It Started With A Tweet(76)

We roller along in silence again; all small talk seems to have deserted me.

He starts to hum a song and it takes me a few minutes before I realise that it’s ‘The Sound’ by The 1975.

I start to hum it too, and before long he’s started tapping away pretending he’s on the drums and I’m singing the few lyrics that I know. I start laughing as we peter out, forgetting how the rest of the song goes, and I realise that I’ve momentarily stopped painting.

‘I bloomin’ love that song. I saw them last year at a festival; they were amazing. Have you ever seen them live?’

‘No,’ he says shaking his head. ‘I would like to. The last band I went to see was the Foo Fighters.’

‘Oh, now they are amazing live,’ I say, as I’m suddenly transported back to the time when I was sitting on some random man’s shoulders as Dave Grohl personally serenaded me with ‘Everlong’. Or at least that’s what it felt like.

‘They were incredible,’ he says, looking into my eyes and we both smile.

‘If only I had my phone,’ I say, realising how much of my life I used it for, ‘I could have put on their new album as we paint. I don’t think it’s as good as the old stuff, but it’s still pretty good. Perfect for painting, you know, getting a little bit rocky and angry.’

I start singing ‘Best of You’ while pounding the walls with paint as if to illustrate my point.

Alexis laughs, and I notice for the first time he has dimples. If only he had longer hair he’d be a dead ringer for Harry Styles, which reminds me that he’s far too young for me.

‘It’s funny, I didn’t have you down for someone who liked rock music,’ I say.

‘Oh yes, I like rock. I love to see bands live.’

‘Me too. It’s one of my favourite things to do.’

‘They ’ave music in the pub sometimes, I think. Not as good as the Foo Fighters, but perhaps you will come?’

It’s been a long time since I went to see a garage band in a local pub. Probably not since I was sixteen, when I used to go to the only pubs that weren’t picky about having ID. Usually a dive full of underage people, middle-aged grungers and a lot of goths. All I can remember was a sea of black T-shirts and straggly unwashed hair.

I shudder at the thought. The local pub here seemed a bit bigger and brighter than that, so maybe it’ll be different.

‘Maybe, I will.’ I shrug my shoulders as if it’s no big deal. I mean, it’s just going to watch a band.

I look around at the walls and the room suddenly seems cavernous.

‘You know, this paint doesn’t seem to be hiding the grey,’ I say stepping back. ‘We’ll be painting this room for days.’

‘It won’t be so bad, at least we will be painting together,’ he says, with a hint of a smile.

I try and hide my blushes, thinking of the silver or, in this case, grey, lining.

‘We ’ave a lot in common, you and me, no?’

I think over the question. I guess we do. After bonding about losing our dads, we seem to have more and more in common each time we speak.

‘We do,’ I say, smiling.

‘After this, you will return to London?’

That’s the million-dollar question at the moment. When am I going to return back home? Where is home now, with me having been evicted from Erica’s? And what will be waiting for me if I do go back?

‘I guess.’

‘You ’ave a ’ouse there?’

I chortle. ‘No, it’s very expensive to live there. I’ve almost saved for a deposit to buy a flat, but it will be small, practically a studio; you know what a studio is?’

He shakes his head.

‘Everything’s in one room: your bed, kitchen, living room. The whole thing would be in a room smaller than this,’ I say laughing.

It feels weird to think about the abundance of space in this house alone, and that’s before Rosie tackles the barn. She let slip the other night when we were drinking how much this place cost and I nearly fell off my stool. I’d be lucky if I could buy my studio for that.

I look out of the window at the view over the hills. The lush palette of green striking a contrast to the bright white that Alexis’s slapping on next to it. I wonder what my view would be like, or even if I’ll have a view. I start to feel claustrophobic thinking of house upon house crammed together in the streets that I’m used to.

Not that I should be worrying about a flat when I have no way of affording a mortgage, which no one would give me anyway without a job.

My breathing starts to get a little shallower and my heart begins to beat faster at the thought of the real world.

‘Are you OK?’ asks Alexis, coming over and placing his hand on my back.

‘Yes, fine,’ I say lying, as I try and take deep breaths.

It’s funny, as, up until now, I’ve always loved strolling around London, with its energy and chaos, that feeling that there’s always someone awake or something going on. I’ve always felt like I was part of it. I imagined I’d hate it here – it being almost the polar opposite. It’s so quiet and dark, and after I turn in for the night I’m pretty sure that there’s nothing going on anywhere. I’d expected to feel lost, but, in fact, I don’t, I feel strangely calm.