the bathroom for the fifth time in the hope that they will have a chance encounter with him on the landing.
Sylvie wants to sleep with Joe. She flicks her dark hair in front of him, leaves shirt buttons undone to expose sexy underwear. The house smells of Chanel perfume. I watch in fascination as she bends down seductively to reach for the butter in the fridge, lacy thong on display. Jamie appreciates it. Olly can’t help but notice. Joe appears immune. Maybe he’s gay? But deepdown I don’t believe that, so I advise her to use another tactic; ignore him. Yet Joe still isn’t interested. I only know this because Olly and Joe go out to the pub on Monday nights, after their rowing session. ‘What do you talk about?’ I ask, because Joe isn’t exactly chatty.
‘Oh, everything,’ Olly says. ‘He’s a top guy. By the way, I’ve tried to convince him Sylvie’s fun. I reckon she’d be wild in bed.’
‘Olly!’
He laughs, tells me Joe is shagging someone else anyway, she’s called Zoe and they’re in the same anatomy tutorial. Joe says it would get messy and complicated sleeping with a housemate.
‘Phew. So I’m safe.’ I smile.
It’s Sunday morning. Chicken and potatoes are roasting in the oven. Pudding next. ‘Five large eggs, tick. Caster sugar, tick,’ I continue, assembling everything on to the kitchen table. I’m cooking Sunday lunch for Olly, who’s still in bed. Stanley were playing in a gig last night; they were the last band on, and by the time they played everyone was too drunk to care, and then the nail in the coffin was when the sound system packed up. At one point a meathead guy threw a beer bottle at Olly, shouting, ‘Loser!’ Joe left my side and approached theman saying, ‘Don’t be a dickhead all your life. Apologize, please.’
‘Apologize! Who the fuck are you? His dad?’
‘His friend, and you’re a fucking wanker.’
When he tried to punch Joe, he was so drunk that he staggered into a table instead. The entire pub clapped and cheered Joe on, especially the women.
I still think Olly needs some serious cheering up though, and the one thing he says he misses about home is his mother’s Sunday roasts.
‘Cornflour … tick.’ I jog on the spot, as if warming up for the next exercise. ‘Olly’s going to be blown away by my newfound culinary expertise,’ I say to myself. ‘White wine vinegar …’
‘Tick?’ Joe suggests, standing at the door. I turn to him. How long has he been watching me?
He enters the kitchen, asks me what I’m doing. He’s dressed in his rugby gear, a patch of dry mud encrusted on to his thigh.
‘Cooking.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘You never cook.’
‘It’s for Olly. Thanks for sticking up for him last night.’
‘Olly would have done the same for me.’ Joe glances at the recipe book.
‘Raspberry meringue roulade. That’s ambitious.’
‘Easy.’
‘Peasy lemon squeezy.’
I look at him, surprised.
‘Will there be any left over for me?’ He opens the fridge and takes out a carton of orange juice.
‘If you finish off my assignment.’ I think of my books upstairs, unread. ‘And take a shower.’ I crack an egg into a bowl.
‘Funny. Hang on! What are you doing?’
‘Cracking eggs into a bowl.’
‘But you’ve got to separate them.’
‘Separate them? Why?’
He looks incredulous. ‘Haven’t you made meringue before?’
I grab the book. ‘It says here, beat the eggs …’
‘The egg whites .’ He walks over to the table, picks up the bowl and chucks my previous effort into the sink, before taking two clean bowls from one of the cupboards. ‘Look and learn, Rebecca Harte,’ he says, with that arrogant smile. I watch as he cracks the egg against the side of the bowl. ‘I’m separating the egg into two shells,’ he comments, ‘moving the yolk back and forth …’
‘I can hardly contain my excitement.’
‘Watch.’ The egg white falls into one of the bowls,he drops the yolk into the second bowl.