Page 15 of Time of Your Life

Nine

Ysolde

“Do you want to talk about it?” Aleki asked on the drive over.

He wasn’t with me in Jilly’s office; I didn’t even tell him anything happened—and technically nothing did—he just knows me.

It’s his job to know me and read me—he’s very good at what he does—and today, now, everything about me must look off-kilter, because that’s exactly how I feel.

I shook my head and stared out the window, chin in my hand on this fairly gloomy day in early March.

Joah’s sitting with his back to me when Aleki and I arrive. Joe’s Café, Sloane Street. He’s in a black leather bomber jacket, slung back in his chair, a beer in his hand, and my heart’s tossing and turning in my chest because suddenly I feel funny. And stupid. God, I hate feeling stupid.

I wouldn’t have met here, in public, where people can see me, but I’m worried now I’m about to find out something hateful about the boy I met almost two weeks ago and accidentally fell in love with—admittedly (particularly in context of all this) far too quickly.

Lala told me that you should never break up with someone in their home or your home—half so you can get out of there quick smart when the time comes, but also so it’s not tainted.

You don’t want to ruin a place you love, and I love Claridge’s.

It took me so long to feel safe again after what happened, and I finally do, and I don’t want to have to move again, and so in case Joah and I are about to have a fiery breakup because it just so happens that he is indeed an arsing prick, we’re doing it at Joe’s Café.

Which—actually, honestly, I do love. But I felt as though he’d be suspicious if I asked to meet at the Pret-A-Manger at Trafalgar Square.

I sit down across from him and his face lights up again.

“Oi!” He beams, leaning over the table and pressing his lips into mine. “Fuck—I’m happy to see you—”

It makes me happy for a second but just for a second. Kisses don’t mean anything—just ask Jesus.

I tilt my head, give him a controlled smile. “Are you?”

“Yeah—” He nods, his eyes moving over my face—trying to read me. “Missed you—”

“Did you?” I say, watching him for clues, and now he’s watching me back.

His eyes pinch a little. “You alright, kid?”

“Mm-hmm.”

They pinch a little more. “Sure?”

I nod once, lips pulled tight in what Jo calls my “Mona Lisa–PR smile”…

He stares at me, assessing now, and I know he knows for certain that something’s amiss.

“You seem weird—”

“Nope.” I shake my head, flash him that same smile again, though I know full well it’ll convince him of absolutely nothing.

He nods but unsure now—he scratches the back of his neck, then plucks the menu up off the table.

“You wanna grab a bite?”

“Mmm”—I shake my head—“I’m not that hungry, actually. Why don’t we just go back to your house?”

I try to keep the way the question sounds in my mouth light and airy, but I can tell by how Joah responds to it, that that wasn’t a nail I hit very well on the head.

“Uh—” His face pulls. “I…guess—?”

I cross my arms over my chest, scowling at him now.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

His brows pull together, confused. “Yes.” Then—almost as though he’s uncertain, and definitely as though he’s confused—he, carefully, raises his index finger and points at me.

I roll my eyes at him. “Another one?”

“Nope.” He shakes his head, fairly certain this time. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but—feels like I got my hands full with this one.”

“Well, what the fuck!” I sort of yell, definitely louder than I mean to. His head pulls back a tiny bit—not afraid, honestly not even startled. It hurts my ego a small bit to admit that actually, he looks slightly amused. “Are you embarrassed for your roommates to know we’re together?”

“Don’t do roommates, do I? I live on me own—And, Ys, The Daily Sun ’s got a bloody timeline of our ‘warp-speed romance’ in it today, so guess all of England knows now. But anyway, to answer your question… Nah.”

I sigh, exasperated. “Then why don’t you want me to come to your house?”

He covers his face with his hands and sighs this big, massive sigh, and it’s proof that I’m not mad; it’s true—he hasn’t wanted me in his house. I can tell.

So I sit back in my chair, arms crossed over my chest, and wait for him to speak, eyebrow up.

He straightens up and takes a measured breath. “You know that shite about notches on belts?”

My brows dip. “Yes?”

Joah rubs his hand over his mouth—he looks a tiny bit stressed, actually.

“Got actual notches on me headboard.” He grimaces as he says that, and immediately upon hearing that, I think he’s a tremendous twat so I say nothing to ease his discomfort.

“When I first got me house and the bed—there’d been a”—clears his throat, as though he’s trying to be delicate—“ handful of people in it, you know what I mean—?”

“At one time?” I ask. “Like, in a singular instance?”

“Uh—” His face pulls as he thinks about it. “Well, yeah, that’s happened—like, in general—but nah, in this story, I’d just bought me first proper bed with me first pay slip, and, y’know, ended up shaggin’ like sixteen girls in two weeks.”

