What Happens Now?

Jess busied herself with mugs and milk while I remained with my head on the kitchen table, gazing at the TV in the corner where a politician whose name I should know was droning on about some scandal in the Sunday papers.

‘Walt was upstairs,’ Jess went on, ‘but I’ve sent him home.’

Walt was an art dealer – full name Walter de Winter – who Jess had been dating for the past couple of months. Very English and very posh, he always wore corduroys and was ‘too fumbly’ in bed, Jess had told me a few weeks ago. But he took her to exhibitions and discussed painters with her.

‘Oh sorry,’ I said, sitting up. ‘I didn’t mean to crash your Sunday morning.’

Jess shrugged in her dressing gown. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I want to know everything.’ Then she lowered her voice. ‘And I can’t spend all day with him again. Yesterday afternoon was too much but I’ll tell you about that in a minute. You first.’

I wondered where to start. ‘OK, so we met at the pub, and it was total agony to begin with.’

‘Why?’

‘Just sticky. Couldn’t think of anything to say so made small talk about where we lived until a couple of drinks in.’

‘What happened then? Do you want sugar?’

‘Two please. And then it just got a bit easier. Talking, I mean. Then our respective relationship history came up.’

She spun around from the kettle on the sideboard and raised her eyebrows at me. ‘Did it now?’

‘I didn’t bang on about it. Promise. And he mentioned his ex as well so we were equal.’

‘OK, go on.’

I sat up from the table and leant back against my chair. ‘And then… we just stayed there getting more and more pissed, basically.’

‘Aaaaaaand?’

‘Then he suggested going back to his place.’

‘Aaaaaaaaand?’

‘And then, well, we had sex.’

Jess put a mug down in front of me so hard that tea spilled over the edges on to the table. ‘I’m not cooking you breakfast for that pathetic recap. Come on, more details.’

I heard the front door close in the hall and Clem appeared in the kitchen in his dog-walking kit: ancient green Barbour with plastic bags bursting from one pocket and a whistle hanging around his neck. ‘Lil, top of the morning.’ He bent down and kissed my head. ‘Bit early for you, isn’t it?’

‘Shhhh, Clem, she’s telling me about her date and she’s just got to the sex,’ said Jess.

‘Excellent,’ said Clem. ‘Can I join in? Is the kettle on?’

‘It’s just boiled,’ said Jess. ‘And I’m making bacon. Want some?’

‘Yes please.’

‘It was sort of… athletic,’ I started. ‘Because he’s a climber.’

‘A climber?’ said Clem. ‘What does he climb?’

‘Be quiet, Clem. He’s climbing Lil right now,’ said Jess, peeling rashers of bacon from a packet and laying them in a frying pan.

‘He sort of threw me around. Was quite… dominant. One minute I was underneath him, the next he was behind me.’ I stopped and thought. ‘It was like having sex with the Jolly Green Giant.’

Jess threw her head back and laughed. ‘Ha, I’m so jealous. Did he have a jolly green penis?’

Clem sat down heavily at the table. ‘Girls, it is the Sabbath, you know.’

‘Never mind Jesus, Clem,’ said Jess, then she looked back at me. ‘How have you left it?’

‘OK, this is the thing,’ I said. ‘When I woke up this morning, he was gone.’

‘Gone?’ they chorused.

‘Mmm. As in, gone from bed. His bed. Vanished. And I found a note in his kitchen that said he had “work”.’

‘Have you got the note?’ said Jess.

‘Yes, Miss Marple,’ I said, leaning forward in my chair and sliding it from my jeans pocket. ‘Here you go.’

She smoothed it on the table and read it silently.

‘But yeah, I would like to see him again,’ I said, while Jess read. ‘It was the ideal date, after the first bit. We chatted for hours in the pub. And I did vaguely wonder whether I should play hard to get and not go to his place, but it just felt so natural, that I thought, why not?’

Jess nodded while still looking at the note. ‘I’m not sure rules like that matter any more.’

‘I’m always thrilled if a girl comes home with me on a first date,’ added Clem.

