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  I take a deep breath and head back to the table, where I find Ruben, still shook up and nervous, twitchy even.

  He looks relieved when I sit back down. We smile awkwardly at one another.

  “So, what brings you out here?” I ask, just as the first flakes begin to fall outside. It’s February and not too cold, just the right conditions for snow to fall.

  He swallows his pride, methinks, then looks me in the eye. “I wanted to say sorry for earlier. I wasn’t explaining myself well and I know I upset you, but I didn’t know how to deal with it, and the more I try to justify my behaviour in my head” —he taps his temple— “the more rotten I feel for some reason and I just, decided, well, I couldn’t leave it. So that’s why I’m here.”

  I’m about to say something like, “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” when I spot someone heading our way out of the corner of my eye. Two plates of food are soon beguiling our eyes and nostrils, as the server explains, “So we have game pie. Is that okay?”

  I nod immediately. No doubt this is whatever was left on the hotplate. “Absolutely fine, thanks. Cheers.” I try to rush the server into placing our food on the table and would take the plates myself if they weren’t so bloody hot.

  It feels like an age, but once we’re offered cutlery and sauces and delivered of these things, I finally take a breath and tell Ruben, “It’s forgotten, all right? Just eat your dinner.”

  I avoid his face and get busy spooning horseradish and gravy onto my plate. The pie does look delicious and the vegetables are miniature but well presented. I’m so hungry.

  I begin cutting into my pie when Ruben’s hand lands on my forearm.

  I look up, shocked. This isn’t usual for him and it’s making me uncomfortable.

  “Freya,” he whispers, and it’s not the way he says it, but rather the way he’s looking at me that’s unnerving.

  I put down my knife and fork and wrap my hands around my wineglass, pulling away slightly. “What happened after I left Soho? You seem odd. Did you get some bad news? I don’t understand.”

  Fuck, now I’m off my food.

  His face contorts before he speaks. “Nothing happened. We should eat. I can tell you’re hungry. You’ll feel better after you’ve eaten.”

  I release a sigh of annoyance, but when he takes up his own knife and fork, I feel safe enough once more to place my hands and arms in the vicinity of the table space—the chance of him touching me again seeming less imminent.

  The buttery pastry and melt-in-the-mouth pie filling is washed down by an excellent glass of Shiraz, its slightly peppery notes blending well. I eat knowing he’s watching me, but he was right, I am hungry and I do get snappy when I haven’t eaten properly.

  “It’s great food.” I can see out of the corner of my eye he’s making light work of his own plate.

  “It is.”

  He finishes before me with little effort at all, even though he’s mostly been looking at me and eating his food in an automatic way, I can tell. He tips back a few mouthfuls of beer as he waits for me to finish, but his eyes are still focused on me and his gaze is unnerving, even though I refuse to meet it.

  I suppose I’m desperate to keep my secret and not admit that he made me cry today. I would hate for him to find out he drew tears from my eyes earlier. It would be even worse than the time my little brother walked in on me trying out a new epilator on my bikini line. Let’s just say, it took weeks for my skin to recover from that one.

  “Would you like another drink?” he asks, noticing my glass is depleted.

  “Hmm, sure. It’s Shiraz, the barman knows which one. It’s pretty good, goes well with the food.”

  He stands and pulls out some notes from his pocket. “I’ll get a bottle, then.”

  I watch him leave the table and stare at his long, sleek back as he goes. He strides across the room, his aura like a vacuum, pulling everyone under the spell of his powerful, magnetic masculinity as he owns everything in his vicinity, including the way he walks with purpose, pizazz… poise.

  Shit, just how much wine have I had?

  Seriously though, Ruben is the most gorgeous, most intoxicatingly beautiful man I have ever met, and I have no idea how we got ourselves into this mess—this awkward situation where we can’t be anything but friends. It’s not good. It was bound to come to this, wasn’t it?

