Page 7 of Falling for You

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 the thousands 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 watch Made 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.’

‘Ah yes.’ Stevie cocks his head whimsically. ‘All part of the charm.’

He puts the remote down as three picture-perfect women pop onto the screen, all holding coffee cups and raising their eyebrows in disgust at each other.

‘And did you hear from Mom?’

‘Yup,’ I say, turning my phone in my hands. It’s only 3 p.m. in New York at the moment. ‘I said you’d call her.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re her son?’

‘I’m too busy,’ he says. ‘This is my only evening off. I’m in shows the rest of this week. I won’t have the time.’

‘Well then, text her,’ I shrug. ‘Send her a selfie, whatever.’

Stevie scoffs and I smirk. Even with his shaved, bleached head, silver earring and tattooed arms, when he strops, he may as well be six years old again.

‘Oh, come on,’ I grin. ‘You have time to chat to every man in London,’ I point to his phone on the coffee table as, right on cue, it lights up. ‘I’m sure you can spare five minutes for our dear old mom.’

He shoots me a look, but he’s grinning now. ‘It’s not every man,’ he says, picking up his phone. ‘Screw you. Oh! It’s Facebook Marketplace.’

I sit up. ‘Oh great, are you getting a new sofa? I’ll chip in.’

‘What? No,’ Stevie narrows his eyes at his phone screen. ‘I’ve found this amazing talking pumpkin for Halloween.’

I groan, sitting back down. ‘I hate Halloween.’

‘Yes …’ Stevie says, using his fingers to zoom in on the picture and turning his phone to show me. ‘But this should do the trick to annoy the cat upstairs – it’s due some bad karma.’

‘Why?’

‘It pissed on my rug.’

I take a final look at myself in the elevator mirror. My dark hair is pushed back, finally seeming to adjust to the sogginess of London, and (after a thorough talking to from Stevie) my beard is trimmed, and therefore slightly less unruly than yesterday.

It’s my first day in the London office of Take the Time , the ‘best events magazine’ if you believe everything our marketing team is feeding you.

I’ve spent the past eight years (and what was left of my twenties) working as their feature writer, covering events all over New York City and Manhattan.

It’s a pretty cool gig. Or it was, until all of my mates who took turns to be my plus one would rather sit in with their other halves, and I realised that yeah, that actually sounded quite nice and I’d like to do the same.

Except I didn’t have an other half. Sure, it’s pretty impressive to take a woman on a first date to a Broadway show or the launch of a new menu at a restaurant, but the novelty wears off.

Usually about the time the ‘let’s sit in together instead’ conversation comes around and I reveal my true, introverted self and realise that they were far more interested in the fancy meals and elaborate dates than they ever were in me.

The elevator pulls up to the eighth floor and pings open. I step out dubiously.

‘Nathaniel?’

I look up as I hear my name bounce towards me in a clipped British accent. For a moment I’m half expecting to see Hugh Grant bumble over and offer me a cigarette. Instead, it’s a lanky guy with big teeth and even bigger hair, all quaffed above his head like the fifth member of ABBA.

‘Hi,’ I say, holding out my hand. ‘It’s Nate.’

‘Brian!’ the man says back happily, giving my hand a firm shake. ‘Welcome to London! Fancy a tea?’

‘Do you have coffee?’

Brian pulls a face. ‘The machine is broken. I make a good tea, though.’

I’m about to decline when I clock every other person in the office, holding a mug.

I feel like it’s an unwritten British rule: never turn down a cup of tea in a first meeting. It would be a sign of the utmost disrespect.

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’

I’ve managed to avoid cups of tea since being in London. It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just that … fuck it. I hate it. It tastes like dishwater and I have absolutely no idea why anyone drinks it.

I follow him as he wanders through the office, presumably towards the kitchen.

‘That’s Kat,’ Brian says, flicking his wrist towards a girl sitting behind a computer who nods at me, ‘accounts; Fernanda,’ another woman nods, ‘IT. Paul, Simon, Gary, Greg, socials,’ a set of men raise their eyebrows at me one by one, like meerkats popping up over the parapet.

