Page 129 of Falling for You

Penny nods. ‘Definitely.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Nate

‘Nate?’

I look up as Stevie pops his bleached head round the doorframe, a red spatula swinging from his hand.

‘I’m making a stir fry, do you want some?’

‘Sure, man,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’

Stevie nods and turns back into the kitchen before I can offer any help. It would be an empty offer, as the galley kitchen barely has room for one of us Simpson brothers, both towering over six foot three with our gangly, clumsy limbs. Stevie has a short fuse when we’re together and I’d probably end up with a lump in the shape of a frying pan square on my forehead.

Stevie has lived in this Camden flat for almost six years, since graduating and moving out of Aunt Tell’s place. I’ve tried asking him whether he still sees her, but he always bats the question away. I haven’t even told him my real reason for being in London: I’m worried he won’t be happy about it.

‘Here you are,’ Stevie says in a sing-song voice, passing me a bowl of steaming noodles.

‘Thank you, smells great.’

He nods and starts working at the noodles with a pair of chopsticks. I’m the big brother, three years older than Stevie. (Although he’s been twenty-four for the past six years, so who knows how large our age gap will really stretch.)

We’ve always been quite different. He’s got more talent in his big toe than the majority of the human population have in their entire body, and he’s one of those rare people who have made their dreams a reality. He got a scholarship to train with the Royal Ballet when he was nineteen, and that’s where his obsession with London began. Everyone is in awe of him back home.

He’s also a giant pain in the ass.

‘Very nice,’ I say, noticing that Stevie is eyeballing me as he waits for me to compliment his cooking. ‘The next Betty Crocker.’

He rolls his eyes at me. ‘She made cakes, you moron.’

I pull a face at him and he smiles, shaking his head. When he’s with his mates, his accent slips into this weird, cockney drawl, like a chameleon effortlessly changing its colours. But it’s no use when he’s with me; I draw our home accent straight back out of him.

I glance out of the window as blue lights flash through the flat. A light sprinkle of rain has been washing through the sky for the past hour. Little beads of water sit on the fiery leaves of the maple trees lining the street, entirely out of place in this grey, built-up part of Camden. But they’re still there, proudly waving at each passer-by, ready to show off the twists and turns of their bark, carrying the stories of thethousands of people who have walked past barely noticing their existence.

At some point soon, the leaves will let go and helicopter through the sky. But right now, it’s the stage of autumn where they are just about clinging on. It’s not their time yet. It’ll come.

‘So,’ Stevie says, swallowing his last mouthful and putting his bowl on the rickety coffee table. ‘What did you do with your last day of freedom?’

I chew my mouthful. I moved to London just under a week before my new placement started in order to give myself time to explore the city. Find my favourite coffee shops, pop by some museums, soak in the culture and stumble across historic sites.

‘I went up to Oxford Street and watched soccer in a bar.’

Stevie almost chokes on his drink. ‘Soccer? You mean football.’

I shoot him a look – the cockney accent is back. ‘Yeah, that.’

‘Get you,’ he says, plucking up the television remote. ‘Shall we watchMade in Chelsea?’

‘Sure.’

‘Are you totally in love with London yet?’ Stevie asks. ‘Will you be staying here forever?’

I sigh. ‘That depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On whether it rains this much all the time.’