  I can tell he’s not his usual self because as soon as he reaches the bar, he stands hunched at last, perhaps thinking I can’t see him anymore. He also stands there waiting, even though I just heard Russell say he’d bring the wine over to our table. Ruben would normally make chitchat or at least flirt with a random girl, but tonight, he keeps looking down at his shoes and grimacing.

  I’m almost lost to my own thoughts when I spot him strolling back to the table, his long, lean legs carrying him quickly across the room towards me. I can’t help but catch sight of his belt buckle and the way his white shirt’s tucked into his trousers, also the way his jacket fits snugly around the front of his shoulders.

  He sits back down and I tell myself it’s the wine and the atmosphere, nothing more. However, as I watch Ruben pour, concentrating on not spilling a drop, my core begins to heat and tighten in response to the glow of the fire behind him, almost as if there’s a halo around his long, brown mane. I’ve always loved his luscious hair, his beard, his sharp features in profile.

  To be honest, I’ve always loved him…

  …but when he tries to take my hand again, I feel that familiar twitch inside my gut, telling me something’s not right—this isn’t how it’s meant to be.

  I sit back in my chair and stare at the table, trying not to get too close. All of this is strange and new. He and I have never sat down to dinner together before. It would usually be drinks only, then we’d go our separate ways. I’d grab some food on the go from somewhere before heading to wherever I had a date lined up. The date would usually be picked online at the last minute and chosen according to penis size and the highest probability I’d never see them again.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” he says, sounding grave.

  I begin to list all the hideous things he might have done in the time between me leaving Frith Street earlier and him getting here, but then he speaks again.

  “We’ve known each other for a while now, yes?”

  “Hmm. Maybe two years.” Two years and three days, to be precise. We met at a winter wedding. It was a strange occasion.

  “Recently, I’ve started to feel like I can’t cope anymore.”

  His words catch me off guard and I look up, scared he’s going to tell me he’s having a nervous breakdown or something. I do manage people for a living, so I should be able to cope with a friend’s crisis, but I also know myself well enough to realise I’m not good with emotions of my own, let alone other people’s.

  “Ruben, I’m not the right person—”

  He reaches out and catches one of my flapping hands in both of his, his warm, strong fingers enveloping my tiny hand. I can do nothing but gulp.

  “I’ve tried so hard not to feel like this, Frey. I promise. I really tried. But every time you talk about someone else touching you, well, just recently, it’s begun to make me feel angry and unbearably… sad. I feel sick that I talked to you like that earlier tonight, because it wasn’t you, it was me. I couldn’t admit—”

  “You’re jealous?” The words sputter out of me, like an old tractor exhaust about to give out.

  He gulps but nods furiously, happy to have it out. “It’s driving me crazy. I’m sorry. I can’t help how I feel. I’m sorry.”

  For a moment, it feels like all my dreams are coming true, but then I remember…

  Nobody gets what they want, no. Ruben’s having an existential crisis and projecting onto me, that’s all. He’ll get over this soon and we’ll go back to being mates again.

  Then he does the stupidest thing and brings my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles.

  For a few, devastating moments,
all I can hear is blood rushing through my ears and my heart’s cries for me to reciprocate. When I catch his eyes, a wave of love washes over me and a tear falls from my eye, no stopping it. I pretend I didn’t feel it and it didn’t happen, but his gaze softens and he looks relieved.

  As much as I want this, I have to retreat. This cannot happen. Ever.

  I tug my hand away from him and fold my arms tight, not only to ensure I don’t flap my hands about again, but to keep the feelings he just evoked contained.

  “Freya,” he almost begs, “come on.”

  Sitting upright, I shake my head, trying desperately to stop my lip wobbling. “You can’t fucking say shit like that, Ruben. I sobbed all the way home tonight. Because of you. You made me feel crap. I can’t even… no. Just no. We’re not doing this.”

  He starts getting up to come around to my side of the table and I just have to stop him.

