I let go of Martin’s hand.
‘Hello.’ Pete looked at Martin and then me.
‘Hi, Pete,’ I said politely, trying not to think of the last time I had seen him, when his lips had brushed against my neck. ‘Been out?’
‘Just popped to Ottolenghi.’
‘Popped, eh?’ he repeated, looking at Martin quizzically.
‘Oh, Martin – this is Pete Carroll, my neighbour.’
‘Martin Joy,’ he said, extending his hand. Pete kept his hand firmly in the warmth of his pocket.
‘Pete’s at Imperial. Doing a PhD,’ I said, trying to break the awkward mood.
‘Impressive,’ said Martin. ‘What in?’
‘Machine Intelligence.’
‘Oh, I work in fin-tech. We should talk when you finish.’
Martin hesitated for a moment. I thought he was going to produce a business card and was relieved when he didn’t. Perhaps Pete would forget his name, although I knew deep down I was fooling myself.
‘Well, I need some milk,’ said Pete, turning towards our local shop.
‘See you in the week,’ I said, as casually as I could.
‘I think he likes you,’ whispered Martin, as Pete disappeared inside.
‘Are you jealous?’
‘A little. Because I like you too.’
We were at my front door now. I knew this was my chance to tell him how I was feeling about Donna. That I was jealous and upset about them meeting. But we were on my front doorstep, close, so close, and I didn’t want to do anything that could jeopardize the evening, and I knew that meant keeping quiet.
‘I had a good night,’ I said finally.
‘It’s not over yet,’ he smiled, pushing the door as I turned the key.
I go way back with Clare Everett. Back to the day when I’d travelled down from Accrington to Birmingham with my lifetime’s possessions straining in a fifty-litre rucksack I’d bought from Millets in Manchester.
She had been assigned the room next to me in our hall of residence, and was unlike anyone I had ever met before; a Home Counties beauty who owned a horse and car, and had been to boarding school. Ours should have been a fleeting friendship, one of geography and convenience, that evaporated as soon as we located people in our halls, on our course, with whom we had more in common. She was a bit pony-club in those days, but I like to think I helped to make her cool. By Christmas she had swapped her Next dresses for jeans and Doc Martens. For her part, Clare helped me to fit in with the middle classes. Despite our differences, our unlikeliest of starts, we grew close and remained that way, even after she married her university sweetheart Dominic ten years ago.
Clare settled back into her bar stool in the Ham Yard hotel bar and picked at a tray of wasabi nuts. I didn’t usually come to places like this and although I was wearing a new dress that sucked me in in all the right places, I didn’t feel as if I belonged here. Clare, on the other hand, hadn’t lost her show-pony polish and fitted into this sophisticated scene like a slim hand slipping on an elegant leather glove. In fact, tonight, I thought she looked like a Hitchcock Blonde. Too much like a Hitchcock Blonde, suddenly nervous about where we were going and who we were meeting.
‘I’m starving. We should have gone for something to eat. Do you think there’s still time?’ she said, twisting her mid-length hair over one shoulder.
‘Party starts at seven thirty and it’s twenty past,’ I said, eager to go.
‘So tell me more about this party we’re going to.’
‘Some launch of an exhibition.’
I took the tickets Martin had given me out of my handbag and handed them to her.
‘Art,’ she said, glancing back at me archly. ‘Have you started collecting?’
‘As if. I was given some tickets, that’s all.’
‘Delauney Gallery,’ she read down the bridge of her nose as if she were developing short-sightedness. ‘Helen North. I haven’t heard of her. Although she must be good to have landed a show at the Delauney.’
She glanced over at me playfully.
‘At least there ought to be some interesting men there. Collecting art is the new golf, someone was telling me the other day.’
‘I thought cycling was the new golf.’
Clare laughed. ‘Whatever. I’m just glad you’re getting out a bit more. By the way, I hope you’re still coming to the opening of Dom’s restaurant. I’m rounding up all the single men we know for your benefit.’
I finished my drink and looked at her. Clare was the one person I could tell anything to. She knew all my stories, my dark corners. Not just because she was my friend, but because it was her job as a psychologist.
‘As a matter of fact, that’s why I wanted you to come out tonight,’ I said tentatively.
‘You’re not coming?’
‘Of course I’m coming to Dom’s launch. I meant tonight. I wanted to introduce you to someone.’
Clare stroked her ponytail. ‘I’m a happily married woman, darling.’
‘Me,’ I ventured carefully. ‘I’ve met someone. And he’s going to be there later.’
My friend perked up instantly. I knew how it worked with the happily marrieds. They relied on their single friends for gossip and salacious tales of life in the field, if only to remind themselves how grateful they were to be not still searching for ‘the one’. I was consistently a disappointment on that score, being the sort to keep my private life to myself, but now I was offering something.
‘Fuck,’ she said after a moment.
‘It’s not that shocking,’ I smiled as I finished my mocktail.
She fixed me with her most questioning psychotherapist stare.
‘So who is he?’
‘His name is Martin,’ I said vaguely.
‘Good solid name. Where did you meet? How long have you been seeing him? What does he do?’
‘I hate that,’ I winced, waving my hand. ‘It’s shorthand for “what are his prospects?”’
‘Too right. I’m vetting him. He has to be good enough for my best friend. I assume that’s why you want me to meet him.’
‘I’ve
