It Had To Be You: An absolutely laugh-out-loud romance novel

by Keris Stainton

  ‘Thanks for the talk, Bea,’ Adam says. He’s rolled his duvet up and is heading out of the room with it under his arm. He fist-bumps Henry on the way past and Henry’s eyebrows pull together with confusion.

  ‘He slept on the sofa,’ I tell him. ‘He and Celine had a row.’

  ‘Right,’ he says. He glances over his shoulder to make sure Adam’s gone. ‘Does he know?’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like it, no.’

  ‘Shit.’

  I drink the last of my tea and leave Henry in the lounge while I have a very quick shower. When I’m done, Henry is dressed and ready to leave, his hair still wet from the shower too.

  During the five minute walk to the shop, I recap my conversation with Adam.

  ‘I just assumed they were both cool with it,’ Henry says. ‘The fighting and the making up.’

  I glance at him. The tips of his ears have gone pink.

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ I tell him, as we wait at the traffic lights. ‘I know that arguments are meant to be healthy in a relationship or whatever. But maybe not that much?’

  Henry shrugs. ‘Me and Caroline used to argue, even have massive rows sometimes, but nowhere near as much as Celine and Adam.’

  I want to ask him about the making up afterwards, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I wonder if he’s thinking about it now too.

  He nods. ‘You never met Caroline, did you?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘You were together for a while?’

  He’s talked about her before. A little. Usually when drunk.

  ‘Four years,’ he says.

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  A bus passes and then we cross.

  He laughs, humourlessly. ‘Yeah. We were fourteen when we first started going out together and I know no one expected us to stay together – I didn’t either – but it was just so easy. We were really happy. But then we went to different universities. We’d planned to go to the same one to begin with – she was going to come to London too – but then she said she thought it would be better if we had a bit of space.’

  ‘Oh-oh.’

  ‘Yeah. You see, you say that. I agreed with her. I was thinking about meeting her at the station and having weekends together and how romantic it would be to do the long-distance thing. And it was, at first. I remember going to meet her at Euston and she ran up the ramp – you know, from the trains?’

  I nod and steer him around a guy heading into the grocer’s with a pile of fruit crates on a tip-up trolley.

  ‘She ran up the ramp and practically jumped on me. She nearly knocked me on the floor, you know. But people were looking and she was kissing me and it was just… it’s still one of my best memories.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘She invited me up to stay with her – she was at Sheffield and she loved it. She said she wanted to show me the university and her halls and for me to meet her friends and everything. But I knew within about half an hour of being there that she’d fallen in love with someone else.’

  ‘No!’ I actually stop walking, I’m so shocked. ‘But why would she invite you, if—’

  ‘I think she was trying to convince herself to stay with me. Maybe. Or she wanted to compare us? I don’t know. But I spent the weekend being a passive aggressive arsehole and then when I got home she rang me and finished it.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘That sucks.’

  ‘Yep.’

  We pass the cinema and Subway – I don’t really know what to say – and then a laugh bursts out of him.

  ‘The look on your face when Adam stood up in those tiny pants.’

  I let out a bark of laughter of my own and immediately cover my mouth with my hand. ‘Oh my god, I know! What were they?!’

  ‘I think the Australians call them “budgie smugglers”,’ Henry says.

  I laugh again. ‘To be honest, it was kind of a relief. I thought he might be naked.’

  ‘Fuck, don’t say that. I’ll have to get the sofa covers cleaned.’

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Third date?’ Freya says, waggling her perfectly threaded eyebrows at me. We’re in her room again, lying on the bed, propped up against the headboard. She’s bought one of those lamps that looks like a film spotlight. She buys something beautiful for her room every payday. The last thing I bought for mine was a condensation trap.

  ‘Yes.’

  I still feel sick with nerves, but I’m assuming that’s normal. People talk about having butterflies like it’s a good thing. I would like them all to die.

  Freya wolf whistles, clicks her teeth, rolls her eyes. ‘Is he on a promise?’

  ‘God,’ I say. ‘No.’

  ‘Does he know that?’

