Page 9 of Love at First Sight

Another week begins.

I try to give myself forty-five minutes to slide into the day, washing my face and brushing my teeth, putting on a bit of make-up, stretching, making coffee in a takeaway flask to drink as I walk the fifteen minutes to Ali and Henry’s house.

I live in a million-pound Victorian terrace too …

it’s just that I’m in the basement. In what is essentially a bedsit.

After Craig left and we sold our one-bed flat it’s all I could afford, but honestly, it’s fine for what it is: I’ve got my bed, and the flat is painted in exactly the shades of blue and green that I like.

I’ve got a little kitchen and a cosy set of armchairs and some plants.

Even so, I sometimes feel like the troll under the bridge, with the bridge being the three floors above me occupied by a professional couple who are younger than me but can afford to own four times the amount of square footage.

India and I call it couple privilege: house deposits, taxis home, rooms on holiday …

they’re all half the price for couples. The singles tax is real.

(I’m not bitter.)

(…)

I slip out into the cool air of the morning, and set a mental intention to have a fantastic day, as per the affirmation rules.

I like being up this early, getting out and about.

That’s something else Oprah says: get into the fresh air, engage with the world, regulate your nervous system with some sunlight.

Even when I’m not working I have to get up and go for a walk first thing. It’s better than any coffee.

When I reach Ali’s, I let myself in. It’s a smart house on a smart street, inhabited by minor celebs and experts in their field.

Next door on one side is an ex-DJ from Radio 1, on the other side one of the writers for a BBC sitcom that’s made it to three series.

Ali’s house is beautiful brick with glossy black paint and huge bushes sprouting bright pink flowers.

She has a black and white tiled entryway outside, in proper Victorian tile, and opening her front door is like stepping into a hug.

That’s the only way I can explain it. Her house is decorated to perfection.

The first hallway has fabric wallpaper (fabric!

wallpaper!) in a deep purply-pink, and the baseboards and cornicing are a rich red gloss.

She has gold puddle-shaped mirrors and humongous Tiffany lampshades.

The result is dramatic and moody and gorgeous.

Off from the hallway you can either open a heavy wooden door on the left, to go through to the stairs, playroom and downstairs loo.

Or, you can do what I do and carry on towards the cloakroom, a sleek set of wardrobes complete with lights that turn on automatically when you open the door.

I hang up my jacket, slip off my shoes, and pad through to the open-plan kitchen/living area, a creamy white and taupe area so big it could fit about ten of my bedsits and still have room to spare.

Perhaps this is a comment on the smallness of my own lodgings more than the grandness of Ali’s.

Ali is at the kitchen island, dishevelled blonde hair falling around her shoulders like she’s a goddess, silk nightrobe draped over her tiny frame and tiny matching silk PJs in a way I can only describe as artful .

She’s got dark roots that manage to come off as playful and laidback, rather than like she can’t afford another trip to the West London hairdresser she adores.

You know in movies you scoff at the screen when a woman gets up in the middle of the night to, say, check for intruders, and she looks like she’s ready to go to a ball rather than having just been dragged from a cave with mascara under her eyes and no bra?

Well, that woman is based on Ali O’Hara.

She looks perfect even at this hour, in this state.

Big white teeth, full lips, perfect eyebrows … celebs really are a different breed.

‘Morning, gorgeous,’ she says to me sleepily, wrapping elegant fingers in gel-varnished pale pink around a mug of steaming coffee.

‘Morning, everyone,’ I reply, heading for Henry, who is sat at the breakfast bar with a bowl of cereal, watching his iPad.

‘It’s a Spidey and His Amazing Friends morning, is it?’ I ask, noting the cartoon he’s watching. He gets thirty minutes iPad time a day, and that’s it. He nearly always uses it wisely.

‘Mmmmm,’ he says, distracted by the antics on-screen. Ali laughs.

‘Two more minutes, bubs,’ Ali says, tapping a nail on the marble worktop. ‘You promised.’

More grumbling.

I make myself a herbal tea, and when Henry is finished with his breakfast, pick up his bowl and stick it in the dishwasher.

I think Ali knows I’m waiting for the gossip from last night – her fourth hot date with Vinnie.

I’ve told her all about the man I danced with by the river, so it’s only fair I get updates on her love life too.

They met at a café when they were sat at tables next to each other, both waiting for other people who were late.

Isn’t that such a great meet-cute? These things happen to Ali, though.

The world offers itself to her regularly.

I had one good afternoon with a man and I’ve officially lost my head over it, it’s that rare.

As soon as Henry has gone upstairs to get dressed – a recent development, doing it himself, and one he takes great pride in – she turns to me, her dazzling smile on full display.

‘Go on then,’ I say, gagging for it. ‘How was the big date? Still going well with Vinnie?’

Ali lowers her voice and says, ‘Very.’ She purses her lips, trying to temper her excitement.

I make a motion with my hand that says, I need more .

‘He’s just a nice bloke, you know? I mean, I don’t want to rip his clothes off, and we still haven’t slept together.

Heavy petting, yes. Sex, no. But, he listens to me, he’s down to earth, and so knowledgeable about food it’s unreal.

We went to a tiny Filipino restaurant and ate like kings!

I just get the feeling this has potential.

