of anyone in particular?’
Simon raises his eyebrow. ‘I’m taking my own advice and going no comment. How about you tell me something about this engagement you broke off?’
‘Do I have to?’
‘Well, it’s usual to find out something personal about each other on a first date, and so far I know that you’re not fond of beetroot.’
‘There’s not much to tell. We were together a long time, we were engaged, it became obvious neither of us was that keen on getting wed and I was the one to say so.’
‘He didn’t want it to end?’
‘No.’
‘Any chance of a reconciliation?’
‘Doubt it.’
Despite my best efforts, my voice has thickened.
‘How long were you together?’
‘Thirteen years.’
‘Ouch. I guessed it was a while.’
I’m sure that Ben will have told Simon this, yet I humour him by asking why.
‘You have the hunted, wary look of the serial monogamist who’s unexpectedly stumbled back into the singles jungle and forgotten she needs a machete.’
I laugh.
‘It’s harder for women,’ Simon says. ‘Single blokes in their thirties look choosy; women worry they look like victims of that choosiness.’
I gasp, and Simon adds: ‘Even when it’s entirely unwarranted. Anyway, there’s worse things. Like Matt and Lucy. What a chore they were.’
I laugh, nodding vigorously.
‘So was Ben quite the boy at university?’ he continues.
‘He had a few girlfriends, yeah.’
‘Surprised you weren’t among them.’
‘Why?’ Nervous again. I hope he’s not going to do a ‘trip to The Cheese Shop’ line and order a whole truckle of cheddar by implying I’m irresistible. I doubt it would be sincere.
Simon shrugs, necks the last of his neat vodka.
‘You’re cute and you two appear simpatico, somehow.’
‘Like I said, thirteen years. I wasn’t single,’ I say.
‘Doesn’t always stop people.’
‘Are you looking for, what do they call it, watercooler conversation?’
Simon laughs. ‘God, the ladies at work are nauseating about him.’
‘Yup, that sounds like the Ben Effect,’ I laugh, hopefully lightly. ‘Why did you ask me out?’ I say, to turn the topic, and as soon as the question’s left my mouth I rue it. ‘I mean, I didn’t think I’d be your type.’
‘And what did you think my type would be?’
‘Uh. Zara Phillips? Someone horsey but dirty who you can still take home to Mummy.’
Simon laughs heartily at this. ‘You’ve got me pegged as some upper-crust idiot, haven’t you? Don’t be so quick to pigeonhole.’
‘Hah, like you haven’t done the same in reverse?’
‘Absolutely not. I like people with some mystery.’ Simon rolls his empty glass between his palms.
‘I have mystery?’
‘Oh yes. There’s definitely something you’re not telling.’
For once, a glib comeback doesn’t spring to my lips.
Two drinks down in the dive bar and the landscape starts to tilt. I don’t want to lose control and I don’t meet any resistance from Simon when I say it’s time I went home.
He insists on walking me back to my flat and mentions how he can just as easily catch his cab from there, in case I think he’s trying it on.
I like the city late at night, the blasts of music and the splashes of light cast from bars that are still open, shoals of brightly-dressed clubbers, the beeping taxis and the greasy, savoury smell of meat and onions from the burger vans. We walk briskly, looping round the groups of people who intermittently block the pavement, arriving outside my flat in jump-cut drunken time. On the way out, the same distance apparently took three times as long to cover.
‘Night then. Thanks for a lovely evening,’ I say, amazed to find I haven’t consumed enough alcohol to stop this being awkward. Damn fresh air.
‘Come here,’ Simon says, in a low voice, pulling me towards him, and I think how very Simon it is to issue commands instead of endearments.
He kisses the way I’d have predicted he’d kiss, if I’d given it any thought beforehand: firm, almost pushy, as if one of us is going to be declared winner when we break apart. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s not going to involve tongues, I decide, pulling back. I thought the first person I kissed after Rhys would feel like a watershed, but it feels – what’s the word? Prosaic. Like the intervening thirteen years never happened.
‘What’s the verdict then, Court Reporter-ette? Can I see more of you?’ he says, quietly, and overtly suggestively.
I’m flattered, and drunk. And surprisingly lost. Part of me wants to say yes. Most of me knows it isn’t what I want, it’s just what’s here.
‘Er – Simon.’
‘Er – Simon,’ he mimics, getting louder. ‘Uh oh.’
‘I’ve really enjoyed myself. Even more than I thought I would.’
‘The strength of the compliment depends on how much you thought you would, doesn’t it?’
I wonder if there’s a stage of refreshment where Simon’s less articulate and argumentative. He must’ve honed these skills doing daily battle with members of the Crown Prosecution Service.
‘It’s a bit too soon for me after Rhys and everything. Can we be friends for now? I don’t know my own mind and it’s not fair to inflict myself on anyone.’
‘Fine. Well, obviously I’d rather we were going at it gangbusters, but whatever you want.’
I laugh, feeling a twinge of relief at avoiding intimacies with a man who uses the phrase ‘going at it gangbusters’.
‘Thanks.’
A pause. ‘Night then,’ I say.
‘Night.’
I
