that I couldn’t live with it if that kind of thing hap-

  pened to me.’

  Tom nodded. He wanted to tell her it wouldn’t be a problem.

  But he didn’t. Instead he kissed her – a tacit okay if not an implicit one. As soon as they parted, Esme started again.

  ‘Which sort of brings me onto the next thing.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Marriage,’ she said.

  ‘This isn’t like the relationship thing, is it? You’re not going to

  tell me that we’re engaged because we had sex and you’re in some

  mad Christian church.’

  ‘Not really. The opposite in fact,’ Esme said, looking down at the

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  duvet, refusing to meet his eyes. ‘It’s maybe daft to say it, but I want you to know that I never want to get married.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Never. And I mean it, Tom. I’m not one of those “never until

  he asks me” types. I’m a never never type. And I know it’s early to

  bring it up. But some men get surprisingly dickish about it when

  they find out.’

  ‘Well,’ Tom said, a little surprised that the topic had come up.

  More so at why. ‘You will be pleased to learn that I am not that man.’

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘I sort of don’t care. I’ve never really thought about marriage and

  long-term stuff like that,’ he said, knowing in himself that there were a number of reasons behind that.

  ‘Good,’ Esme said, seeming to relax. ‘It’s good that you don’t care.

  Because I really do. If not in the way most people do.’

  ‘Rule five,’ Tom said, taking her hand. ‘No marriage.’

  ‘Good,’ Esme said with a smile. ‘By the way. What if I was in a

  mad Christian cult?’

  ‘Oh. Well, I suppose I’d have to join up, wouldn’t I?’

  Esme laughed and said, ‘So romantic.’ And as they fell back into

  a contented silence, Tom found himself thinking back to how they

  got here.

  They had spent the day before in St James’s Park, arranging to

  meet at two in the afternoon, having parted on her doorstep only

  eleven hours earlier. He bought them coffees and ice creams as they

  circled the ponds and sat on benches overlooking the pelicans, ducks

  and geese.

  Later, she went with him to the gig he was playing in a dodgy

  Kentish Town pub called the Goat and Boot with a covers band called

  Top Gunz. He spent their entire set looking out to the back of the

  room, where she was sat at a tall table, watching the drunks dancing

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  in front of her to ‘Chelsea Dagger’ and ‘I Predict a Riot’, which the singer belted out with gusto, and the band utter in difference.

  After that, he had expected that he would return home for another

  sleepless night thinking about when he would next see Esme. But, to

  his surprise, she suggested they take a cab
to hers, where they snuck

  quietly into her room, fell onto her bed and, with all the clumsiness

  and hesitance of teenagers, undressed each other in the half-glow

  of orange street light which pierced the tatty curtains. The sex was

  nervous and uncertain. The second attempt, half an hour later, was

  informed by the mistakes of the first time, and all the better for it.

  Everything was moving fast. The kind of fast that Tom had told

  himself he wouldn’t allow to happen that year. The kind that other

  people had told him he shouldn’t allow to happen that year.

  But what if this was normal now? What if he had found Esme

  at just the right moment in his life, and she had found him at just

  the right time in hers? Tom hadn’t felt as excited and hopeful as he

  did that morning in years. Having spent a long time scrambling to

  find a life that worked for him, perhaps he had finally succeeded.

  Now, with their early-morning pillow talk lulled, Tom considered

  telling her a few things about himself. Stuff she should know. Had

  a right to. But, he thought, what would be the sense in spoiling the

  mood? They were happy now. He was happy now. Besides, they had time. Plenty of it, if they stayed on this course. There would be a

  moment for all his stuff, and it wasn’t just yet.

  ‘Okay. No more serious,’ Esme said, speaking up and settling the

  debate for him. ‘Do you want to know about rule five?’

  ‘Depends on how many more there are.’

  ‘Last one, promise. But probably the most important,’ she said.

  ‘Rule five is that whenever we’re staying together, you have to get

  up first to make the tea. I like mine medium-strong. The colour of

  a Caramac bar.’

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  ‘Hang on,’ Tom said. ‘What if my rule number one was that you always have to make the tea?’

  ‘Well, it clearly wasn’t. And even if it was, I got there first. So

  that’s that.’

  ‘Right. So am I to understand that if we’re together for, say, fifty

  years, I have to make you tea every single morning.’

  ‘Yes. Although I’d hope that by the time I’m in my mid-seventies

  someone will have invented some sort of home-help robot.’

  ‘What if I’ve got a broken leg?’

  ‘You’d have to buy a Teasmade. Or keep a travel kettle and some

  little sachets of milk by the bed. Anyway, have you got a broken leg?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And clearly you already know where the kitchen is. So . . .’