Time since last Internet usage: 2 weeks, 4 days, 19 hours, 48 minutes and 5 seconds
After yesterday’s near kiss, I’m not wildly ecstatic about spending the morning painting the lounge with Alexis, but the walls aren’t going to paint themselves. At least it’s a big room, and hopefully the paint fumes will drown out his aftershave. I’ve realised that being down in the dumps about my lack of career prospects is not going to get any better by kissing the handsome Frenchman. He’s not a frog, after all, who’s going to magically turn into a prince and solve all my problems.
‘You ready to commence?’ says Alexis with a smile. He climbs down a ladder, having masking taped the edges of the newly installed windows.
He goes over to the industrial tin of white paint that we’re using to coat most of the farmhouse walls with, and prises off the lid. His arm muscles flex as he does so, and I try not to look. I keep telling myself it would be a bad idea, as how awkward would it be living and working in this small house if we hooked up?
‘So, shall I do this one?’ I say, picking the wall with the doorframe that leads to the kitchen, as it looks like the one that requires the least amount of attention to detail.
‘OK. I start ’ere,’ he says, pointing to a section right next to where I’m going to be working. So much for me keeping my distance. He pours the paint into the roller tray for me before doing the same for himself.
There’s something very satisfying about painting on a virgin, plastered wall. I roll on a few lines of white and, unlike the stripping, what I’ve done is immediately visible.
Thanks to yesterday, there’s a slight tension in the air and I can’t work out if it’s frisson or awkwardness. I just wish Rosie were working with us with her endless chatter.
‘So, do you like it up here?’ I ask, trying to fill the void of silence.
‘Up the ladder?’
‘Up here, in the Lake District, this part of England,’ I say, remembering that I have to be more specific to ease the translation.
‘It is a beautiful part of the world. Everyone is very friendly. If you wake early tomorrow, you come with me for a walk.’
‘Perhaps I will.’
We go back to our painting and I wonder if I’ll wake up alert enough to go with him, as for some reason the Cumbrian air keeps me in a deep sleep.
We roller along in silence again; all small talk seems to have deserted me.
He starts to hum a song and it takes me a few minutes before I realise that it’s ‘The Sound’ by The 1975.
I start to hum it too, and before long he’s started tapping away pretending he’s on the drums and I’m singing the few lyrics that I know. I start laughing as we peter out, forgetting how the rest of the song goes, and I realise that I’ve momentarily stopped painting.
‘I bloomin’ love that song. I saw them last year at a festival; they were amazing. Have you ever seen them live?’
‘No,’ he says shaking his head. ‘I would like to. The last band I went to see was the Foo Fighters.’
‘Oh, now they are amazing live,’ I say, as I’m suddenly transported back to the time when I was sitting on some random man’s shoulders as Dave Grohl personally serenaded me with ‘Everlong’. Or at least that’s what it felt like.
‘They were incredible,’ he says, looking into my eyes and we both smile.
‘If only I had my phone,’ I say, realising how much of my life I used it for, ‘I could have put on their new album as we paint. I don’t think it’s as good as the old stuff, but it’s still pretty good. Perfect for painting, you know, getting a little bit rocky and angry.’
I start singing ‘Best of You’ while pounding the walls with paint as if to illustrate my point.
Alexis laughs, and I notice for the first time he has dimples. If only he had longer hair he’d be a dead ringer for Harry Styles, which reminds me that he’s far too young for me.
‘It’s funny, I didn’t have you down for someone who liked rock music,’ I say.
‘Oh yes, I like rock. I love to see bands live.’
‘Me too. It’s one of my favourite things to do.’
‘They ’ave music in the pub sometimes, I think. Not as good as the Foo Fighters, but perhaps you will come?’
It’s been a long time since I went to see a garage band in a local pub. Probably not since I was sixteen, when I used to go to the only pubs that weren’t picky about having ID. Usually a dive full of underage people, middle-aged grungers and a lot of goths. All I can remember was a sea of black T-shirts and straggly unwashed hair.
