“Thanks. I had my themed outfit all ready for Esther’s party. So I thought, why not?” She makes a ta-da with her arms.
Gold top, gold earrings shaped like flamingos. A dusting of gold on her eyelids. It takes me a moment. “Heavy metal through the ages... you’re gold.”
“I decided to subvert the theme.”
“Glad to hear it.” I glance down at my own outfit. Plain blue shirt and black jeans. Safe as you like. “But I feel a bit underdressed now. You should have told me.”
“Why—what would you have come as?”
I crouch down to say a quick hello to Murphy. “Well, I do have a gold lamé jumpsuit. But I keep that for special occasions.”
“More special than this?”
“All I can say is, Let’s Boogie Night at the Archway does take some beating.”
“Now, that I would pay to see.”
“This feels like stepping back in time.” I straighten up, take off my coat. “Turning up at the café, looking forward to seeing you.”
The shyest of smiles. “I always looked forward to seeing you too.”
On my table by the window, where I sit whenever I’m here, Callie’s arranged candles, cutlery, glasses. There’s an ice bucket chilling a bottle of wine, and Ella Fitzgerald in the air.
“I asked Ben if we could come here for the evening. I thought it might be nice, since it’s where we met. Sorry if it’s cheesy.”
I kiss her. “Not a bit. It’s lovely.”
“You think? I promise I won’t serve you espressos and eggs on toast.”
“You cooked?”
“Well, no—not with a panini press and a microwave. I talked nicely to the bistro down the road.”
•••
We dig into goat’s cheese tarts, fat and brown from the bistro’s oven. Our glasses are full, the candles glowing romantically between us.
“You know,” I tell Callie, “at Christmas, when I was poking around in my dad’s loft, I found a receipt from my mum and dad’s honeymoon, thirty-four years ago.”
Her face gives way briefly, as if byreceiptI meanabandoned puppy. “What was it for?”
Through the café’s speakers, Ella defers gracefully to Etta James.
“A posh meal out in Christchurch. Guess what the total came to? Three courses, and drinks.”
A smile. “Twenty quid?”
“Eight pounds thirty-nine.”
“That’s amazing. Like... holding someone’s history in your hand.”
“Mum was sentimental. She kept stuff like that. She showed us the bus ticket once that Dad bought her at the end of their first date.”
“She was an old romantic.”
“She tried, I guess. Dad was much less soppy than she was.” I smile, shake my head. “You know, Valentine’s was always a bit of a nightmare for us at the surgery.”
“No, really? How come?”
