It Would Be Wrong to Steal My Sister's Boyfriend by Sophie Ranald

table and we had our dinner, which was delicious, but we didn’t talk because Ben was tapping away on his phone, pretending to be Lucille on Twitter again, I suppose. Afterwards I stacked everything in the dishwasher and put the kettle on.
    We drank our tea in silence, and after a bit Ben said he’d better head off, because he had to get up at six to cycle a hundred miles before work, or something. Then he said, “You do know, don’t you, Ellie, that if Oliver dumps Rose for you, especially if he does it on the basis of you losing a stone and getting some highlights done, that would make him a bit of a cunt?” He picked up his coat and laptop bag and plugged himself into his iPod and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek before striding out of the front door, slamming it thunderously behind him as he always did.
    The next morning, as I lay in that pleasant state of semi-consciousness in between pressing the snooze button and actually getting out of bed, I remembered waking up next to Ben after our first night together. I’d swum foggily out of sleep – not that there had been much of it, because whenever I’d felt myself drifting into that borderline reality that precedes a dream, Ben’s presence next to me had brought me to nerve-tingling wakefulness, and I’d reach out and touch him. The sheets were damp and twisted and I was feeling hungover and a bit sore from all the sex, and the night of sweat and gasped, surprising words and sudden glimpses of Ben’s face – so very, very close – was over. I opened my eyes cautiously to thebright morning. My clothes were scattered on the not-very-clean carpet and the room had that smell single blokes’ rooms have, sort of essence of man.
    I turned over slowly, not wanting to disturb my companion from the night before, should he prove to be an embarrassingly hideous product of beer goggles. But he wasn’t. He was Ben, and he was wide awake, his bright blue eyes watching me quite solemnly, but his white, even teeth showing in a grin. I grinned back and reached across the bed for him.
    Later, as we slurped our way through copious amounts of builder’s tea and crunched slice after slice of and toast and Marmite, Ben said, “So, what’s the plan? The delights of London lie at our feet. We can visit any one of the capital’s myriad galleries and museums, admire the glorious autumn foliage in its many parks, take in world-class theatre or opera...” He dropped the travel documentary schtick. “Okay, we can’t do that, because I’m skint. But we can do any of the others. Or we can stay here and gaze mindlessly at daytime telly.”
    “Admiring the ads for loan sharks and ambulance-chasers?” I said.
    “Not today,” Ben said. “Today will be brought to you by
Saturday Kitchen
,
Come Dine With Me
and the footie.”
    I remembered it was the weekend. “We can’t have that,” I said. “No point wasting the day indoors watching daytime telly unless it’s properly shit.”
    “Good point,” Ben said. “More toast?”
    I looked at his strong forearms and bony, almost elegant hands as he scooped the knife into the Marmite jar, coming out with a proper huge dollop and spreading it thickly on a piece of toast. My throat felt tight with something in between longing and apprehension. “No, thanks,” I said.
    In the end we just sort of drifted out into the bright October day, and we walked,and we chatted. And in between finding out that we liked the same books, and hated reality TV but loved the shopping channels, and liked Razorlight but thought McFly were overrated, I felt myself beginning to panic. This wasn’t meant to be happening. I was off men, officially. I’d decided. I was going to be single and not get my fingers burned and not get hurt.
    So when we stopped on the South Bank, leaning over the parapet and watching the water, shimmering like crumpled blue foil under the clear sky, I blurted out, “You know what would be cool?”
    “What?” Ben said.
    “If you