Lucy in the Sky

stumbling around in the darkness, cursing as he stubs his toe on the end of the bed. I don’t stir. I can’t fall asleep, but I’m stubbornly trying to. My alarm will wake me up at 5 a.m., to give me time to get dressed, catch a cab to Paddington and jump on the Heathrow Express. As it is, I’m out of bed at 4.30 after about only two hours’ sleep, and spend the extra time working the concealer on the bags under my eyes. I creep around getting ready, so as not to disturb James, but he’s out cold.
    I decided the night before what I was going to wear: dark blue jeans and a fitted greeny-bronze jumper, which brings out the amber flecks in my eyes.
    Nathan’s flight has already landed when I arrive at the airport at 6.20. I wait behind the ropes, watching as incoming passengers emerge into the arrivals hall. After a couple of minutes I feel restless and decide to go and get myself a hot chocolate. There’s a queue and I shift from foot to foot as I keep an eye on the sliding doors. I’m anxious. I take my drink back to the ropes and waitagain, alongside the minicab drivers holding their white signs. Just as I’m starting to worry I might’ve missed him, the doors open and he’s there.
    He looks different, unfamiliar. I watch him intently as he searches the crowd for me. He’s wearing a faded green hooded top and beige-coloured cords and his black guitar case is slung over his shoulder as he wheels a large suitcase. Finally he spots me and grins. My stomach starts to catapult.
    I’d forgotten how tall he was. I immediately feel myself blushing. He still has stubble and his dark hair is a little longer than it was before, falling messily to a couple of inches below his chin.
    ‘Hello, you.’ He smiles, bending down to kiss me on the cheek. Then he lets go of his suitcase and guitar and says warmly, ‘Come here.’ He wraps his arms around me in a tight hug and holds me for several seconds as I breathe him in. Memories come flooding back. He smells familiar, and it’s not his aftershave because he’s not wearing any; he just smells of Nathan. Suddenly I don’t want to let go. I squeeze my eyes shut as all the resistance and resilience I’ve been building up vanish in a nano-second. He releases me, gently.
    ‘How was your flight?’
    ‘Long,’ he answers. He looks exhausted.
    ‘Come on, it’s this way.’ I lead him out towards the trains, praying my legs will hold me up.
    Nathan is staying in a flatshare in Archway, north London, with Richard and three other antipodeans. It must be a big place to fit five of them in. Either that or it’s going to be a squeeze.
    On the train we grab two seats by the window, facing each other.
    We’ve barely spoken on the walk here and I’ve felt shy and awkward. Now, sitting here facing him, I force myself to lighten up and soon we relax back into each other’s company. He tells me about the two houses he’s done up and promises to show me the pictures when he unpacks his suitcase. We talk about work–my job and his new one, which he starts on Monday. And we chat about Sam and Molly and have a laugh about her ringing me up a few weeks ago and me thinking she was pregnant.
    We don’t talk about James.
    ‘I’m glad you’re with me,’ Nathan says as we change trains. ‘These tubes would have freaked me out.’
    ‘You’ll soon get used to them. They’re easy,’ I tell him.
    It’s still early on a Saturday morning so the carriages are practically empty, and we sit, side by side, swaying with the movement. I glance down at his left hand, steadying his guitar case between his long, slim legs. God, I fancy him. I shake my head quickly. Not this again. Please, not this again. But even as I’m silently saying it I don’t mean it. I like this feeling.
    I think of James stubbing his toe last night in the darkness and feel a rush of affection. Immediately feeling deceitful towards my boyfriend, I look away from Nathan and down to the other end of the carriage.
    The house where Nathan’s staying in Archway is a tall, three-storey terrace, halfway up the hill towards Highgate Village.
    ‘Highgate’s supposed to be nice,’ I say, thinking that Archway is a bit of a dump. He hasn’t seen ‘nice’ England at all yet and this is certainly a change from Sydney.
    He hauls his suitcase up the front steps, exhausted from wheeling it up the steep hill, and presses the doorbell. Eventually wehear movement and a tall, slim, attractive blonde with a pixie-cut hairdo