Joe X.’
I don’t sign off emails or texts with a kiss, except to family and close friends. But I know a lot of people do. So it probably wouldn’t have seemed particularly odd that Joe had done so if it hadn’t been for our relative positions at work and for the fact that we’d only spoken to each other for the first time that morning – although I was too weary to wonder about it by then.
I had just finished reading Joe’s email when Cara’s mum phoned to check that I’d been able to get into the flat and that everything was okay. It was while I was talking to her that the impact of the whole traumatic experience finally hit me and I had to end the call because I couldn’t stop sobbing. Then I went to bed and slept without waking until the following morning.
Joe made a point of coming to see me the next day, to ask if I was feeling better and if I’d managed to sleep. He sat on the edge of my desk in the large open-plan office for about half an hour, talking about what had happened and studying the diagram he asked me to draw to show exactly where the flat was in relation to where the rioting had kicked off in the street below.
Part of my job involved setting up exhibitions of paintings and sculpture at various galleries around the country, and although I hadn’t had any direct contact with Joe before then, he was ultimately responsible for my team. So there was nothing unusual in the fact that we were both included in the emails that were sent round to everyone a couple of days later suggesting we should all meet up for a drink after work one evening. We didn’t get the chance to talk to each other on that occasion, however, because I was held up at the office and didn’t make it to the bar until after Joe had left.
Meanwhile, what only a determined optimist would have referred to as my ‘love life’ was barely ticking over. Anthony, the married man I was ‘seeing’, had only been to my flat once during the few weeks prior to the night of the riots. But, based on the emails and texts he occasionally sent me – and on a great deal of wishful thinking – I still considered myself to be in a relationship with him. Not that my situation with Anthony had any relevance to how I felt about Joe. Although Joe was friendly and seemed very pleasant, I wasn’t interested in him in that way. So I was surprised to receive an email from him one day when I was doing some research in a large art gallery in London, asking if I’d like to meet for a quick coffee after work.
‘Unfortunately, I can’t,’ I emailed back. ‘I’m meeting some friends.’
His answer came almost immediately. ‘That’s a shame. I’m going to Berlin in the morning. I’ll be away for a week. Of course, we could always meet there for coffee …!’ To which I responded in the same jokey manner and was flattered when he suggested we should have a drink when he got back.
I did see him the following week, after his trip to Berlin, but he didn’t say anything about the emails or about getting together for a drink. So I sent a text to my best friend, Sarah, asking whether she thought I should mention it to him, and she answered, ‘Go for it! Just see what he’s like. You’ve been really miserable and you deserve to be happy.’ And when I texted Joe, he suggested meeting for a drink after work a few days later.
Apart from those few emails and texts, we’d only ever spoken to each other about work and the riots, so I don’t know what I was expecting to happen when we did meet up. I still believed I loved Anthony, even though we saw each other only rarely by that time. But although I wasn’t ready to admit it to myself yet, I think I already knew, on some level, that we weren’t going to have a future together, and I often wished I could have the sort of normal, uncomplicated relationship with a nice, single guy that most of my friends had.
I’d only really had one serious relationship before I started seeing Anthony – which had lasted several years before we split up. So the prospect of having what seemed to be a date with Joe made me both nervous and excited. In fact, I was so agitated on the day itself that I barely ate anything, and as I made my way to the trendy, expensive club where he’d suggested we should meet, my stomach was rumbling noisily.
‘Get a grip,’ I told myself severely as I pushed my way through the almost solid tide of commuters heading in the opposite direction, towards the train station from which I’d just come. ‘It isn’t really a date. You’re just meeting a man you barely know for a drink.’ It was true that I knew almost nothing about Joe, except that he was clever and seemed to be universally liked and respected by his colleagues. But, for some reason, I’d been looking forward all day to what I kept reminding myself was just a casual drink.
I’d been delayed leaving work and was a few minutes late by the time I arrived at the club and climbed the stairs to the rooftop bar where I was due to meet Joe. There was still time to stop for a moment in front of the long mirror on the landing, though, and when I did so I was horrified by the red-faced, flustered-looking woman staring back at me. ‘Well, that’s a good start,’ I told her. ‘He’s going to be thrilled when he sees you!’ Then I imagined what he might say, which made me wonder, anxiously, what I would say to him. What would we talk about? What if he thought I was boring – as well as being an unattractive shade of puce and suffering from severe, and very audible, digestive problems? What if he made a quick excuse and fled as soon as he could do so without appearing to be downright rude?
‘For heaven’s sake, calm down,’ I told the woman in the mirror, silently. ‘You can do this. People don’t normally dislike you. You can hold a conversation and have fun. You’ve got some really nice, intelligent friends who wouldn’t bother with you if you were boring and stupid. You just need to move away from the mirror now and believe that everything will be all right.’
When I stepped out on to the roof of the building a couple of seconds later, it was as if someone had suddenly turned up the volume on the muffled buzz of conversation that could be heard from inside. In fact, the bar was full of people, and as I scanned them in search of Joe I could feel the knot of anxiety tightening in my already protesting stomach. ‘Perhaps he hasn’t arrived yet,’ I thought. ‘Maybe something’s kept him late at work. Maybe he won’t come at all.’
Then I saw him, sitting on a sofa with his head bent over his phone. Just a split second later he looked up and saw me, and as his face broke into a smile the knot in my stomach unravelled and I suddenly felt completely calm. After that, even the awkward bit was easy – those seconds when you’ve spotted the person you’re meeting but still have to cross the ground between you, not knowing whether to maintain eye contact and keep smiling inanely or look away until you’re within hand-shaking or cheek-kissing distance.
Joe stood up when he saw me, and as soon as I was close enough to be able to hear him above the laughing chatter of the crowd he leaned forward and said into my ear, ‘I’ve got you a drink already. A gin and tonic. I hope that’s okay?’
‘That’s perfect,’ I said, sinking on to the sofa beside him. ‘Thanks. And hi.’
On the relatively rare occasions when I go out on weekday evenings when I’m working, I don’t stay out late. But Joe and I were still in the bar four hours later, laughing and talking as though we’d known each other for years. He was funny and charming, and the more we talked, the more struck we were by how much we seemed to have in common. Everything I liked, Joe liked – and had something interesting or insightful to say about it. We laughed at the same things, had the same list of countries we wanted to visit, admired the same people, loved the work of the same artists, had read or wanted to read the same books, had the same opinions about films we’d seen, and loved or loathed the same foods …
That first evening I spent with Joe was quite possibly the best evening of my entire life. I don’t know whether I lacked self-confidence any more than anyone else, but I could hardly believe that someone like him could be so obviously attracted to someone like me. The hours just flew by, and when