  ‘Is that really a thing?’ I ask her, before drinking some more of the beer Freya insisted on for Dutch courage. ‘Like people expect sex when you get to a certain date, rather than it just happening, you know, naturally?’

  She reaches over and cups my cheek with her hand. ‘Oh, my sweet summer child.’

  ‘Shut up. It just makes no sense to me. Like, are we going to get the bill and then be like “Welp, guess it’s time to go and have some sex now!”?’

  ‘I mean… maybe? But it’s more likely that he’ll just be expecting that’s how the evening will end. He’ll have shaved his balls—’

  I pull a face.

  ‘And bought a multi-pack of condoms and made sure his roommates aren’t home, all that.’

  ‘God.’

  ‘Are you, you know?’ She whistles again and gestures at my crotch. ‘All sorted? Down there?’

  ‘God. I think so? I mean, I’ve done my bikini line.’ Just the thought of Dan being anywhere near my bikini line is making my ears go hot, and not in a good way.

  ‘Just your bikini line? You’re still full bush?’ Freya nods. ‘Retro.’

  ‘That’s still OK, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not, like, down my legs or anything. It’s neat.’

  ‘Hey,’ Freya says. ‘You do you. I think some men expect, like, a Brazilian still. Or the full Hollywood. ’Cos they’re all off their tits on porn. It’s more flexible in my circles. I’ve gone French – landing strip. But I’m going to grow it back ’cos it’s itchy as fuck.’

  ‘I don’t want that,’ I say. Just the thought of it is making me want to scratch.

  ‘S’fine. I mean, if he judges you on your pubes you don’t want him anyway, right?’

  I nod, remembering how I had my one and only waxing done after Anthony commented on the state of my bikini line.

  ‘And you know you don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to?’

  ‘God. Of course.’

  ‘I mean, I know you. I don’t want you to feel pressured.’

  ‘You’re the one making me feel pressured with all this third date bollocks.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She looks genuinely contrite. For once. ‘I just don’t want you to be surprised.’

  ‘And you really think he’ll be expecting it?’

  ‘I think he’ll be expecting things to move on a bit, yeah. At least.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  * * *

  Following the conversation with Freya, I put a bit more effort into getting ready for our date that I have previous dates. The thought of potentially taking my clothes off in front of Dan makes me feel sick with nerves. But that’s normal, right? Having sex with a new person for the first time is nerve-wracking.

  My first time with Anthony was my first time with anyone and it was unsurprisingly disappointing. I’d been incredibly nervous and so had too much to drink and don’t actually remember much about it except very clearly thinking ‘Is this it?’ I wasn’t sure what all the fuss was about. Things improved over the next couple of months, but it still never actually got good. Not for me, anyway. He always seemed to enjoy it.

  But whether I’m going to sleep with Dan or not tonight, a bit of preparation is definitely required. I exfoliate, shave and moisturise. I think about f
ake tan, but I’m rubbish at it and if we do end up having sex there’s no way we’ll be doing it with the lights on, so I think I can stay my usual pale self.

  I wonder if I should be the one to buy condoms. Equality and everything. But then that would suggest (to who? I don’t know) that I’m planning to have sex and I am definitely not planning to have sex. If we both get swept away and end up having sex then I’m sure… Yeah, I’d better buy some condoms on the way.

  I put on my favourite (and only) set of matching underwear. It’s not particularly sexy, but it’s nice and new-ish. I think about stockings and heels and roll my eyes at myself. I’ve never worn stockings in my life. I don’t even own any. I could nip to Tesco and buy some hold-ups, but why? I’ve got this image in my mind of what preparing to have sex is meant to look like and I don’t exactly know where I’ve got it from. Films, books, TV? A combination?

  The thing about the romantic comedies I love is that they often skim over the sex scenes. The older ones literally fade to black (if they get anywhere near a hint of sex in the first place) and even the more recent ones are pretty coy. Meg Ryan’s fake orgasm is about as explicit as it gets and she’s fully dressed in a cafe.

  Romance novels are often more detailed (sometimes a lot more) but I find it hard to picture it when I’m reading and I really can’t imagine myself actually doing most of it. And almost everyone in the novels I read have more experience than me.