  “Sit the fuck down, Ruben. Now.”

  He looks shocked by my tone, which was harsh and cruel, but I have to get him to stop doing this—whatever this is.

  “Listen to me. We agreed… we’re sluts. Aren’t we? We’ll never be the marrying kind. We’ll never settle down. This is who we are. If you can’t accept this is who I am, that’s your problem.”

  He rubs his hands over his face as I stare out of the window. It appears he has nothing to say in response.

  “I don’t trust you,” I continue, “but more importantly, I don’t trust myself. We agreed, didn’t we? People break up all the time and it’s never the same after that. Relationships take time and effort, two things neither of us can give. People get bored and stray and lies are told and nothing’s ever the same again. It’s best if we’re just honest like we have been and have no expectations. We can’t hope for anything more. We agreed this, so long ago. We’re a pair of sluts, Ruben. End of.”

  He gives me a few moments, then asks, “Are you done?”

  “I’m done. That’s my take on it.” I avoid his eye again, looking intently at anything but him.

  “Look, I’m freaked out, too. But I didn’t just wake up and decide to feel like this. It’s been creeping up on me for months. Stupid stuff… like, I don’t know, looking forward to your texts and seeing you for a drink. Even the thought of bumping into you. It’s not normal guy stuff. It means something. I can’t ignore it, Freya. I’m just being honest with you. I can’t listen to you talk on and on about other guys anymore.”

  I look up and flash him a disgusted look. “But it’s okay for you?”

  He grinds his teeth but appears delighted I’ve finally met his eye. “I haven’t been with anyone in a while. Sorry if that escaped your notice, but I think if you remember right then I haven’t had anything to talk about during our last few meets. I grinned and bore your tales while keeping my mouth shut, but like always, I guess you blocked out what was going on with me, didn’t you?”

  I grit my teeth and say nothing. Recently, I had begun to worry he was seeing someone and that it was getting serious, because he hadn’t talked about any dirty hook-ups in a while. Now I find I’m the person he’s getting serious about. How ludicrous!

  The right words are important in this moment. Something to put him off, but also keep him as a friend. “We can still be friends; I just won’t tell you about any of that anymore. Okay?”

  “Not okay,” he tells me flatly.

  “Why not?” I huff.

  “It took a lot for me to come out here tonight, more than I can express, but now I’m here I’m not turning my back on this.”

  I meet his green stare again. “You’ll have to. If we fuck it up, where will that leave us? With nothing. No friendship. Nothing.”

  His lips purse before he becomes animated. “We’re fucked any which way you look at it, especially because I fancy you now more than ever.”

  The skin on the back of my neck prickles against the material of my blouse and my cheeks flush. It’s bad enough I can still feel the kiss he placed on my knuckles earlier, but now my face is radiating heat and everyone can see how he’s affecting me.

  “Frey,” he murmurs, as I’m still in shock and trying to look anywhere but at him. “I don’t want you to be with anyone else. Not even if it’s kept a secret from me. I don’t want that anymore. It doesn’t matter how long it takes to get through those barriers you’ve got held up, I’m asking you to please not be with anyone else, not anymore. I’m asking you to be with me. Just me. That doesn’t mean we have to rush it. With you, I want to do it right. I’m asking you to give me a chance. Please.”

  He’s offering me everything I’ve ever secretly wanted: just him and his love. I want to believe everything he’s saying. I want it all, so, so much. I don’t know if I can allow myself to let my guard down. This has all come right out of left field.

  “You never offered to come out to Windsor before,” I state, while casting a suspicious glance at him. I drink a little of my wine and notice the bar’s emptying rapidly. It might only be us left very soon, if we’re not careful.

  “Yeah, shameful, I know. You just always seemed excited to leave the suburbs for the city.”

  He’s right. “I suppose.”

  “It’s nice here,” he says, “I like it.”

  “My parents don’t have money. Not like yours do, anyway.”