‘Helen is HR but she’s not in yet aaaaaaaaaaand …’ he spins on his heel to face me and I stop walking to avoid crashing into him, ‘the lazy writers usually work from home,’ he gives me a knowing look and then laughs, ‘but you’ll meet them soon. Kayleigh, Scott and Jen.’

I nod, realising I’ve had the same grin pinned on my face since I stepped out of the elevator. I relax.

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Great to meet you all.’ I offer my hand in a wave around the office. They all lift their heads in recognition and bob them back down, hiding behind their monitors. And plants.

‘How’s the jet lag?’ Brian asks, flicking the kettle on.

‘Yeah, all good … I’ve been here five days, so I think I’ve gotten over the worst of it.’

Brian laughs. ‘I hear you. I visited the Singapore office at the start of the year, it fucked me for days. But how is New York? I don’t know if we have quite the nightlife to compare, especially the events we get invited to.

’ He leans back on the counter as the kettle sputters behind him.

‘But we still have some good ones. Do you like Cirque du Soleil?’

I tuck my hands in my pockets. ‘Sure. I could cover that.’

Brian pushes his lips together and shakes his head. ‘No, you can’t. Unless you want to fight Scott for it. He gets those tickets every year.’

He gives me a look like he’s speaking in a language that only he and I understand.

‘Right.’

‘But there are some other great things you can go to,’ he says. ‘We have some fantastic pantomimes if you’re still here at Christmas. Have you been to a panto before?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Oh no he hasn’t!’

I stare at him, bewildered. ‘Sorry?’

He throws his head back and laughs, dropping a teabag into each mug. ‘I’m joking with you. Are you a sports guy? Sorry, can I just …’ He goes to open the fridge and I move out of the way awkwardly.

‘Ah yes,’ I say, finally feeling myself relax a little. ‘I’m actually getting into football.’

Brian raises his eyebrows at me, clearly impressed. ‘Oh yeah? What team?’

Finally. Something I can talk about. I lift my chin proudly. ‘Chelsea.’

Brian’s face drops. ‘Seriously?’

I stare at him, waiting for him to burst out laughing as part of another weird joke I don’t understand. But he keeps staring at me as though I’ve admitted to stabbing my grandmother over breakfast.

‘Yeah?’ I say.

To my alarm, Brian rolls his eyes, sloshing milk into both mugs.

‘Ah. We’re all Tottenham,’ he says, shaking his head and giving a chuckle. ‘That really is bad luck. Don’t let the team hear you say that. They won’t let you live it down.’

I blink at him.

‘Right,’ I say eventually. ‘Well, I’m sure I could be a Tottenham fan too …’

‘Definitely don’t let the team hear you say that .’ He laughs, jostling my shoulder, and I try to laugh along.

‘There’s your tea,’ he says, picking up his mug and handing me mine. I take it and automatically take a giant sip, forgetting for a moment that it isn’t coffee, and feel my face contort.

Oh God, that is absolutely –

‘What?’ Brian says, his eyes narrowing. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Nothing!’ I say quickly, noticing Greg and Gary from socials popping their heads up. ‘Nothing. It’s delicious. Thank you.’

He peers at me, taking a step forward. ‘Why did you pull that face, then?’

‘What face?’

‘Like it tastes horrible? The milk isn’t off, is it?’

Oh God, I cannot let him realise on my first day here that I hate tea. I will be ostracised.

‘Nope,’ I say, forcing a huge smile, ‘it’s perfect. I always pull a weird face when I drink a … hot drink.’

He looks at me for a minute before accepting my answer.

‘Okay,’ he shrugs, ‘well, make yourself at home. Pick whichever desk you want and just … start writing!’

A cold wash of dread sweeps over me.

Just start writing?

‘I usually review events and things …’ I say, following him out of the kitchen, ‘is there anything you want me to cover?’

‘Nope!’ He smiles. ‘We don’t have much on at the moment. So just write whatever you like, see where inspiration takes you.’

He catches the look of panic on my face and shakes my shoulder. ‘You’re a writer, you must be full of ideas!’

I laugh weakly as Brian walks off, leaving me at an empty desk.

Well, if I wanted to know if Brian was a writer himself, I know now for sure.

Every writer knows that, actually, we never have any ideas.

Ever.