But he still wants to wait, before we take it any further. He whispers as much to me sometimes when we’re together, always breaking off before we reach the point of no return.I don’t want to rush this. Is that okay? You mean too much to me.
So different from Piers or anyone else I’ve dated. And though, of course, I’m aching to have sex with Joel, at the same time the self-restraint and the holding back makes everything feel even more highly charged.
“No,” I say to Fiona. “I’m not married.”
“Living with someone?”
Smiling, I push the hair from my eyes. “Sort of. I’m dating the guy who lives in the downstairs flat.”
Fiona forks reed like she’s slaying it for dinner. I envy her technique, perfected over many years—she can pick up double what I can, and I know I’m slowing her down. “Yeah? What’s he like?”
I begin to describe him—I love talking about Joel, tasting his name on my tongue. But as the words leave my mouth I start to feel almost childish, as though I’m telling her about an imaginary friend. Fiona probably thinks a month barely counts as a fling, let alone a relationship, though it’s difficult to know for sure. There’s much less opportunity for the nuances of body language when you’re halfway through a workout in the middle of a reed bed.
“What does he do?”
“He used to be a vet.”
She doesn’t respond for a few moments. Then, “Wait. Joel. Not Joel Morgan?”
“Yes! Do you know him?”
She nods, still forking. “He saved my German shepherd’s life. She ate a baited fishing hook on the beach and swallowed it with the line.”
“Ouch. Poor thing.”
“I know. And she’s not a fan of male vets, either. But Joel was excellent. Very calm. Lovely guy—I’ll never forget how he was with her.”
I’m more than happy to accept a compliment on his behalf. “That sounds like Joel.”
“I popped back a week later to say thanks properly, but they said he’d left.”
We carry on forking for a few moments. My breath is pneumatic and my palms are burning with blisters, even through my heavy-duty gloves.
“So what’s he doing now, then?”
“Just taking a bit of time out,” I say, as smoothly as I can manage, like it’s no big deal. “He does dog walking as a favor for some neighbors, the ones who can’t get out much.”
“Oh. Well, tell him to hurry back. He was an amazing vet. One of a kind.”
“Thank you. I will.”
“And if he’s as nice to people as he is to animals, I’d say you’ve got a good one there.”
•••
A few hours later, I meet Joel in town for postwork Chinese. I’m ravenous, having essentially just clocked off from a heavy weights workout, eight hours long.
“Dropped into the café earlier. Dot says hello,” he tells me. He’s been going there less often now, since I moved on. He looks tired tonight—he’s not slept much this week—but still his eyes are warm and full, searching my face for the story of my day.
“You mean they’ve not filed for bankruptcy yet?”
“Hey, you’ve only been gone a few weeks. Corporate collapses take time.”
Smiling, I sip my water. “Is it weird without me there?”
“A bit. Especially when Dot pulls up a chair at my table and refuses to leave.”
“Did you meet Sophie? Dot said she started this week.” Sophie is Ben’s enthusiastic new hire who, according to Dot, has already suggested introducing a uniform, scrapping table service, and—in Dot’s words—“recklessly violating the menu with avocado.”