‘Well that’s the other thing,’ I said. ‘I know it was just a first date, but it felt like there was more to it than that. That there was something, you know?’

Jess looked up at me from the note. ‘Well it’s not Shakespeare. But it’s sweet. Polite. Good manners. Have you texted him?’

‘No, obviously not. I can hardly form proper sentences this morning, let alone compose a message.’

‘OK, let’s have breakfast and then think about it. You need to be casual yet sexy. Clem, you’re on toast duty. And can you get the ketchup out? And put the kettle on again. We all need more tea.’

‘Some people call Sunday the day of rest,’ he said. But he stood up anyway, winking at me as he did.

An hour or so later, plates smeared with egg yolk and baked bean juice, Jess held her hand out and asked for my phone.

‘OK, but can you not send anything without checking first?’ I said, passing it over the table.

‘Obviously I won’t. But I’m very good at this.’

I narrowed my eyes at her.

‘I am!’ she insisted. ‘Aren’t I, Clem? Didn’t I help you with whatshecalled last week? Milly? Philly? Jilly?’

‘Tilly,’ corrected Clem, who always had someone on the go. Mostly petite blonde girls who he wooed intently with Spotify playlists and by taking them for romantic walks along the river. They often disappeared shortly after he cooked for them, but Clem remained stoically unaffected and simply moved on, as if he were a Labrador looking ahead to its next breakfast.

‘Yes, Tilly, exactly,’ went on Jess. ‘How long is she going to last, by the way? I had to help her with the front door because she couldn’t work out how to open it.’

‘She’s very sweet and the door was probably double-locked,’ said Clem, ‘and anyway, at least she’s not boring. I had to hide in my bedroom last week because Walt was loitering downstairs and I couldn’t face another conversation about his latest artist. And he leaves terrible skid marks in the loo, if you hadn’t noticed.’

‘Clem!’ said Jess. The house echoed with cries of ‘Clem!’ several times a day. ‘At least he’s got a brain.’

‘Enough!’ I said, interrupting them before they really got going. ‘Can we write this message?’ I nodded at my phone in Jess’s hands. ‘What about “Thanks for last night, had a lovely time. Hope the head’s feeling all right this morning.” With one kiss?’

Jess looked disgusted. ‘You can’t say “had a lovely time”. That’s what you’d say to a great-aunt who’d taken you out for tea and scones. And not the head thing either.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s feeble, that’s why.’

I sat back in my seat and thought. Funny how much energy we can all expend on a few words in messages like these. Hours, potentially, to write a message that was designed to sound as if it had been composed casually in a few seconds.

And that was when I saw him, while I was gazing blankly at the news again. I didn’t take it in for a few moments. I just stared at the screen, thinking the dark hair looked familiar. Then I realized. It was him. It was Max.

But WHAT? What the hell was Max doing on television? Why was he sitting in the news studio talking to the news presenter? I looked at the time. Just after midday. I’d left his apartment basically three hours ago and he was now in front of me on the screen. I felt like I was dreaming. Maybe I was dreaming? Maybe I was still asleep and this was all made up. But it didn’t seem like a dream. I wiggled my fingers in front of me. They were definitely my real fingers. And a fresh bout of bickering between Jess and Clem over the washing up was also quite loud and real, which is why I couldn’t hear what Max was saying.

‘It’s your turn,’ Jess said, reaching for our plates.

‘Guys…’ I tried to interrupt, eyes remaining on the TV.

‘Absolutely not,’ said Clem. ‘I did it last night.’

‘Shhhhh, don’t fight in front of guests,’ said Jess.

‘Calm down, it’s just Lil,’ he replied.

‘Guys, stop it,’ I said, louder, so they both looked at me.

‘What?’ said Jess.

‘It’s Max, it’s the guy, he’s… he’s there… he’s on TV.’ I nodded my head at the television and they both turned to it. ‘Can you turn it up a bit, Clem?’

‘British explorer Max Rushbrooke aims to be the first man to scale…’ Jess started reading from the screen but stopped at a complicated name.

