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‘And she’s just had a baby?’ he says. ‘You wrapped a gift for the baby last month at work.’
‘I did,’ I say, pleasantly surprised that he remembered the connection.
‘And how is that baby?’ he asks.
‘Hungry. His name is Harry.’
‘Like Prince Harry?’ he asks.
‘More like she’s obsessed with Harry Styles.’
I hear him laughing. I take a turning past the main market building and head towards one of the side roads, milling through the overspill of a pub where people stand with pints and vapes, wearing Christmas hats, pretending they’re enjoying themselves.
‘Any chance you could stop for a hot drink somewhere?’ he asks me. ‘I can literally hear your teeth chattering.’
I emit a shuddered laugh. The alcohol is starting to wear off. I had thought the walking and double-coat situation would keep me warm but my toes are saying different.
‘Everywhere is kind of closed unless I go into a pub. I will endure. What are the first signs of frostbite?’ I ask casually.
‘Pins and needles, discolouration, digits randomly falling off,’ he reels off.
‘Then I’m fine. I will wait till I get home. I will use a cuppa and cake as myincentive.’
‘Wedding cake?’ he asks me.
‘Yes. Don’t tell anyone but I stole three pieces,’ I tell him, pulling a face but happily swinging a gift bag in my hands.
‘Three?’ he says. I can’t tell if he’s appalled. It was in a pyramid piled high by the doors and no one was about. It was also red velvet and that stuff is both rare and expensive anywhere else.
‘It was wrapped so fancy. I couldn’t resist. I’m saving it for when I get home with a cup of tea.’
‘Proper party animal then?’ he says.
‘I may eat the cake with my hands, watch this space.’
I smile to hear him laughing again. I cross over Covent Garden, past a group of drunken Christmas revellers wrapped in tinsel, in a joint chorus of ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’One of them takes my hand, trying to twirl me under his arm. I oblige and send him on his way.
‘It sounds busy there,’ Leo says.
‘It is festive bedlam but maybe in the best possible way. I’m sticking to the busy routes so I feel safer. Are you in bed then?’ I ask him.
‘I am,’ he replies hesitantly. ‘And there’s you telling me off for being mildly inappropriate.’
I laugh, walking past a huge white stone theatre front, the last of the theatregoers waiting on the steps, clutching on to programmes.
‘I was just being curious. I am also envious. I would do anything to be there, right now.’ I say. ‘In bed. A bed, any bed. Not your bed,’ I say to clarify. ‘Though your bed was very comfortable on that one occasion I did sleep in it.’
‘You liked my sheets if I remember,’ he reminds me.
‘I did. Well remembered.’
‘I have the same ones on tonight.’
‘And what are you wearing?’ I ask him. I don’t quite know where that’s come from. Blame the dregs of wedding alcohol inmy system or the fact I feel comfortable enough to make that joke with him but I bite my lip, hoping I haven’t overstepped.
‘I’m in bed. I’m in my pants. Is this the part where you ask me what I’m doing?’ he jokes. I freeze for a moment. Are we doing this because I’m outside? I panic, if my cheeks were blushing before, they’re now ablaze like the space in between Frank’s eyebrows. He’s joking. He must be. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m walking through London, freezing my tits off. I’ve just watched a man pee on a bike rack,’ I tell him.