Proper potential. He’s a good egg. And after Thom, I need it. I need a nice guy.’

‘Hmmm,’ I agree. In private I do think Ali and Thom are both as much to blame as each other for the divorce, but to say any more would be to compromise loyalties.

I have chosen my side. They used to argue like hell and then make up with passion, in a cycle that got more and more frequent until it felt like monsoon season on the Indian subcontinent: one minute the sun could be shining and then, bam, the heavens of an argument would open.

It was exhausting to bear witness to, so Lord knows how it felt to be a part of.

Although, truly and honestly? I got the feeling they both kind of got off on it.

‘So, the sex thing,’ I probe, because when Ali is in a gossiping mood I like to roll with it.

She can pull up the drawbridge to conversation with the click of a finger, leaving me feeling really freaking stupid sometimes.

But when she’s chatty and happy, you have to indulge.

‘You’re good with no sex for … how long? ’

‘Indefinitely?’ she says. ‘I know it’s weird, but even four dates in I’m like, okay, cool, friendship is a good place to start from.

I’m not worried. After sex everything always goes horribly wrong anyway, and I lose my power, and it makes things messy.

I feel in control this way. I don’t want to lose my head over a man ever again. ’

I’d give everything to lose my head over a man and have it reciprocated, but I don’t say this. Ali only likes to talk about Ali, in the main. But there he is, in my thoughts again: Cal, Cal, Cal . It’s unhinged.

‘Anyway,’ she continues, wafting her hand.

‘I have to win this divorce. Thom’s been photographed with some ghastly pretty young thing that Vogue have called a One to Watch, which is irritating beyond belief.

I’d kill to be married again, you know – before he is, I mean.

He’s so smug, so … Urgh! Just talking about him makes me mad! ’

‘I know, I know,’ I say, reaching out to put a hand on her arm. I give her a squeeze, and she looks at me gratefully.

‘I know it’s boring to bang on about,’ she says.

‘It’s just so incredibly important to me that by the time we’re doing press for Liars the headline is how I have rebuilt my life for the better.

People eat that up – actresses getting heartbroken and coming back stronger – and I can spin something about it matching the trajectory of my character, too. ’

Liars is a Netflix adaptation of the bestselling The Liars Are All Around Us by J.

L. Keyes. Landing the lead was a major coup for Ali – I’ve never seen her want a role so badly.

And she’s been in a great mood as she’s worked on it, happy and easy-going.

God, when she was stuck on that period drama and her role got cut but she was still under contract, it was hell.

For seven months she was moody and mean, frustrated at her two hours in make-up every morning and having to wear uncomfortable corsets to essentially sit beside a less talented actress with more screen time than her.

Liars has been the polar opposite of that.

‘Well,’ I say. ‘I can’t wait to meet him. Although, you know, if you weren’t engaged to somebody else by the time you start doing press …’

I don’t finish my sentence, because Ali gives me a look, as if to say as somebody outside of the industry I couldn’t possibly understand. And there it is – for the blink of an eye she treats me like a friend, and then I’m quickly reminded of my place. I fall for it every time.

Ali slurps the last of her coffee and puts the mug down on the breakfast bar.

It doesn’t ever occur to her to put it in the dishwasher herself.

I don’t even think she knows I do it for her – it just gets done.

Not that I mind too much. It’s not a big deal to stack a few dirty things in the dishwasher and switch it on.

And I don’t mind unloading it when it’s finished, either.

It’s fine. It takes five minutes. Henry helps.

As I tidy up, with Ali upstairs getting ready for her day and Henry putting on his shoes, I think about how level-headed but invested Ali seems and how much I want that for myself.

A proper match. I might have pooh-poohed the Whole Foods poster idea at first, but I find myself desperately willing it to work now.

India sent a mock-up over last night. It’s quite simple, just says Cal!

We had the greatest date. Call me! From Jessie , and then my number.

I felt sick looking at it, because it’s the biggest romantic swing I have ever taken, but I told her if she thought it was fine, she could go and put them up.

I can’t go anywhere near Whole Foods, obviously, or the posters – because I am mortified at the audacity, and half think I’ll end up going viral online for being pitiful and creepy.

If India does it all, I can feign total ignorance and wash my hands of the whole thing if it doesn’t work.

And if it does … well. The good fortune of that is too much to contemplate.

I texted Leo earlier, to apologise for not making it to his gig.

He sent back a smooth no worries treacle , and that’s that.

I knew he wasn’t really interested; he was just flirting because he does it so well.

Oh, I don’t know. It feels so desperate to hope to hear from Cal, but what have I got left aside from hope?

It’s damned rare to connect with somebody like that, and I should know.

I’ve been single for three years, and only started dating properly eighteen months ago.

But then, as a New Year’s resolution I took a break, because somehow I got to date four with three different blokes, all of which went great and then ended with that awful text: So, I’ve decided to get back with my ex …

For the cheap seats in the back, let me repeat: Three.

Different. Men. Once would be understandable, two bad luck.

But three? That feels like a sign. There must be several happy couples across the capital who have only reconnected because of me, because men have gone out there to sow their wild oats and decided that, actually, the better the devil you know.

Perhaps that’d be a good business as a side hustle.

Send your ex to date me, and he shall come crawling back!

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