‘So you’ll be needing to get in the shower, won’t you?’ he continues.
‘Well, first I’ve got to take all my clothes off,’ I say flirtily.
‘Get all naked you mean?’
‘Completely starkers. Just me and a bar of soap.’
‘Mmm, sexy,’ he says and I laugh.
‘So, how did your meeting go?’ I ask, steering the conversation back before it gets totally X-rated.
‘Awesome,’ he enthuses. ‘We brokered the deal.’
‘Gosh, that’s great,’ I say, feeling proud of him. I’ll never understand Seb’s job in the mind-boggling world of finance, but I do know he’s incredibly good at it. ‘So what are you doing to celebrate?’
‘Taking you out for dinner,’ he quips.
‘Ha ha, very funny,’ I quip back.
‘Why is it funny?’ he asks.
‘Well in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not in Geneva.’
‘Neither am I.’
‘You’re not?’ I feel a jolt of surprise.
‘No, I flew back early to see you.’
‘You did?’ I sit bolt upright on the sofa, dislodging Flea from my lap. He lets out a disgruntled meow.
‘Yeh, I’m just driving back from the airport now and heading over to yours. It’s number twenty-seven, right?’
The surprises are coming thick and fast; I’m momentarily lost for words. ‘Um . . . yeh,’ I manage to croak. ‘So whereabouts exactly are you?’ Which sounds like a innocuous question, but is really me desperately trying to gauge how much time I have. An hour and I can get in the shower, wash and blow-dry my hair and iron my dress. Forty-five and it’s a choice between wet hair or a crumpled dress. Less than half an hour and it’s both. Fifteen and—
‘I’m outside.’
I’m screwed.
Suddenly the buzzer goes and I nearly jump off the sofa with fright.
Fuck!
‘Yes, er, that’s right,’ I say, swallowing hard and trying to keep my voice even when inside another voice is shrieking: you just told him you’d been to military fitness! You told him you’d run ten miles! You told him you were all hot and sweaty and needed a shower! I glance down at myself, sprawled on the sofa in a pair of jeans and sheepskin slippers, with a cup of tea balanced in my lap. I couldn’t look less like someone who’s just run ten miles if I tried.
‘Come right up. Top floor. Flat seven.’
But I have to. And in less than three minutes!
Arggghh. Putting down my phone, I leap up from the sofa and, tugging off my clothes, race naked around my flat, hiding all traces of cups of tea, shopping bags and aforementioned clothes and tugging on my new leggings, sports bra and sweatbands. Lacing up my trainers, I dash to the mirror in the hallway and glance at my reflection. Only there’s something missing . . .
Dashing into the bathroom, I dive into the airing cupboard and grab the spray bottle we keep by the ironing board. I start frantically spritzing my face and chest – I need to look like I’m all sweaty.
In the middle of spritzing I hear a knock. Oh my god, he’s here!
By the time I dash to the door and pull it open, I’m genuinely breathless.
‘Hey, look at you, all sweaty,’ he grins.
‘Yes, I know, sorry.’ I pull a face.
Wrapping his arms around me he draws me to him for a kiss. ‘Mmm . . .’
It’s like magic. Suddenly all that panic is forgotten and I feel myself melting into his kiss. Feeling his tongue, I close my eyes as we start kissing deeper and deeper and . . . That’s funny, my face is starting to feel a bit weird.
In the middle of snogging, the thought zips through my brain, then out again. After all, it’s probably because his five o’clock stubble is rubbing against my skin . . . I focus back on the kissing . . . mmm, Seb is such a great kisser.
Like it’s going really tight.
Shut up! I’m having a sexy reunion with my boyfriend. I feel Seb’s hands wandering across my sports bra . . .
Actually, the word I’m looking for is stiff.
Suddenly I have a flashback to the spray bottle, to Fiona ironing that guy’s shirt for work, starching his collar . . .
And suddenly I realise.
Oh my god! I’ve starched my face!
‘I’ll just jump in the shower,’ I blurt, hastily breaking away.
Panic is shooting through my body. Any minute now and my face is going to set like concrete.
‘Oh . . . uh . . . OK,’ says Seb, visibly taken aback by my abruptness, I notice, glancing down at his trousers.