I shudder at the thought. The local pub here seemed a bit bigger and brighter than that, so maybe it’ll be different.
‘Maybe, I will.’ I shrug my shoulders as if it’s no big deal. I mean, it’s just going to watch a band.
I look around at the walls and the room suddenly seems cavernous.
‘You know, this paint doesn’t seem to be hiding the grey,’ I say stepping back. ‘We’ll be painting this room for days.’
‘It won’t be so bad, at least we will be painting together,’ he says, with a hint of a smile.
I try and hide my blushes, thinking of the silver or, in this case, grey, lining.
‘We ’ave a lot in common, you and me, no?’
I think over the question. I guess we do. After bonding about losing our dads, we seem to have more and more in common each time we speak.
‘We do,’ I say, smiling.
‘After this, you will return to London?’
That’s the million-dollar question at the moment. When am I going to return back home? Where is home now, with me having been evicted from Erica’s? And what will be waiting for me if I do go back?
‘I guess.’
‘You ’ave a ’ouse there?’
I chortle. ‘No, it’s very expensive to live there. I’ve almost saved for a deposit to buy a flat, but it will be small, practically a studio; you know what a studio is?’
He shakes his head.
‘Everything’s in one room: your bed, kitchen, living room. The whole thing would be in a room smaller than this,’ I say laughing.
It feels weird to think about the abundance of space in this house alone, and that’s before Rosie tackles the barn. She let slip the other night when we were drinking how much this place cost and I nearly fell off my stool. I’d be lucky if I could buy my studio for that.
I look out of the window at the view over the hills. The lush palette of green striking a contrast to the bright white that Alexis’s slapping on next to it. I wonder what my view would be like, or even if I’ll have a view. I start to feel claustrophobic thinking of house upon house crammed together in the streets that I’m used to.
Not that I should be worrying about a flat when I have no way of affording a mortgage, which no one would give me anyway without a job.
My breathing starts to get a little shallower and my heart begins to beat faster at the thought of the real world.
‘Are you OK?’ asks Alexis, coming over and placing his hand on my back.
‘Yes, fine,’ I say lying, as I try and take deep breaths.
It’s funny, as, up until now, I’ve always loved strolling around London, with its energy and chaos, that feeling that there’s always someone awake or something going on. I’ve always felt like I was part of it. I imagined I’d hate it here – it being almost the polar opposite. It’s so quiet and dark, and after I turn in for the night I’m pretty sure that there’s nothing going on anywhere. I’d expected to feel lost, but, in fact, I don’t, I feel strangely calm.
‘What about you? Where do you call home?’
‘I was renting an apartment in Toulouse with my girlfriend before we left, but I am from a small town near the mountains, called Foix.’
‘Where are you going to go for your next help-ex placement?’
‘I am going to Scotland a week on Saturday.’
‘Wow, that soon?’
‘My month will be up. Unless I have reason to stay.’
That means my month will be up too. I promised Rosie I’d stay as long as he did. I can’t imagine being anywhere but here. I’ve actually got used to the rustic lifestyle. The lack of technology. The letters from Jack . . . I think of the last time I saw him and I hope that he’s back soon.
‘After Scotland,’ says Alexis, snapping me out of my thoughts, ‘I might then go to Spain for the summer, before Germany or Austria for the winter, somewhere I can snowboard. Then next year I would like to travel.’
‘Ooh, where to?’
I love living vicariously through other people who go travelling. I’ve never had the itchy feet of wanderlust, but I do have a bit of an obsession with following those who do on Instagram and poring over other people’s holiday snaps on Facebook. With the amount that’s out there, I often feel like I’ve seen the major sights without being forced to buy a brightly dyed pair of trousers or having the worst food poisoning imaginable with only squat toilets available.
‘I don’t know yet – Costa Rica, Panama. Somewhere with ocean and beaches. I’d like to learn to surf.’
