It’s him.
4
LOTTIE
The first thing to say is that I look fabulous.
The second thing is, I am not going to sleep with him.
No. No, sirree. No, I am not.
Even though I’ve been thinking about it all day. Even though I’ve been gently fizzing just at the memory. Him. How it was. How we were. I feel surreal and a bit light-headed. I can’t believe I’m going to see him. After all this time. Ben. I mean, Ben.
Hearing his voice was like some sort of time-travel trigger. At once I was sitting opposite him at that rickety little table we used to commandeer in the evening. Olive trees all around. My bare feet resting in his lap. A can of ice-cold Sprite. I’d forgotten about my Sprite addiction till that very instant.
Since then, memories and images have been resurfacing all day, some vague and some fully composed. His eyes. His scent. He was always so intense. That’s what I remember most. His intensity. He made me feel as though we were starring in our own movie, as though nothing mattered except him and me and now. It was all about sensation. The sensation of him. Of sun and sweat. Sea and sand. Skin and skin. Everything was hot and heightened and … incredible.
And this, fifteen years later, this is—well. Bizarre. I glance at my watch and feel a little shiver of anticipation. Enough loitering in shop entrances. Time to go.
We’re meeting at a new fish restaurant in Clerkenwell which has had good reviews. Apparently Ben works nearby, doing something or other—I didn’t ask, which was stupid, so I had to resort to a hasty Google when I finally got back to the office. I couldn’t track him down on Facebook, but there was some website about a paper company, which apparently he’s a director of. I’m kind of surprised—he wanted to be an actor when we were together, but I guess it didn’t work out. Or maybe he changed his mind. We didn’t talk too much about careers or jobs back then. We were pretty much just interested in sex and how we were going to change the world.
I do remember lots of late-night discussions on Brecht, who he was reading, and Chekhov, who I was reading. And global warming. And philanthropy. And politics. And euthanasia. We were a bit sixth-form debate-y, now that I look back. A bit earnest. But, then, fair enough. We’d only just left the sixth form.
I approach the restaurant, teetering a bit on my new high heels, feeling my hair bounce around my shoulders and admiring my immaculate manicure. As soon as Jo and her friends heard I was going on a date with an ex-boyfriend, they launched into a whole new level of activity. They did my nails. They dyed my brows. They even offered me a bikini wax.
Of course, I didn’t need that. I’d already been to the salon three days ago, to get prepared for hot, joyous, post-proposal sex with Richard, much good it did me. Total waste of money.
I feel a painful, humiliated pang. I should invoice him for the salon bill. I should send it to him in San Francisco, together with a dignified letter saying simply, Dear Richard. When you get this letter—
No. Stop, Lottie. Do not think about Richard. Do not compose a dignified letter. Move on. Move on, move on.
I grip my clutch bag more tightly, willing strength into myself. Everything is meant. It all has a pattern. One minute I’m at my lowest ebb—the next, Ben is contacting me. It’s kismet. It’s fate.
Although I am not going to sleep with him.
No. I’m not.
As I reach the entrance to the restaurant, I whip out my handbag mirror and check my reflection one last time. Bloody hell. I keep forgetting how amazing I look. My skin looks radiant. I have stunning new cheekbones, which Jo somehow invented with blusher and highlighter. My lips look fresh and luscious. To sum up: I’m gorgeous.
It’s the opposite of that nightmare scenario where you bump into your ex-boyfriend, wearing only pajamas and a hangover. It’s the dream scenario. I’ve never looked better in my life, and I’m fairly sure I never will again, not unless I hire ten makeup artists. This is my pinnacle, looks-wise.
With a sudden little burst of confidence, I push open the restaurant door, to be greeted by a warm, inviting smell of garlic and seafood. There are leather booths and a massive chandelier and the right kind of hubbub. Not show-offy and obnoxious but civilized and friendly. A mixologist is shaking a cocktail at the bar and I have an instant, Pavlovian desire for a mojito.
I’m not going to get drunk, I hastily resolve. I’m not going to sleep with him and I’m not going to get drunk.
The maître d’ is approaching me. Here goes.
“I’m here to meet a … a friend. He reserved a table. Benedict Parr?”
“Of course.” The maître d’ leads me a winding route through the restaurant, past about ten tables at which possible men are sitting with their faces averted. Each time, my stomach heaves with apprehension. Is that him? Is that him? Please not that one—
Oh God! I almost squeak. Here he is, rising from his chair. Stay cool. Smile. This is so, so, so surreal.
My eyes are running over him, registering details at top speed, as though I’m in the Assess Your Ex Olympics. Slightly odd patterned shirt; what’s that about? He’s taller than I remember. Thinner. His face is definitely thinner, and his dark wavy hair is short now. You’d never know that he once had Greek-god locks. There’s a hole in his ear where his earring used to be.
“Well … hi there,” I greet him.
I’m satisfied at the way I sound so understated. Especially since a bubble of excitement is growing inside me now that I’ve had a proper view. Look at him! He’s gorgeous! Just like he always was, but better. More grown-up. Less gawky.
He leans in for a kiss. A grown-up, civilized double kiss. Then he draws back and surveys me.
“Lottie. You look … incredible.”
“You look pretty good yourself.”
“You haven’t aged a day!”
“Same goes!”
We’re beaming at each other in a kind of amazed joy, like someone who’s won a raffle and come up to collect a dodgy box of chocolates as a prize and found it’s actually a thousand pounds in cash. We can’t believe our luck.
I mean, let’s face it, a lot can change in a man’s twenties. Ben could have turned up looking like anything. He could have been bald. He could have been paunchy and stooped. He could have developed some kind of irritating tic.
And he’s probably looking at me, thinking, Thank God she hasn’t had a trout pout put in/gone gray/gained sixty pounds.
“So.” He gestures charmingly at my chair and I sit down. “How have the last fifteen years been?”
“Fine, thanks.” I laugh. “You?”
“Can’t complain.” He meets my eye with the same mischievous grin he always had. “OK, that’s the catch-up done. You want a drink? Don’t tell me you’re teetotal now.”
“Are you kidding?” I open the cocktail menu, feeling a sizzle of anticipation. This is going to be a great evening. I already know it. “Let’s see what they’ve got.”
Two hours later I’m buzzing all over. I’m exhilarated. I feel like a sportsman in the zone. I feel like a convert who’s found religion. This is it. This is it. Ben and I are amazing together.
OK, so I haven’t stuck to my resolution regarding alcohol. But that was a ridiculous, shortsighted, stupid resolution. Dinner with an ex-boyfriend is potentially quite a tense, sticky situation. This could have been awkward. As it is, with a few cocktails down me, I’m having the best evening of my life.
What’s amazing is how connected Ben and I are. It’s as though we’ve picked up exactly where we left off, as if the last decade and a half never happened. We’re eighteen again. We’re young and big-eyed. Sharing wild ideas and silly jokes and wanting to explore everything the world has to offer. Ben immediately started telling me about a play he’d seen the week before, and I countered with an art exhibition in Paris (I didn’t mention that Richard took me), and our conversation has been flying since then. There’s so much to say. There are so many memories.