‘Make yourself at home,’ I say hurriedly.
‘Sure you don’t want me to join you?’ he asks, recovering and throwing me a sexy smile.
I try to smile sexily back but my face is having trouble creasing. ‘Um no, you stay here, relax, watch TV, I’ll be back in a jiffy.’ I turn to go.
‘Oh, hey, Tess?’
‘Yes?’ I turn back.
‘You’ve left the sales tags on.’ He gestures to my sports bra.
‘I have?’ I freeze. ‘Oh . . . um . . . they must have been on for ages and I didn’t notice,’ I fluster, trying to twist my arm around to pull them off and nearly dislocating my shoulder.
‘Here, I’ll do it,’ he offers, moving towards me.
‘No!’ I shriek. ‘I mean, it’s fine, thanks,’ I say quickly, tugging them off with such violence I make a hole.
‘Oh, OK,’ he shrugs, looking at me as if I’m acting really weird.
Probably because I am acting really weird, I think helplessly.
‘Well, wear something nice, I’m taking you to a fancy restaurant,’ he says, changing the subject.
‘Great!’
‘Oh, and don’t forget to bring your sneakers this time. We can go for that run we didn’t get around to the other morning, work off some of those carbs we’re going to consume tonight . . .’ He shoots me a smile. ‘And it’ll be a chance for you to kick my ass,’ he jokes, pretending to kick my bottom.
‘Ha ha . . . yes,’ I laugh, pretending to kick him back but losing my balance and nearly toppling over. ‘Just you wait!’ And turning back I dash towards the bathroom.
Kick your ass.
Ha ha.
Oh god.
Dear Diary,
Tonight Seb took me to Mala, a super-posh restaurant in Mayfair. It was very romantic though I barely ate anything as I can’t eat spicy food. Which was a shame as it all looked really delicious and Seb seemed a bit disappointed. He made some joke about going to Pizza Hut next time. Though, to be honest, I’m not sure if he was joking . . .
Chapter 22
Fifteen minutes later we’re speeding along in Seb’s sports car that he’s just got back from the garage. ‘I had a little accident, smashed my wing mirror,’ he grins, as we zip through the streets of London. Despite the freezing cold weather, he’s got the roof down and the heaters blasting and I snuggle against the soft, heated leather seats, feeling all warm and snug as he expertly navigates the traffic, the radio tuned to some club music.
I sneak a peek across at him. At his broad shoulders clad in expensive cashmere, the softest kind you can only get from some exclusive shop in Knightsbridge, and not the machine-washable jumpers you find in Gap. He’s still sporting that tan, and he’s got the kind of strong, square jaw any leading man would kill for. He senses me looking and glances across at me, his mouth breaking into a smile and showing off his perfect, gleaming-white smile.
‘So what do you think of the car?’
‘It’s lovely,’ I nod.
‘You don’t seem very impressed,’ he jokes, but I get a sense that he’s a little miffed that I haven’t raved on about it. When we dated before, I don’t remember him bragging about his car, but then I probably didn’t notice. Funny, how you often don’t notice things first time around, isn’t it?
‘So where are we going?’ I ask, getting off the subject. A list of the restaurants we used to go to zip through my mind. Gosh, I hope it
’s that Italian in Soho. I really feel like a big plate of pasta.
‘One of my favourite restaurants,’ he grins as we turn into a cobbled side street.
Hang on, this looks familiar . . .
We pull up outside a large, glass-paned building and a valet parker rushes out to greet us.
Mala. One of the best restaurants in London. Famed for its award-winning, spicy food.
‘This looks great,’ I enthuse, but my heart plummets. Now I remember. We’ve been here before and it was a disaster as I couldn’t eat anything. It’s not that I’m a fussy eater, I just can’t eat spicy food; I have no tolerance for it.
For a split second I think about suggesting a different restaurant. But I can’t. I was given a second chance for a reason: this time I have to get it right.
‘The food’s delicious,’ continues Seb. ‘Do you like spicy food?’
‘Love it!’ I reply emphatically.
I’ll just have to eat rice. Or maybe I can do that thing models do where they just move the food around their plates to pretend they’re eating. One thing’s for certain, I’m not going to mess it up this time.