  I wear a mid-length black dress that I love. It’s comfy, but also clingy so I hope it’s sexy. I’m pulling on my Converse when I realise I don’t know what kind of restaurant we’re going to. It might be too fancy for Converse, so I yank them off and put my black loafers on instead – they’ve got a bright pink sole. I love them, but they hurt like hell after about half an hour so I don’t wear them much. Hopefully I’ll be sitting down for most of the evening. Or lying down. No. Don’t think about that.

  I shower my hair in salt spray, fill in my eyebrows, slick on bright pink lipstick and I’m ready to go.

  I wonder if I can sneak out without anyone seeing me, but when I get downstairs, I find Freya, Adam and Celine in the kitchen. Adam and Celine are sitting at the table and Freya’s standing in front of the oven. The windows are steamed up and something’s bubbling on the stove; it smells of garlic and bacon. Am I missing carbonara? I love carbonara.

  Freya wolf whistles at me. ‘Get it, Bea.’

  I shake my head, laughing. ‘Oh shut up.’

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ Celine says. ‘Love those shoes.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I look down at my dress and my shoes that are already slightly pinching, but it’ll be fine once I’m on the Tube.

  ‘I would,’ Adam says and Celine smacks his arm. She’s got her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and she looks sweaty and wan. She still hasn’t told Adam she’s pregnant. She came to my room the other night and watched half of Crazy, Stupid, Love with me and she was so feeble that she hardly even took the piss, so I’ve no idea how he hasn’t worked it out. Clueless.

  ‘Don’t forget what we talked about,’ Freya says, raising one eyebrow at me.

  ‘Ohhhh,’ Celine says. ‘Is tonight the night? Is that why you look so…?’

  ‘So what?’ I say. ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Hot,’ Freya says.

  Celine nods. ‘That’s what I meant. Sexy.’

  ‘Oh god,’ I say. ‘Really?’

  Is Dan going to think so too? Is he going to think it means I’m ready to have sex?

  ‘You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to!’ Freya says again, obviously reading my mind. Or seeing the panic on my face.

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry. I’m twenty-five years old. I’m not going to have sex just because—’ I don’t get to finish the sentence because at that moment, Henry walks in and stops dead in the doorway, staring at me.

  He doesn’t look away and my face starts to heat up. Why isn’t he looking away?

  ‘You look…’ he starts to say.

  ‘Doesn’t she look hot?!’ Freya interrupts him.

  He shakes his head but as if he’s trying to clear it rather than because he disagrees.

  ‘You look great,’ he says, still looking at me.

  I can’t seem to look away either. His cheeks have gone pink and I dread to think how much I’m blushing, but I’m still just standing there, staring at him and he’s just standing there, staring at me. My stomach flutters with nerves. Or—

  ‘What time are you meeting him?’ Adam says.

  For a second, I can’t even think who he means and then I say, ‘Oh! Shit. Yeah, I’ve got to go.’

  I don’t want to go.

  ‘I’ll see you all later,’ I say.

  And then I leave.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It only takes me a couple of minutes to walk up to Seven Dials from Leicester Square Tube – it’s a lovely evening, the sun is low in the sky and it’s warm enough that I’ve had to take my leather jacket off but I’m already limping when I get there. I walk around the monument to make sure Dan’s not sitting on the other side (it’s small enough that I’m sure we’d be able to see each other, but I don’t want to take any chances) and sit down between a man wearing a backpack and staring down at his phone and a woman in black leather trousers and stilettos, also staring down at her phone.

  I want to take my shoes off, even just for a second, but I’m scared I won’t be able to get them back on. Instead I circle my ankles and try to breathe through the pain.

  I’m considering hobbling off to find somewhere to buy flip-flops when I see Dan getting out of a black cab in front of the Cambridge Theatre. He’s wearing a black and white stripy top, black jeans and black shoes with a brown sole.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, as soon as he reaches me. ‘Cool shoes.’ He lifts his foot to show me his.

  ‘I’m in agony,’ I say without standing up. ‘Can you get a takeaway and we’ll have it here?’

