Sunrise

It was the right thing to do, regardless of the consequences. I hope I never forget that.

At about half past five Annie was getting tired, and made it clear that it was time for us to leave. I turned off the music that no-one was listening to and went next door. I tried to take as long as possible putting on my shoes and collecting my things in the hope that the other two would leave without me, but it was clearly hopeless. So I went through to Annie's room and announced, subdued but unremarkably so, that it was about time we headed off. Lucy had already said goodbye to her but they would see each other the next day anyway. I hugged her as though trying not to break her, unable to meet her eyes any more than on the night I heard about her fling with Jimmy. The muttered inanities continued till we reached the door, then that was it.

I have no idea what we talked about as we walked down the stairs and along the street. My mind was firmly on Annie, on the prudence of finally making a move, eighteen months after very nearly kissing a girl I then barely knew. When we came to the end of the road, ready to go our separate ways, I had no idea what to say. So I just stood there, looking for all the world like a man who had just come to his senses after a year-long trance, and was trying desperately to make sense of his surroundings in the shortest time possible. "I'm an idiot," I murmured apologetically, by way of introduction to an explanation which would now have to follow, then looked back up the street in the direction of Annie's flat. Lucy followed the direction of my gaze with growing bemusement; then they both turned and looked at me as though I were totally insane.

I turned to Andrew. "Do you mind if I talk to Lucy for a minute?"

"Okay," said Lucy. She looked intrigued. I wondered if she thought I was about to tell her I wanted her. I had been flirting with her recently; but only to throw Annie off the scent. Why I wanted to throw Annie off the scent is beyond me.

Andrew nodded and withdrew without a sound to the other side of the street, where he proceeded to loiter outside the supermarket. I wondered if he thought it was to do with him. I hadn't had any respect for him since the night he got scared I didn't like him, and told me so. A clever kid, but hideously insecure; only nineteen, and waging constant war with his weaknesses as he strove to find acceptance in a foreign city.

I'd never felt a greater affection for Lucy than at this moment; possibly because this was the first time I'd had a specific need for her presence, her advice. Oliver's insinuations about my tendency to pay more attention to people when I have a use for them were clearly not without foundation. But I knew that anyway. My irritation with him stemmed from the fact that this was a tendency which most people shared to some extent; from the fact that he was far from perfect himself, and there was no need to remind me so regularly of the flaws of which I was already well aware. I hated his flagrant exaggeration of various aspects of my personality: to have your sights set on a career, and to be willing to work towards it, seems to me a normal course of action. I can't say I consider myself exceptionally ambitious, given my current circumstances. Those who rage against "ambition", against capitalism and materialism, simply for want of anything better to do, can get on my nerves. But it's hard not to come across as some sort of Machiavellian cynic when your friends try to force you to define yourself in terms of opposition to the extreme end of the liberal spectrum, however jovially they might go about it.

I hadn't really thought about what I was going to say to Lucy, not that it really mattered. "I don't know if you heard about the saga...not that it was really a saga...between me and Annie."

She looked blank, as I'd expected her to, and I went on to tell her about how I'd liked Annie when I first met her, about how this affection had waned only to return with a vengeance in the last few weeks. "You do a good job of hiding it," she told me. I told her I wanted to go and tell Annie how I felt, and asked her whether she thought this was a good idea, told her it wasn't fair to send me back up if she knew I would certainly make an idiot of myself. I watched her wrestle with her excitement at the revelatory gossip. All she could tell me was that Annie had never said anything to suggest either that she was into me, or thought I was into her; but she still enthusiastically endorsed my plan. People are terrified of seeming negative in this sort of situation.

I'd already realised, deep down, that there was no chance. I could tell when we were alone in her room, and I suggested she join me on the sofa, and she shrugged it off and carried on showing me her photos. And later, when I lay down on her bed, and she leaned out as I leaned in. Sitting up, tense, with her arms crossed. I turned away and pretended to fall asleep. Just one night before, when Oliver asked me if I thought she wanted me, I had congratulated myself on the ostensible modesty of my noncommittal answer. I'd never really had cause to doubt it.

Lucy wished me good luck, which seemed horribly cute, and rejoined Andrew as I walked back up the street. The birds had been singing for what seemed like hours, but there was no-one around. I was glad to have bitten the bullet. When I was about two doors short of her place I realised I'd better figure out what I was going to say to her. It only took a couple of minutes: there wasn't much to say, after all. I called her and told her I'd forgotten something, said I was outside and could she buzz me in. I might have woken her up; she sounded mildly annoyed to be dragged out of bed, affectionately playing it up. She buzzed me in, and I walked up the stairs.

It was mildly surreal to find myself poised to tell Annie how I felt after such a long time. As soon as I saw her it struck me how ludicrous the whole situation was, and I was surprised to discover I didn't care. "What have you forgotten?" she asked, in a playfully chiding tone. I was still climbing the stairs, and my eyes escaped to the landing on my left as I felt a bashful grin spread across my cheeks.

With my left hand, I shyly grappled with the back of my neck, a manoeuvre I seem to whip out every time. In my head it looked boyish and endearing. "I'm not very good at this sort of thing," I began. It occurred to me that there was something ridiculous about having the conversation out on the landing. As soon as I was inside I realised it didn't make any difference where I did it. Slowly, self-consciously, but without any hesitation or uncertainty, I said my bit. "When I said I was going to miss you, I meant it; I guess I only just realised quite how much. This probably seems completely nuts, but I know I'd always regret it if I didn't say anything. I really like you, Annie." My hands had retreated to my pockets.

I'm glad I didn't tell her I loved her. I do, of course; but in my experience telling a girl you love her either makes her stop liking you or start liking you too much, and this would have been a case of the former. Still, it would have been a novel thing to say it and mean it.

A big smile appeared on her face. I think most girls like hearing this stuff from any guy, as long as there's nothing grotesque about it. I knew what was coming, though. She said she loved me to bits, that I was one of the "gems" she'd met in her time here, that her friends all thought the world of me as did she. I can't remember if she even said the "but"; I didn't wait for her to finish before I smiled and hugged her and told her it was alright. I said it had been a great couple of years, and told her to have an amazing time in Italy. Then I hugged her again, and said the same thing again. I must have hugged her about three or four times before I left; not because I particularly wanted to hug her, but because I couldn't think of any other way to fill the seconds and it would have seemed too violently absurd to walk in, get turned down and then walk straight out again.

I'm glad I didn't kiss her on the cheek when I hugged her. I must have remembered talking to that girl in Buenos Aires. She thought I was coming on to her and smiled sardonically as she walked away. Some would be furiously offended, but I understood: not a case of contemptible Latin pride; just a simple misapprehension.

I was shocked to find myself smiling as I walked back down the street. A carpet of grey cloud glowered down at the city, blocking the sunrise, and I remembered the utter despair that I'd felt a couple of months earlier when walking away from the Polish girl's place. This time I felt somehow content, mildly exhilarated. I realised that I hadn't told her in order to get into her bed; that I'd always known it wasn't reciprocated; that even if I'd had a cast-iron guarantee of rejection I would have told her nonetheless, and that was why I'd left it till the end. I was crazy about her and wanted her to know it; and now I could go to London, and leave her to go to Italy, without having to beat myself up over what might have been. The peculiar sense of satisfaction lasted the whole of my walk home, as I traversed the granite landscape, silent and alone. Because I'd told her; and she knew; and that was all that really mattered.