Still, as we enter and are greeted by the maître d’, I find myself automatically surveying the place – how many covers, whether the team is smiling, if the specials board is visible.
“Stop it,” Sophie says firmly. “You always do this. Just enjoy yourself, okay?”
I nod and give her a grin. I’ll try my very best, but in honesty I am feeling a little tense. Being with Sophie is marvellous, and being in London has been less troublesome than I imagined it would be. But meeting new faces, in this swish little eatery, is well outside my comfort zone. I’m not shy – the very opposite in fact, I love people – but I am usually on my home turf. Here, it feels different, like a test I have to pass. I’m even dressed as someone else.
I’m keen to get to know Sophie’s new BFF, Marcy, and am looking forward to having her stay with us – but the prospect of being thrown into a nuclear family set-up, even for one dinner,makes me wince a bit. I’m sure Sophie will have told her pal about her dad, and that is fine – but it always means that people have preconceived ideas about you. About being a widow, a single mum, and what that might say about you. There’s always an underlying touch of pity, which is understandable but not something I enjoy. I really should have stuck with my own clothes – nobody pities you if you’re wearing yellow dungarees. They’re usually just a bit scared of you.
Sophie scans the room, then her face breaks out into a grin and she raises her arm and waves. Right, I tell myself – game time. Me and my boobs follow her through the pleasantly bustling, dimly lit room, the smells of garlic and basil fragrant in the air.
As we approach the table, I see two people – one is very clearly Marcy, who jumps to her feet and runs to embrace Sophie. They literally only saw each other a few hours ago, but I do remember what it’s like with your friends at that age. It’s a bit like being in love, without the messy bits – you hate being away from them. Marcy is tall, slender, with a super-cool pixie cut that she’s dyed jet black. She looks like a modern take on a silent movie star, all pale skin and red lips and gorgeousness.
I notice that the table is only set for four, and that there is only one other person – a man with his back to us, sitting and looking at his phone. That’s one of my pet hates, phones at the table, which I realise puts me in the minority – people seem to be obsessed with taking pictures of their food these days. At the risk of sounding about two thousand years old, it was much harder in my day – when I was growing up, if you wanted to do something similar, you’d have to take a picture, take the film to the camera shop, wait a couple of days for it to be developed, then go around to all your mates’ houses and put prints through the letterbox with hand-written notes: Look, I had fish and chips for tea!
Sophie and Marcy disentangle from each other, and my daughter says: “Mum, this is Marcy – Marcy, this is Mum!”
She sounds a bit giddy and also a bit proud – though I’m not sure which of us she’s proud of. Maybe both?
I give Marcy a hug, because I’m one of life’s huggers. At least I am in Starshine Cove – here, in this bijou little place, I feel slightly awkward as I automatically go in for a cuddle. Marcy doesn’t seem to mind and squeezes me right back.
“Told you!” Sophie says, smiling. “She’d hug a polar bear if she bumped into one on the street!”
“Polar bears are cute, who wouldn’t?” Marcy says, her blue eyes huge and somehow innocent. She’s almost twenty, I know, but despite the make-up and the stylish haircut, there is something almost childlike about her.
“Polar bears,” comes a voice from behind her, “are apex predators. I wouldn’t recommend hugging one, if you want to keep your arms.”
Ah, I think. Still on his phone, but also listening in. Multi-tasking – a rare skill in a man, I’ve found over the years.
Marcy rolls her eyes, and says: “Yes, thank you, Captain Buzzkill – I was aware, and I promise I won’t ever hug a polar bear if I encounter one on Charing Cross Road! Come and meet Sophie’s mum! I’m so sorry, but my sister Amy cancelled on us – she used the excuse that she’s still in France – pathetic isn’t it? Has she never heard of the Eurostar? Dad! Get off your phone!”
Our table is in a back corner of the room, and although it is still light outside, the restaurant is deliberately shady – all about creating an ambience, I suppose. I don’t see much of him until he stands up and turns to face us, by which time I’ve already decided he’s a bit rude.
He’s a good foot taller than me, which to be fair isn’t hard as I’m vertically challenged. He’s wearing a dark-coloured suit that I can tell is expensive, and he smells good, a subtle masculinescent that makes my nostrils flare in appreciation – this is the kind of sophistication you don’t come across every day in a tiny village in Dorset. This is London glamour. I’d almost forgotten it existed.
I decide I’m not going to hug him, and instead hold out my hand. He takes it but doesn’t shake – he just holds it. I realise that he is staring at me, completely silent, and that this is all suddenly a bit weird. Maybe it’s the boobs – maybe I’ve broken him.
I meet his eyes and feel a flicker of recognition. It comes from somewhere deep, but it’s there – I know this man. He’s good looking, green eyes in tanned skin, hair that is slightly receding at the temples but otherwise thick and abundant, brown streaked with silver. Is he famous? Is he someone I should know from the telly? It feels like that – and he looks like he could be famous. One of those serious news presenters who looks grim as they report from outside the White House, or an actor who does a lot of Shakespeare.
He’s still holding my hand, and he’s still staring at me, and the girls are starting to exchange uncertain looks, wondering what’s going on. Much like myself. Back home, I’d jump right in and ask something nosy and inappropriate, but I don’t quite have my mojo in this place.
“Do I know you?” I simply ask, desperate to break the moment.
He starts to smile, and it changes his whole face – he suddenly looks younger, less stern. Way more amused.
“You do,” he replies, finally letting go of my hand. It flutters to my side, unsure where to go next. “Well, you do if your name is Connie?”
“Her name IS Connie!” Sophie responds, confused. I’m too busy studying his face, trying to place it, to actually reply.
“It’s been a while,” he says, his eyes running over me, “but I’m quite disappointed you don’t recognise me. I think we last saw each other about twenty-five years ago. You came into my office straight from a night on the town and left with the offer of a contract that you never signed.”
Immediately, the ducks line up – I know who this is. I know who it is, and I feel totally freaked out by it. Like the floor is moving, and I need to hold on to the wall to steady myself.
“Zack,” I say quietly. “Zack Harris.”
He nods, and his eyes are on mine, and I feel suddenly faint. I have no idea why – maybe because that was so long ago that I’d forgotten it even happened. I’ve buried that version of me so deep that this feels like I’m being exhumed, one rotting limb at a time.
He looks slightly concerned, as the girls giggle in the background, trying to figure out what amusing thing the old people are up to. He puts his hands on my shoulders and draws me in for a hug. I let myself become wrapped up in his arms, my face against his crisp white shirt. He leans down and whispers into my ear: “Are you okay?”
I let out a sigh and stay where I am for a couple of seconds. It gives me the time to reconfigure myself, to breathe. To stem the strange sense of almost-panic. I nod against him, and whisper back: “Yes, thank you – just a bit weirded out. Blast from the past.”