‘Muchu Chhish,’ said Clem. ‘In Pakistan, I think.’ Then he swivelled round in his seat to look at me. ‘But, Lil, that’s Max Rushbrooke, the explorer. You went on a date last night with Max Rushbrooke?’ He sounded offensively surprised.

‘Technically she didn’t just go on a date with him. She shagged him,’ said Jess, who’d stopped gathering plates and was also staring at the screen. ‘But who is he? How do you know about him, Clem?’

‘Shhhhh, guys, seriously, can we just watch for a second?’ I nodded at the television again and gestured at Clem to turn the volume up.

‘It’s a daunting expedition. My most ambitious challenge to date,’ said Max, ‘but I’ve dreamt about this mountain my whole life. Ever since I was a small boy.’

‘How confident are you about succeeding?’ said the presenter, a blonde woman who was wearing quite a tight, red dress and straining towards Max.

Max looked seriously at her, his eyebrows knitting together. ‘Pretty confident. I wouldn’t do it otherwise. We just have to keep our fingers crossed for a weather window.’

‘And when do you leave?’

‘We fly from London next week, and then it’s about a week to base camp where we’ll be acclimatizing for a few weeks. Then hopefully starting the climb shortly after that, hopefully mid-October,’ Max replied.

‘Well we’ll be rooting for you, and thank you very much for coming in,’ said the presenter, still gurning at him.

‘Not at all,’ said Max. ‘Thank you for having me.’

They smiled at one another again before the presenter swung back to face the camera. ‘That was Max Rushbrooke talking about his upcoming expedition to climb Muchu Chhish, one of the highest unconquered mountains in the world. So best of luck to him, and next we’re going to Adam for the weather.’

I put my hands to my cheeks and shook my head in disbelief. ‘I mean,’ I started saying, ‘I had no idea. He just said he was a climber.’ And then I thought about his flat. ‘But it makes more sense now. He had photos of himself in climbing kit and pictures of mountains everywhere.’

‘I’m confused,’ said Jess. ‘Clem, how do you know about him?’

‘Guys, come on, he’s pretty well-known,’ said Clem, frowning as if exasperated by our lack of expertise about explorers, remote control still in his hand.

‘No?’ he said, to our blank faces. ‘He’s a sort of Bear Grylls. I think they’ve climbed together, actually. And I’ve read about his expeditions before. Max’s, I mean. Can’t remember what the last one was…’ He stopped and frowned. ‘Somewhere in Tibet. And I think he comes from quite a posh family. His dad’s a cousin of the Queen or something.’

‘Well I’ve never heard of him,’ said Jess. ‘But he’s hot. Lil, this is amazing. I’m going to google him.’ She picked up her phone. ‘OK, M… A… X… Rushbrooke,’ she said as she tapped. ‘Fuck! He’s got his own Wikipedia page. Lil, you’ve shagged someone with a Wikipedia page!’

‘Modern romance,’ I said, getting up to peer over her shoulder. Annoyingly, a little part of me was pleased by this, but there was no way in hell I would openly admit that. ‘Let’s have a look.’

‘“Max Rushbrooke is an English mountaineer and guide,”’ Jess read. ‘“He is one of Britain’s leading high-altitude climbers and has summited Mount Everest ten times. He was born in 1985” – so he’s…’

‘Thirty-four,’ I said. ‘I knew that already. It said that on his profile.’

‘Went to Eton College then… Er, didn’t go to uni. Went to Sandhurst. Oh my God, with Prince William. Then it just lists loads of expeditions.’

‘There was some Everest disaster a few years back,’ said Clem authoritatively from the other side of the table. ‘Bad weather and they got stuck. He might have nearly died. I think they all nearly died.’

‘Shhhhh, Clem,’ Jess went on, flapping her hand at him. ‘Lil, listen to this bit. “His older brother Arundel died in a skiing accident in France in 2002…”’

‘Oh shit, he didn’t mention anything.’

‘But listen to this,’ went on Jess, still staring at the computer screen. ‘“His older brother Arundel died in a skiing accident in France in 2002, which makes Max the heir to his father, the 17th Viscount Rushbrooke. The family seat is Little Clench Hall in Suffolk and their estimated wealth is around £135 million.”’ She looked up at me. ‘Lil, he’s a trillionaire! Did he not mention any of this?’

