Page 85 of How We Began

Next year we won’t need to separate out our clothes from one another’s as they come out of the dryer.

Next year I will have to cook for myself.

Next year I will have no one to tell me my tea tastes like pee. Well, maybe Meredith.

(4.45 p.m.)

After we finished the boring domestic stuff, and when I say boring I don’t mean boring at all, what I mean is some sort of domesticated heaven, we headed off to Borough Market. The stalls were winding up business for the day and we held hands as we walked through the quietening streets to the pub where we had our first date. The pub where he made me fall in love with him just by being him.

A perfect Ben and Lilah day is an old-fashioned pub, pints of beer, and a jukebox on the wall.

None of it is real.

I put on Taylor Swift, ‘Fifteen’. Apparently she didn’t know who she was supposed to be at fifteen.

Me either, love. I’m twenty-six, and I still don’t bloody know who I’m supposed to be.

11th February

I went to another viewing after lectures. Another shit hole, I should clarify. This one had a staircase that smelt very strongly of pee, and not the animal kind.

Ben is ‘super’ excited about his trip to the States. He’s going to be gone for the whole of the Easter holidays.

Yippee flipping doodah!

Valentine's Day is in three days. I’m going to hide. I think that’s the most sensible and mature approach.

13th February

“Why are you here?” Tristan asked with his ability for annoying questions as I crashed back through the door to our soon-to-be old flat in Putney. I’d travelled light, just me and two bottles of wine.

“Why are you here?” I countered.

“I live here.”

“Well, it’s my home, too. Just thought I would have one last night in the old place before we pack up and move.”

Anyone smell bullshit?

“No, you’re not. You are hiding because it is Valentine's tomorrow.”

“Am not.” My bottles of Pinot clinked in their plastic bag.

“Sure you’re not, Lilah,” Tristan said, giving me a sad little shake of his head like I was the most pathetic being he’d ever clapped eyes on.

Which I probably am.

“So what are you loved-up kids doing tomorrow?” I asked as I hoisted myself up onto the work surface.

Tristan was making one of his sandwiches. It’s always fun to watch. He’s like a builder layering up the perfect sandwich. They are so big, I’ve never managed to finish one, even before I went on the now non-existent Delilah Detox Plan.

“I’m taking her to a show.”

No eye contact.

“You are taking her to a show?” I squealed and kicked my feet against the kitchen cabinets.

“Yep,” he replied, layering his third piece of bread.