Images of turquoise waters with golden sand and lush forest along the shore flood into my mind; the type of beaches that were made for Instagram.
‘I had some surfing lessons last year in Newquay. That’s in Cornwall, down South,’ I say, helpfully giving him a geography lesson. ‘It was bloody freezing, but it was a great weekend away.’
SURFING! Why didn’t I think of that when I was on the world’s worst date with Dickhead Dominic? I’m sure, despite me only doing it for six hours over one weekend, it still counts as a hobby. I bought a new bikini to wear under my wetsuit and everything.
‘I think I would like to learn. Was it difficult?’
‘Um, I didn’t find it easy, but then I’m not naturally very well-balanced. I’m sure you’ll find it easier as a snowboarder.’
‘Perhaps.’
I look down at my roller tray and realise it’s empty so I go to refill it.
‘I’ve never tried snowboarding – or skiing, for that matter. I always wanted to go on the ski trip at university but I could never afford it.’ I think back to how cheap it probably was, but back then a couple of hundred pounds would have funded almost an entire term of going out.
‘You should try it. I bet you’d like it.’
‘Maybe,’ I say, thinking that most of my skiing holiday fantasies have me sitting drinking hot chocolate in the lodge waiting for everyone to finish so that we can enjoy the après-ski.
‘You can come to my ’ouse in France; it is close to ski stations. I can teach you.’
He’s smiling at me again, and there are those bloody dimples.
I nod my head, thinking that this is making my illicit Harry Styles crush a hell of a lot worse. He chooses that exact moment to pick out a clump of paint from my hair, and as we stand there for a second, a wave of lust rolls over me. I almost want him to push me up against the wall and take me right here and right now – although I’m pretty sure it’d ruin my paintwork. By the time I’ve scanned the room for an alternative – fire hearth, too rough and bumpy; concrete floor, too uncomfortable and far too cold; rocking chair, probably a bit tricky to get the angles right – the moment’s gone and he’s turned his attention to the paint rollers and we go back to our respective walls.
The rest of the morning passes quickly, with Alexis and I chatting about Game of Thrones. A pretty confusing topic, not only because of the complex plots and ridiculous amount of characters in the show itself, but also because of our accents and different pronunciation of names. I’m pretty sure that other than Jon Snow neither of us knew who the other was talking about. Before we know it, we’ve done our allocated amount of daily hours, and Alexis heads off for another walk. I am far too hungry to go so instead I take up Rosie’s offer of lunch, and now she’s inspecting our handiwork.
‘So you got on OK with the painting, then?’ asks Rosie, surveying the lounge.
‘Pretty good,’ I say, thinking back over it and realising that I’ve practically been asked out on a date to the pub and a skiing holiday.
‘The walls are coming along nicely. I reckon they’ll take about four coats,’ she says.
‘Four,’ I say, sighing in disbelief, before I remember what Alexis said earlier about spending time together and thinking that might not be all bad.
‘So, I was thinking we should probably leave here at about five for the yoga class.’
‘I’d completely forgotten about that, but I could do with a good stretch,’ I say, demonstrating my difficulty in raising my arms above my head.
‘Great. So I’m guessing you’re going to do one of your daily pilgrimages to the mailbox, then?’ she says, giving me the smug look that she hasn’t given me for at least a week.
‘I guess I should; you know, to see if Erica has written to me.’
‘Erica, of course,’ she says, nodding in a way that makes me wonder if she knows what’s been going on with Jack.
I’m secretly hoping he’s back and has left me a note, but I don’t want to show that on my face so I try and look as normal as possible.
With the path being no match for my walking boots, I stride up purposefully and I’m almost there when I hear a woman giggling by the side of the crumbling barn. I recognise that long hair immediately.
‘Ooh, stop it,’ she says in mock protest, as she leans into a kiss and I see hands creeping over her bum.
It looks as if she got hold of Jack after all, so I spin on my heels, no longer caring what the mailbox holds.