I blink a few times. “That averages out to more than one a day.”

He gnaws on his bottom lip and strangely doesn’t look overly endeared by my maths.

“Anyway—” He shakes his head. “Fuckin’ Rich thought it was hilarious, so he starts tallyin’ ’em up on the headboard after they left. And I dunno, it just sorta became a thing, didn’t it?”

I crinkle my nose at him because boys are yuck.

“Well, how many notches are there?”

Joah takes this breath, like he’s about to speak, but then he just keeps breathing in, nothing comes out, and then he shakes his head, looking uneasy.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look uneasy before, except for the time that he got cross and left my hotel room for ten seconds before he came back; he looked uneasy then too—I quite liked it to be honest.

He swallows, like there’s a lump in his throat, as though he’s swallowing down the actual number he’s got in his mind.

“So, yeah—didn’t… I didn’t, well—” He’s babbling now. I’ve never seen him babble before. “—it’s twofold, innit? Figured you’d find the notches a bit…off-puttin’.”

“—I do.”

He gives me a look. “Right, so well done me, then—”

I pull a face. “—Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”

He fights off a little smile.

“And second—” He reaches for my hand. “You’re not a fucking notch.”

I snatch my hand back. “Because we haven’t done it in your bed? Whose fault is that—?”

“No, I—” He breathes out his nose loud enough that it tells me he’s starting to lose patience. “I don’t want you to be one, Ys.”

“Oh,” I say. I go quiet for a moment. “So we’re just never going to go to your house?”

“No—” He shakes his head. “Was gonna get a new bed—ordered one and everythin’. Thought maybe I could keep you… satisfied at Claridge’s, till it came, but—”

“I’m satisfied…” I tell him, nose in the air.

I like him a bit again now.

“Apparently not.” He gives me a quarter of a smile, then pushes back from the table, beckons me over to his lap and I oblige him because he’s Joah Harrigan, and actually, it turns out, I quite hate hating him—even though I did it only ever so briefly and barely at all.

He puts one arm around my waist; the other he throws over my legs—and he’s looking at me with these eyes—they’re so blue, remember?

But also, there’s a funny, ever-growing tenderness in them that I don’t think I’ve ever seen him sport for anyone but me.

I don’t think he’d like to know, actually, how he’s looking at me.

I think if we were walking down the street and we passed another couple and the boy was looking at the girl the way that Jo looks at me without realising, I think he’d absolutely tear that poor boy a new one—so we mustn’t tell him.

I push some hair behind his ears.

“Jo—”

He says nothing, just tilts his head at me, waiting.

“How many… notches —do you have?”

Immediately, he’s shaking his head. “I’m not telling you—you don’t want my answer—”

“Yes I do.” I frown, feeling a bit defensive. “I’m not a prude.”

He tilts his head, puts his hand on my cheek, looks at me with those eyes he’d hate to know he gives me.

“I know you’re not.” He gives me a gentle smile. “Still think you don’t wanna hear my answer though, Ys. And I sure as fuck don’t wanna give it. But I wanna hear yours.”

“That hardly seems fair…”

“S’pose not. Go on, you first—then we’ll see after that.”

“I don’t know—” I shrug. “Like, thirteen people? Including you?”

It’s funny, actually—after I say that, ever so slightly, his grip on my back tightens, his mouth presses together, nods a couple of times, swallows—goes quiet for a few seconds—I think he’s visualising it? He’s gone a bit pale.

He runs his tongue over his front teeth as he thinks.

“You know all their names?”

“Yeah? Oh—” I pause, casting my mind back to New Year’s Eve 1993. “There’s only one I don’t know.”

He nods coolly. “Can I have all their names? I just want to talk—”

I give him a look because he’s being silly, and then Jo goes quiet again for a few seconds and I know he’s running away with it in his mind.

He’s very competitive, you see? And territorial, and yes, we might have arrived where we are quickly, we might have fallen down the mountain, as opposed to consciously, intentionally having hiked down there—but we’re in the valley now.

We are where we are, that just is what it is—and Joah, in this present moment, is absolutely beyond a shadow of a doubt, being entirely assaulted in his brain by images of me having sex with mystery men.

“Whoa—” He starts shaking his head for the millionth time today. “—fuck. No, I fuckin’ hate that, like—?”

I hold his face with both my hands.

“Jo, it’s not a big deal…”

He puts his hands on top of mine, gives me a look. “No, it’s not. But it is, you know what I mean—?” He shoves his hands through his hair, he looks stressed now, genuinely stressed. “Am I the best?”