‘No, course not! What would he have said? “Hello, Lil, nice to meet you. I’m Max. My brother died when I was younger which makes me a viscount as well as a famous mountaineer and, oh, did I mention I am also very rich?” I paused. ‘I think I like him more because he didn’t talk about it.’

‘Technically, he’s not a viscount yet,’ said Jess. ‘But he will be.’ And then she added, quickly, as if all her words were trying to overtake one another, ‘Oh my God, imagine, you could be a viscountess.’

‘Jess, come onnnnnnn. We haven’t even sent that message,’ I said, reaching for my own phone to look Max up on Instagram. Bingo. There he was. Blue tick, 64.2k followers. I scrolled through his photos. Mostly him on mountains – in France, in Canada, in Switzerland. Max on the top of Everest last August, shards of ice in his beard.

‘There’s some stuff here about his ex-girlfriend,’ went on Jess, and then she put on a high-pitched posh voice. ‘Lady Primrose Percy and Max Rushbrooke are believed to have dated for several years.’ She looked up at me. ‘Did he talk about her?’

‘Briefly, only when we discussed exes.’

‘Look, here’s a picture of them,’ said Jess, squinting at her screen. ‘She’s got quite a long nose. And a big forehead. I don’t think we have to worry about her.’

‘Show me.’

She held up her phone. Lady Primrose was pretty. Jess was exaggerating about the nose. And blonde and smiley. It was a picture of them taken at a party. Max had his arm around her waist, she was tanned and wearing a strapless top that showed her collarbones. She looked quite thin, irritatingly.

‘Mmm,’ I said, as Jess lowered her phone again. ‘He didn’t actually mention her by name but she must have been the one he was talking about. But then he said our date wasn’t a therapy session and we had to discuss something else.’

‘We need to compose that message right now,’ said Jess, firmly. ‘Clem, do the plates. Lil and I really need to think about this. Oh this is thrilling. Imagine how furious Jake would be if he knew.’

Jake. I hadn’t thought about him since the day before, which meant he hadn’t taken up any head space for nearly twenty-four hours. Practically a record.

Jess insisted that she take my phone back again and concentrated on the message while I sat at the table, still reeling from this discovery, and Clem wearily picked up our plates and slid them into the sink. The news shouldn’t change how I felt about Max, I knew, but part of me couldn’t help but feel even more impressed by him. Why was sleeping with someone even slightly famous such a thrill? Did that make me a bad person?

Jess was quiet for a few moments while tapping.

‘What are you saying? Jess?’

She ignored me.

‘JESS?’

She looked up. ‘Cool it. All I’ve said is “Gorgeous Max, what a night. Looking forward to the next one. Dot, dot, dot.” And then two kisses. Little ones. Bit more casual than one big kiss. Less premeditated.’

I shook my head. ‘I’m not saying that, give it back. I can’t say “looking forward to the next one”. It makes me sound mad. Even more psycho than calling him “gorgeous Max”. I hate the word gorgeous. Come on, give it back.’

Jess sighed. ‘Here you go. But it’s too late. I’ve sent it.’

‘WHAT? Jess, you promised.’

‘I did no such thing. And come on, Lil, men need encouragement like that. They can be very slow otherwise.’

‘Oh, thank you very much,’ interjected Clem, from the sink.

I checked my phone. Two grey WhatsApp ticks. She had sent it.

‘Fuck. Jess. That isn’t cool. Clem, what do you think about that message?’

He turned his head to look at us. ‘Honestly, girls, Churchill wrote some of his greatest speeches with less fuss than this. I’m sure it’s fine.’

I winced with embarrassment and stared at my phone screen, willing the message to come back. Could I send another message to him, explaining the first to lessen this intense embarrassment? Or did that look even weirder? Was it even possible to sound weirder? I wasn’t sure.

‘I wish you hadn’t,’ I muttered. But I could never get cross at Jess.