‘Awesome,’ he grins. ‘You’re gonna love this place!’
We walk through the glass doors into the Stygian depths of the lobby. What is it with expensive restaurants and hotels being so dark? Surely they can afford more light bulbs? But then I read somewhere that dim lighting is supposed to equal sophistication.
Although there’s nothing sophisticated about fumbling down the staircase, clinging onto the handrail for dear life as I can’t see where one step ends and another one starts. Gingerly I put one high heel in front of the other. Unlike Fiona, stilettos are not my footwear of choice.
I follow Seb’s lead and we make our way towards the bar, where he orders us both the house cocktail, a lychee martini. After a few minutes a waiter comes and, taking our drinks, asks to show us to our table. I smile graciously. Unlike last time. I cringe at the memory. Well, how was I to know he wasn’t trying to clear away my martini before I’d finished it?
A tussle had ensued as I’d tried to cling onto it (well, at fifteen quid a drink those last few dregs were worth at least a fiver) and Seb had had to quickly jump in, like a referee at a boxing match, before I’d release my grip. God, it was so embarrassing.
Still, this time I’m determined everything is going to be very different, and as we’re led to a discreet booth in the corner of the restaurant, and I slip into my seat as the waiter fluffs out my napkin, I get one of those lovely, rare feelings where, right now, at this precise moment, everything is exactly how I want it to be. At a romantic restaurant, with my boyfriend, who’s gazing adoringly at me across the table.
‘So, did you miss me while I was gone?’ asks Seb, reaching across the table for my hand.
‘Of course,’ I reply as he interlaces his fingers with mine. I feel a lovely warm glow inside and it’s got nothing to do with the martini.
‘So what did you get up to while I was away brokering deals?’
I root around for a funny anecdote to tell him. Oh I know! I lean forwards, Seb is going to love this. ‘Well, you’ll never guess what I did last night,’ I enthuse, already giggling as I think about mine and Fiona’s fish pedicures. I pause for him to play along and guess, but instead he seems suddenly distracted. I feel a funny vibration. ‘What’s that?’
‘My iPhone,’ he replies, snatching it up from the table and glancing at the screen. ‘It’s an email from the Geneva office.’
Until now I’d forgotten about Seb’s iPhone. Ever since we broke up, I’ve been too busy missing all the good bits to think about all the other bits. It’s as if your memory purposefully edits out any annoying habits or things you didn’t like about a relationship, and gives you the rose-tinted version instead. A bit like when you throw away all the crap photographs of yourself and just leave the ones where you look nice. So that when you look back on that holiday to Greece last year you have this distorted view that you were a size thinner, had no cellulite, and every day was a good hair day. When, in actual fact, half the time you looked bloody awful, with hair that had gone yellow from the chlorine in the pool, a spare tyre from when you’d forgotten to breathe in – and as for when the sun was shining directly on the backs of your thighs . . . Ouch!
But of course those photos are long deleted, and with them your bad memories.
Except now I’m being reminded, I note, as I glance back at Seb, who’s tapping away at his screen, and feel a familiar twinge of irritation. This time, however, I’m just going to ignore it. Pretend I don’t even notice. I am not, repeat not, going to lose my temper and start throwing iPhones out of car windows (in my defence it was to stop him from driving and texting at the same time, which everyone knows is really dangerous). Instead, if it happens again, I’m just going to calmly ask him to stop the car and get out and walk.
‘Is everything OK?’ I ask, as I hear the familiar whooshing sound of an email being sent.
‘Fine, just tying up some loose ends,’ he nods, putting down his iPhone. ‘You were saying?’
Except my earlier enthusiasm has waned now and somehow the story doesn’t seem that funny any more. ‘Oh, nothing.’ I give a little shake of my head.
‘Hey Seb!’
A loud American accent causes us to look up to see a rather chubby man in a suit has paused by our table.
‘Hey Chris,’ beams Seb, jumping up, and there ensues a lot of high-fiving. ‘How you doing?’
‘Awesome,’ beams Chris.
I remember Chris. He’s one of Seb’s work colleagues. I only met him a few times, but to be honest I was never that keen on him; he always seemed a bit fake. Whenever I saw him, he could never remember my name and seemed more interested in showcasing a new Porsche and a new blonde.