  “Why would that matter to me?” He catches himself laughing, then abruptly stops.

  “I’m just saying. It makes me feel uncomfortable when you throw your money around. I know you don’t mean to but you always forget that not everyone has an endless supply.”

  I’m trying to find any excuse to put the dampers on this, but now I also feel bad for making him feel bad.

  “I’m sorry, I’ll try harder in future to remember.”

  My parents have been comfortable for a few years now, but they don’t have a four-storey townhouse in Mayfair like Ruben’s do.

  “My world is very different to yours, Ruben,” I insist, reminding him just how incompatible we are on paper. “I didn’t get everything handed to me.” I should tell him I went to hell and back, in actual fact, but that’d be just another vulnerability of mine that he could use.

  “You’re right,” he agrees. “I wonder if that’s why I like you so much. You are different.”

  “While your father worries about the square footage of his next palatial mansion, mine is more concerned with coming up with a new story to explain away another of the nights he got drunk and did something stupid.”

  “Yeah, well, at least your father hasn’t tried to marry you off to the daughters of all his friends. It’s more than imperative that I marry and settle down, continue the lineage, secure the money. Not to mention I’m older than you. It’s not that easy being me, you know,” he says, half-laughing.

  He must be joking. I’m approaching twenty-eight and he can’t be more than a year or two older than me. I don’t have any sympathy for him whatsoever and I hope the look I’m giving him says so.

  “Now, if you’re done making excuses, can we get out of here already?” he asks, gesturing at the empty pub. I nod, albeit reluctantly, and he shoves the cork in our not-quite-drunk bottle of Shiraz.

  “Thanks, Russell,” I holler, waving as we leave. Russell gives me a grin and turns his back quickly, maybe to continue cashing up—or else to hide his know-it-all expression from me.

  Once outside, it’s not only the snow and the chill that hit me. Reality does, too.

  “You’ll have to be as quiet as a mouse,” I warn him.

  “Silent as the grave, me.”

  I guess I’m taking him to my parents’ after all, then.

  Chapter Three

  Crimp Hill

  My mother and father’s semi-detached house on Crimp Hill is one of only a few properties along this particularly secluded stretch, with grand old trees overhanging the road from either side, some houses much bigger and more tucked away than others. It’s best if you have a vehicle and even better if you have a 4x4 vehicle, liv
ing as we do at the bottom of a very steep hill.

  Ruben and I have lots of fun almost skating down the hill on our way home.

  “Do you ever see Elton drive past, then?” he asks, holding my hand in a bid to steady me as we approach home.

  “Nah, we hear his helicopter though,” I giggle.

  It’s true, one of my parents’ neighbours is Elton John, whose estate is not very far away at all.

  “My father always boasts to people that he teaches Elton’s sons, you know,” I say, and Ruben looks impressed. “But he doesn’t. My dad works at the school, but as a senior administrator. For years I believed he was a teacher the same as everyone else did, but one day my mum sat me down and told me he’s an admin and that she’s the one who actually brings in the money. My dad just doesn’t want to admit he failed teacher training college.”

  “Sounds like a great guy,” he laughs. “So, what is it your mum does?”

  I stop at the top of our driveway and grin at him. “She’s a violinist, I told you a million times.”

  “Sorry, I’m just sometimes not listening.”

  “Oh, thanks!”

  He bands his arms around me against the cold air. “You’re highly distracting, Freya. Surely you know this?”

  “No.” I shake my head, then gesture at the house. “Anyway. Looks like they’re asleep. I must warn you, my brother is a total freak and will make a big deal of this if he sees you, so it’s best if we’re super quiet. The good thing is he has the attic room so once he’s up there, he doesn’t hear what’s going on downstairs. I’ve never snuck a guy in before but the stairs aren’t too creaky actually and I’ll sneak you out before dawn. I hope this is okay?”

  His eyebrows rise. “Umm, sure. Yeah.”