‘What were you going to tell me about Walt anyway?’ I asked her, deciding to change the subject and remembering what Jess had said earlier.

She frowned at me.

‘You know. You said you’d tell me something. About Walt. About yesterday.’

‘Ohhhh.’ She nodded in recognition. ‘Yes. He said he’d bought us tickets for a weekend in Paris.’

‘That’s sweet of him. Isn’t it?’

‘Incredibly sweet, that’s the trouble.’ Jess bit her lip and looked guilty. ‘A man tells you he’s bought tickets for a romantic weekend in Paris and your heart should leap right out of your chest. I should be rushing off to buy sexy knickers and thinking about all the oysters and the shagging.’

‘And you’re not?’

She shook her head. ‘Not really. Not at all, in fact. My first thought was “Ooooh, Paris. I wonder if I’ll meet any hot men.”’

‘Not ideal,’ I agreed.

‘Anyway, it’s not for a few weeks. So I was sort of noncommittal about it. But I felt so guilty I said I’d go to this exhibition opening at his gallery on Friday. You free? Will you come with me? Then we can stand in a corner and get pissed and decide what I should do.’

‘Think so,’ I said, looking at my calendar on my phone. ‘Yup, I am.’ My week looked bare, but I was hoping that one of the nights might be a second date with Max. Or at least I’d been hoping that before Jess sent the world’s most embarrassing message.

I didn’t get home until about nineish and the ticks beside the message were still grey. I was trying to stay breezy but that clearly meant he was ignoring it. Who didn’t check their phone for seven hours? Even Mum looked at hers more often than that. Max had definitely seen it. I just had to hope that they’d go blue and he’d send something back later that evening. I imagined he would, he didn’t seem like the kind of guy to just ignore a message, however embarrassing it was. Good manners to reply, right?

I found Grace and Riley doing yoga in the living room on their mats, laid out in front of the TV.

‘Hi, guys,’ I said, dropping my bag on the kitchen counter.

‘What time d’you call this, missy?’ said Riley, remaining twisted in his pose, his head hanging down between his legs.

‘D’you shag him?’ added Grace, in the same position.

I paused and then laughed. ‘Yes.’

They both cheered from their mats.

‘Good work,’ said Riley, admiringly. ‘Grace only gave me a gobby on our first date.’

Grace reached out and smacked him on the leg. ‘You’re a pig.’

‘What’s a gob— actually, do you know what? Never mind,’ I said, knowing that I’d regret asking him.

‘It’s a blowie,’ clarified Riley.

‘Mmmm. I guessed,’ I said, opening the fridge to see if it had anything promising in it. I’d been eating biscuits all day at Jess and Clem’s but I still had a little gap for a snack. A piece of toast, maybe. My forty-seventh cup of sugary tea that day.

‘Oh, darl, you seen the Sky remote?’ said Grace, standing up on her mat and frowning. ‘We can’t find it anywhere.’

I felt a stab of guilt, knowing it was in my bedside drawer, lying next to my vibrator. But shook my head and reminded myself to smuggle it back into the living room.

‘Sorry,’ I said, trying to look innocent, before excusing myself for a bath, saying I was desperate for an early night.

I left my phone on the bath mat so I could see if it blinked with a message. It didn’t. But just after 10 p.m., I got an alarming email from my boss, Miss Montague, St Lancelot’s headmistress.

Dear Miss Bailey, started the email. There was a school rule that all staff call one another by their surnames, which most of us ignored so long as we weren’t within earshot of Miss Montague. Please could you come to my office at 7.30 a.m. tomorrow morning for a meeting.

I felt instantly guilty. One week into the school year and I’d already done something wrong. What could it be? Mothers were always emailing the school on Sunday evenings having spent all weekend brooding over something spectacularly minor – a lost sock, a quibble about the school’s internet policy, was the cottage pie served at lunch last Thursday made with antibiotic-free beef? There was no matter too trivial for a St Lancelot mother. I set my alarm for 6.15 a.m. and went to sleep with my phone on vibrate on my other pillow. But by the time I drifted off, Max still hadn’t messaged.