  He laughs. His face is really nice, especially when he smiles. ‘We could do. But I’ve booked a table… I could give you a piggy back?’

  I shake my head, reaching one hand out so he can pull me up. ‘I’ll be OK. I’ll just have to stop and cry every now and then.’

  Once I’m upright, he slides his arm around my waist. ‘Lean on me, yeah?’

  The first few steps are blinding agony, but as we head up Monmouth Street it dulls to more like blistering pain.

  ‘I could give you a fireman’s lift, maybe?’ Dan says. ‘I always wanted to be a fireman.’

  ‘Yeah? Why didn’t you?’

  He shrugs. ‘I don’t know really. I never actually thought of it as a real job. It was like when I was a kid, you know? Like kids want to be a fireman or a train driver or… what is it for girls? A ballerina?’

  I laugh. ‘I never wanted to be a ballerina.’

  ‘What did you want to be?’ he asks as we pass Brasserie Max, which is where I’d assumed we were going when he suggested meeting at Seven Dials.

  ‘Did you ever watch Pop Idol?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘It was like X Factor before X Factor. There was Popstars where they made a band and then another where they made rival bands and then Pop Idol. Will Young won it.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Dan says. ‘I know him.’

  ‘I can’t sing so I never thought about being a pop star or anything, but they had judges – like X Factor – and one of them was this woman, Nicki Chapman? And I wanted to be her. I wanted to encourage the bands and advise them and maybe take them shopping, get their hair cut, singing lessons, all that.’

  ‘You could do that, couldn’t you?’

  ‘Maybe? Like in PR. But I really don’t think I’m suited to it. I wrote her a fan letter though, she was really sweet.’

  Dan laughs. ‘I wrote one to David Beckham.’

  ‘Ooh! Did he reply?’

  ‘He sent a signed photo. I had it framed on my bedside table.’

  At the top of M
onmouth Street we cross the road and Dan says, ‘This is the place.’

  It’s a diner. Called The Diner. It looks nice, but not quite what I was expecting. It doesn’t say ‘expecting to have sex tonight’ to me, which actually drains some of the tension from my shoulders.

  ‘It looks great,’ I say.

  ‘You don’t care where we go, do you? You just want to sit down.’

  ‘I might weep tears of joy, yes.’

  We’re seated immediately, thank god, in a booth in the window and I prise my shoes off and stretch out my toes, groaning with relief.

  ‘I’ll never get them back on,’ I say. ‘But I’ll walk home barefoot, I don’t even care.’

  Dan dips his head to look under the table and I pull my feet up.

  ‘God, don’t look! They’ll be horrifying!’

  ‘Nah,’ he says. ‘I bet you’ve got cute feet.’

  I don’t even know what to say to that, so I hide behind my menu instead.

  We order drinks and while we wait, I pull my feet up to poke at the more painful bits while Dan tells me about the interviews he’s had.

  After our drinks arrive and I’m still rubbing my feet and wincing, Dan says, ‘Would plasters help? I could go and get some plasters.’

  ‘I think I’m beyond help, to be honest, but thank you for offering.’

  ‘Or maybe socks?’ He takes out his phone and starts tapping and by the time I’ve chosen meatloaf with a side of mac and cheese, he says, ‘A-ha!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s an actual sock shop just round the corner. What size are you?’

  ‘Five, but—’

  He’s already sliding along his seat. ‘Order me the burrito and I’ll be back in five minutes.’

  ‘You really don’t have to—’

  ‘You’re in pain. I’ll be five.’

  He disappears out of the door and I look back at the menu. I can’t believe he’s gone to buy me socks. Once, Anthony and I went out for dinner and then back to his place. I started to feel sick and he said I’d had too much wine, but then I threw up and started having excruciating stomach pains. I was lying on the bed, holding my stomach, trying not to cry, the bathroom bin next to me in case I vomited again, and Anthony told me he’d called me an Uber. He said he had work in the morning and couldn’t risk not getting a good night’s sleep. I had to stop the Uber three times on the way home to throw up at the side of the road.