in a Very Loud Voice that she knew someone who lived there. ‘I think she’s reading the A-Z wrong. It’s probably Bishop’s Avenue in Acton, more like,’ Charly had said loudly that morning, and Kate had smiled, as Sophie turned on her heel and flounced back to her desk.
‘Hey,’ Charly added, as they laid their money on the table. ‘You been to the Atlas pub? Round the corner from the office?’
‘No,’ said Kate.
‘It’s nice. Fancy a quick drink there tonight?’
‘Really?’ Kate said, then corrected herself. ‘That’d be great.’ She looked at her companion. ‘Thanks, Charly.’
‘What for?’ Charly slung her bag over her shoulder, and pulled out the hair that was trapped underneath it. She shook her head, and the waiters in the café watched in adoration. Like a Timotei ad, Kate thought with amusement.
‘Just – thanks for asking me out to lunch and stuff,’ she said, as they stepped out onto the street. ‘It’s weird when you start a new job. Not knowing anyone, you know.’
‘Course I know,’ said Charly. She didn’t look at Kate. ‘When I joined last year no one spoke to me for three weeks. Hey.’ She pushed her hair out of her face. ‘I reckon we could be a bit of a team, don’t you think? Show Sophie and Jo and Georgina, those bitches, show them we’ve got our own thing going on. OK?’
‘I’m not bothered about them,’ Kate said, surprising herself.
‘Sure, whatever,’ said Charly darkly, and Kate wondered which one of them had incurred her wrath. ‘No worries.
But still, we’re going to stick together. I’ve decided. You up for a drink then?’
‘Definitely.’
‘I’ll see who else is around, too. Introduce you to some other people. We’re going to have a great time.’
The sun was warm on Kate’s hair; she felt relaxed, herself, for the first time since she’d started there. ‘Great,’ she said, as they turned the corner and walked up towards their building.
‘Look at that loser over there, with the Beckham haircut,’ said Charly, flinging her arm out so that she nearly knocked over a teenage boy who was staring at her. ‘What a jackfruit.’
The loser with the Beckham haircut was coming out through the revolving doors. He raised his sunglasses and smiled at them. He was extremely good looking.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘Hey,’ Kate said, then wished she hadn’t.
‘You never called me back, Charly,’ he said, looking hopefully at her. ‘When are we going out again?’
‘Fuck off, Ian,’ said Charly. ‘It’s not happening. Kate, I’ve got to get some gear from the postroom. See you later, OK? Atlas, straight after work? I’ll come and pick you up.’
‘Great,’ said Kate, and Ian stared at her, annoyance crossing his otherwise perfect face.
That night, when Kate rolled back to Rotherhithe at twelve a.m., swaying and singing softly to herself like a sailor on shore leave, Sean was still up watching American football on Channel Five. As she staggered into the sitting room, Kate waved at him nonchalantly, trying to prove she was sober, and her hand flew back and hit the door frame with a loud thwack. Sean smiled to himself but only said,
‘Good night then?’
Kate’s mind was whirring, with the white wine pooling in her stomach, in her throat, in her head. Good night? The best night, that’s what. She and Charly, Claire and Phil had gone to the Atlas, sunk a few drinks, then some more, then Sophie had joined them, and the five of them had played the pub quiz machine, screaming with joy when they got one of the questions right. It was Kate who knew that Chairman Mao died in 1976. She didn’t know how she knew, she’d just known, and as she’d leant forward, punching the big plastic square on the machine, shouting ‘Yesss!’ as she did so, she felt, slightly hysterically, as if all those years of being the class swot, the one who got their homework in, the one who really never did anything bad, they were paying off. Charly had screamed, jumped up and down, and high-fived Kate, and then ‘Spice Up Your Life’ had come on the juke box, and they’d both jumped off their stools and danced like crazy.
‘I hate the Spice Girls!’ Charly had shouted. ‘They’re fucking awful!’
‘I love them!’ Kate said. ‘Sort of …’ she continued, as Charly looked on at her in horror, and both of them laughed again.
Gorgeous Ian had turned up – Kate didn’t know how he’d worked out where they’d be. Charly ignored him all evening, drinking beer from her bottle, cheering Kate on in the quiz and then, as they all stood around outside the pub after they were kicked out, suddenly walked off down the street with him, her hand carelessly clutching the back of his neck. Kate had been almost shocked, impressed by her total insouciance, the very Charly-ness of it, and then it had made her smile.
As she sat on the night bus home, trying not to acknowledge that she did feel a bit sick, she thought how great life was, how all the usual things that worried her – her dad, her mum, her sad little life, her fear that, since she split up with Tony, her university boyfriend, nearly two years ago, she would never find love again, her fear of her job, that she was just a big fat failure – all these things seemed to vanish, with the optimism of youth, and what she remembered instead was Charly’s face as she bought them all another round of drinks with the winnings from the machine. Her amused expression as she said, ‘You’re hilarious Kate, you know that?’
‘Thanks, Charly,’ Kate had said. ‘This is great.’ She patted her arm.
Charly had shrugged. ‘My pleasure.’ She’d looked strangely pleased. Kate fell onto the sofa next to Sean, put her head under his armpit, and smiled, ridiculously.
‘Found some friends then?’ Sean said. ‘Or have you been drinking alone again?’
‘Shurrup,’ Kate said, her voice muffled by Sean’s sleeve. ‘Friends from work, nice.’
It was so cosy on the sofa, next to him; she loved Sean. ‘So, where did you go?’ he said, muting the sound on the TV. He turned towards her, and stretched his arms, yawning, and pulled Kate towards him. She wriggled into him, happily.
‘Just pubs near the work, near the work building,’ she said. They were silent together, for a moment, and she could hear his breathing, feel the rise and fall of his chest, her head against him.
‘Oh, Kate,’ he said, softly.
Kate sat up slowly, suddenly not feeling so drunk, knowing he was looking at her, and their eyes met.
Sean was a closed book to her in so many ways; she had known him for years, though they had never been best friends or gone out with each other. He was a genial, all-American kind of guy – the first impression, and then you realized, in his quiet, understated way, he was more British than that. His clean-cut, sporty appearance belied his more studious, careful character; though she knew him well, Kate never quite knew what he was thinking. Through the waves of cheap white wine, spirits and exhaustion, she looked at him now, blinking, wishing he would speak first, not knowing what was suddenly, now, between them. Someone more worldly-wise would have known what to do now, on the sofa, having a moment with their flatmate. They would either have leaned over and kissed him, or got up and made some coffee.
Watching him, watching his softly twitching lips, Kate wanted to kiss him suddenly, wanted it fiercely. But she couldn’t. It was Sean, after all. Her flatmate. And she was drunk. No.
‘Pfff,’ she said, rather helplessly, smoothing her skirt with her hands.
It broke the tension, and Sean smiled at her. ‘Oh, babe,’ he said kindly, and he patted her arm. ‘You’re hilarious.’
‘That’s what Charly said!’ Kate said, remembering the