Page 7 of Head Over Skis

I cringe after the word leaves my mouth, wishing I’d taken a second to think of something cooler, but he doesn’t laugh. Instead, he types something into his phone, and before long the first notes of a Waitress song are echoing around the kitchen.

‘What is all this?’ I ask, gesturing to the cup of tea in my hands as well as around the room, which has a mysteriously well-hidden sound system.

‘You seemed upset, so I’m trying to make you feel more comfortable.’ He shrugs, and I haven’t had a one-night stand before, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t how they normally go. Neither of us say anything for a while, but I’m surprised at how unawkward it feels.

‘You want to talk about what’s going on?’ he asks, his body leaning back against the countertop.

‘Why? So you can pity me?’

‘I was hoping more so we can talk it through then I can carry you back upstairs and fuck you,’ he casually replies, like he’s stated the weather.

I’m shocked again, words dying on my lips, so I look down at the mug in my hands to compose myself and mutter, ‘This was so not part of the plan.’

Rory shifts and scratches the back of his neck.

Warily, he starts, ‘If I did anything to upset you, I’m sorry. I thought you wanted to—’

‘Oh, god no, that’s not – you didn’t—’

I fumble as I try to reassure him, realising I’m going to have to tell him the truth to stop him from thinking he’s overstepped in any way. I came onto him so strongly it would be no wonder if he was confused, and the last thing I want is him feeling bad over something totally out of his control. I put the cup of tea down on the counter beside me and clasp my hands together in my lap.

‘You really want to know what’s wrong? It was that painting you have above your bed. The snowy one, of the mountains in the Alps or something.’

His features pinch in confusion, and I resign myself to the fact I’ll have to keep going, because that admission alone will make no sense to him.

‘I’m going there tomorrow. The Alps, I mean. We’ve had this ski holiday booked for forever. Me, Tilly, David, a couple of others and… Adam.’ I pause before I say his name, swallowing down the lump that’s crawled up my throat.

‘It was supposed to be fun, until Adam and I “broke up” two weeks ago.’ I carry on, doing air quotations for those two words. Rory’s puzzled expression remains, so I elaborate even though it would probably be best if I stopped.

‘It’s not that uncommon for us; he’ll get in his head about something, convince himself he can’t be in a relationship right now, we’ll break up because he’s decided that’s the best thing for me, but it’s more of a “break” and usually only lasts a few days or maybe a week. Before long he’s apologising and begging me to take him back, blah blah blah…’

I try to act nonchalant and go to take a sip of my tea, but the steam burns my lips. I lower my mug and notice Rory frowning.

‘And you do? Take him back, I mean?’

I shrug. ‘Usually.’

‘Usually?’ Rory echoes back at me. ‘Something different this time?’

‘Well…’ I deliberate whether to lie, wanting to make the moment sound less awful than it was, but I realise it doesn’t matter what picture I paint of Adam or our relationship here. I’m minimising it, knowingly omitting all the good sides of Adam that are very much there, but it’s not as if Rory’s ever going to meet him.

‘What’s different is that this was the first time I’d come back to our flat post break-up and found him sleeping with a girl from work in our bed. Classy, right?’

I laugh so I don’t cry, trying to shove the image out of my head from that night I found them together. I’d been coming back to the flat to pick up some of my stuff to take to Tilly’s. I was ‘moving out’, but I’d ‘moved out’ three times before and always ended up coming back home. I thought this time was the same, but I guess I was wrong.

‘So now I’ve got a two-week holiday in the middle of nowhere with a twat-head I’d rather not see right now, but I can’t back out because it was really expensive and I’ve booked the time off work and they’re my friends too and if anyone should not go it’s him.

‘And tonight I wanted to not think about that and try and be spontaneous and have some great sex, or maybe even average – I’d take average – but I end up at a guy’s house who has an homage to the Alps in his bedroom so now I can’t stop thinking about it and—’

I stop when my throat closes up and, oh my god. Am I crying?

This can’t be happening. I lift the mug up again and take a few scalding-hot sips to try and play off that I’m thirsty and not struggling to speak because I’m crying over my ex like a loser when I’ve got one of Britain’s sexiest men in front of me. Like, totally top ten.

He’s going to think I’m crazy, if he didn’t already – I practically jumped him after knowing him for all of two minutes, only to then have a breakdown. God, I’m not made for this casual fling thing, what was I thinking? I’m about to leap off the side of the island and bolt when Rory’s hand brushes my cheek, catching a tear.

‘You know, if the painting is the only problem, I have other bedrooms.’

I laugh at that and am grateful as I remember again that he lives alone in a Clapham townhouse. I take a sip of my tea, before placing the mug behind me and wrapping my arms back around his neck. If he can overlook the last two minutes, I know I’d rather stay here and find out where the night could go instead of getting back on the sweaty tube.