Free An Autumn Crush by Milly Johnson

‘Cherrylips’. Floz carried on writing her poetry, but all through the
rest of the day, she wondered if that mail was from him . Surely not after a year and a half. But who else could it be? She wondered if by thinking about him she had released some call into
the cosmos and he had answered. There were a lot of people out there who wouldn’t have called that theory a rubbish one.
    Juliet rang her as she was musing over her sandwich.
    ‘Wotcher,’ she boomed. ‘Is it okay with you if Guy pops by later? With Steve .’ As she said the latter name, once again the derision crept into her voice.
    As Juliet was sneering at the second name, Floz was bristling at the first. She tried to sound casual at the prospect of seeing Guy Miller again.
    ‘Sure,’ she said, cool as a cucumber that had been stored in a freezer all night. ‘What time will they be coming?’
    ‘I said six, if that’s okay with you,’ said Juliet.
    Floz looked at the clock – that gave her five hours to look as if she hadn’t made any effort at all.
    ‘Sure,’ she said again, thinking she needed to find a new ‘self-assured’ word.
    ‘We’ll order a curry in,’ said Juliet.
    ‘I could throw some pasta together,’ suggested Floz quickly. ‘Nothing fancy.’
    ‘Ooh, that would be nice,’ said Juliet, who preferred home-cooked food to takeaways any day. ‘Don’t go mad with effort though; it’s only Guy and Steve .’
    ‘You don’t like Steve much, do you?’ said Floz.
    ‘Nope,’ replied Juliet. ‘And you watch yourself, Floz, because he’s an absolute dog. However, he’s also a damned good plasterer and I need him to sort out my
kitchen wall.’
    So why was Guy coming as well? Floz asked herself. It wouldn’t have taken two people to plaster a crack in the wall. After their rude introduction, she would have thought the flat was the
last place he’d want to come with no valid reason. She voiced the question.
    ‘Why is . . . your brother coming up with him?’
    ‘Because the pair of them are joined at the sodding hip,’ replied Juliet. ‘I’ll pick up some wine on the way home. Cheers, babe,’ and with that she was off.

 
Chapter 11
    Floz tore around the supermarket and bought breadmaker flour, fresh pasta, a cooked chicken and all sorts of veg to throw into a white wine sauce. For dessert she played it
simple: exorbitantly priced raspberries, cream and meringue nests for an Eton Mess – with a kick: she’d add a soupçon of Pernod from Juliet’s fancy spirit and liqueur
supply. Most of it was unwanted corporate presents, some of it was because Juliet liked to see weird and wacky-looking bottles with coloured contents and couldn’t resist snapping up a new
novelty one in supermarkets or on holiday.
    After all the shopping had been put away in the cupboards, Floz then raced around the flat with a vacuum and afterwards slipped in the bath to soak in something perfumed and to wash her hair.
Picking what to wear was a bit of a minefield. A floaty dress signalled that she’d tried too hard, her old jeans and T-shirt: not tried hard enough. After trying on and rejecting half her
wardrobe, she settled on a blue hippy top and light-blue jeans, and a coordinating blue-heart necklace. Then she put on an apron and started to prepare the meal.
    Floz thought she had got the right dress balance until Juliet arrived home from work and immediately said, ‘Ooh, you look nice. But there was no need to dress up for those two, you
know.’
    ‘Oh, I didn’t dress up,’ protested Floz. ‘I . . . er . . . spilled some coffee down myself earlier, so I changed my top.’ It sounded like the lie it was and Floz
cringed, but Juliet didn’t seem to notice. She was too busy taking in pasta-sauce-flavoured breaths.
    ‘Smells lovely,’ she said. ‘You’re a good cook, aren’t you? I bet you’ll even impress Guy.’
    ‘Is Guy a bit of a foodie then?’ asked Floz.
    ‘He’s a head chef, didn’t I tell you?’ called Juliet,