‘I saw you just as we were leaving.’ He gestures to an attractive blonde in a cocktail dress.
See, some things never change.
‘Anna, I didn’t see you there,’ smiles Seb, leaning in to give her a kiss. ‘Hey Tess, meet two really good friends of mine,’ he says, turning to me. ‘Guys, this is Tess. My girlfriend,’ he adds emphatically, and I feel a flicker of delight.
‘Hi,’ I smile widely. This time around I’m going to try to make more of an effort. After all, he is one of Seb’s colleagues.
‘Wow, great to meet you.’ Chris kisses me enthusiastically on both cheeks; meanwhile Anna is a lot more tight-lipped. Her eyes do the classic ‘once-over’ to see if I’m any competition. Obviously deciding I’m not, she proffers a hand.
‘Hi,’ she says tightly. Anna, it would seem, is not as friendly as her American boyfriend, but hails from somewhere near Chelsea and is a fully paid-up member of the Pippa brigade.
‘Well, look, we don’t want to keep you from your dinner,’ Chris is saying. ‘Let’s catch up later.’ He claps Seb vigorously on the back, like you would if you were trying to stop someone choking and, slipping his hand around Anna’s tiny waist, strides off through the restaurant.
‘Awesome couple, aren’t they?’ comments Seb as we sit back down.
I look at him in astonishment. That’s what he thinks is a great relationship? Two fake people with zero love between them?
‘Um, yes, awesome,’ I fib in agreement. I don’t want to offend him about his friends, but it does make me wonder: is that what he’s hoping for our relationship to be like?
‘So, where were we?’ smiles Seb, as we sit back down and he picks up a menu.
Well, you were on your iPhone and I was resolving that it wasn’t going to annoy me any more, I can’t help thinking, but instead I say, ‘My granddad’s having a poker night soon and I was wondering if you wanted to come. I’d like you to meet him . . .’
‘Mmm, sure . . .’ he nods, focused on the menu. ‘How about the spicy shrimp to start with?’
I break off as I realise that Seb isn’t actually listening to a word I’m saying.
‘Um, yes, that sounds good,’ I
say flatly.
Seb looks up and, catching my expression, creases his face into an apology. ‘Sorry, I got distracted. The food here’s amazing.’
‘It’s OK,’ I smile. ‘It wasn’t important.’
‘Of course it was,’ he protests, putting his hand over mine and squeezing it against the white linen tablecloth. ‘Everything you say is important.’
‘Well, I was just talking about my granddad,’ I say, emboldened. ‘He wanted to invite you to one of his poker evenings – not this Friday but the next.’
‘Hey, count me in, poker’s my game,’ he enthuses.
‘You sure you can come?’
‘Try and stop me,’ he grins, and I feel a wave of happiness. It’s really important to me that Seb and Gramps like each other, and this time I’m certain they’re going to hit it off. I just know it.
I’m still feeling all happy when the waiter reappears to take our order. ‘Would you like to hear the specials?’ he asks cheerfully.
Seb looks thrilled. ‘Sure,’ he nods, throwing me a smile across the table as if to say ‘Isn’t this great?’, while I listen anxiously as the waiter reels off a huge list of dishes, each one sounding hotter and spicier than the next.
‘Do you do prawn crackers?’ I ask hopefully, after he’s finished.
The waiter almost visibly curls his lip. ‘No, we don’t do prawn crackers,’ he says, repeating the words as if they’re beneath him.
‘We’re not in your local Chinese now,’ laughs Seb, and I feel myself colour up.
‘I know – I just thought maybe to snack on . . .’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll order plenty,’ he smiles, ‘you won’t be hungry,’ and he expertly reels off a long list of dishes: pan-fried dumplings with chilli oil, firecracker beef, Kung Pao chicken, spicy Szechuan noodles . . .
With every dish I feel my stomach blanching. Crikey, that’s a ton of food.
Finally he breaks off and looks at me across the table. ‘What do you feel like, Tess? Anything special? I’ve ordered some of my favourites for us to share.’
I glance nervously at the menu. There’s little illustrations of chillies next to each dish, signifying how hot they are. Most of them seem to be either very hot or incendiary.