“No, I know.” He waved my apology away.
By now the light had more or less vanished from the room, and we were sitting in the gloom.
“Do you want to go out and join the others?” I asked him. “Sounds like it’s getting rowdy out there.”
“Actually,” Max said, “I’m really enjoying just sitting here with you.”
I’m enjoying sitting here with you, too, I thought.
Eventually, we fell asleep together on his single bed. I woke up several hours later in the middle of the night. Our bodies were curled up against each other, big spoon and little spoon. We hadn’t kissed, we hadn’t even really touched, but I had the strangest feeling, as I crept back to my room at three in the morning, that I’d met the man I was destined to bewith.
Five
Stay
In the week since our—what would I even call it—date?—I’ve been indulging in some light virtual stalking of Caleb. There’s not much in the way of personal stuff online—his social media is all set to private—but I do learn he’s won a lot of accolades for his photography.
I unearthed a photo of him at some awards ceremony last year, his arm around the waist of a dazzling, sylphlike woman with olive skin and glistening dark hair.Magazine editor Helen Jones joined her husband Caleb on the red carpet, the caption said.
Of course, this then kicked off a frenzied search for “Helen Jones + magazine editor,” which revealed she edits an achingly cool interiors magazine calledFour Walls, based in London. It’s one of those inexplicable coffee-table bibles exclusively for cutting-edge people—more book than magazine—that recommends things like concrete floors and replacing all your internal walls with glass. Google Images also confirms that Helen Jones does not take a bad photo. This is unsurprising,really, for a woman who’s been with a man as handsome as Caleb, with whose own image I am now worryingly familiar.
“Maybe him being recently separated is a bad sign,” I said to Tash, as we watched Dylan go berserk at soft play on Sunday morning, two days after Caleb and I met up again.
Tash rolled her eyes. “Please, will you just stop with your signs? People are allowed to be married and then separate, Lucy. It’s really old-fashioned to think that means he’s damaged goods.”
“Who said anything about damaged goods?”
“You, with that expression on your face. Listen, half the dads at Dylan’s school are divorced, or separated. And most of them are really nice.”
“Everybody has to be nice at school. It’s hardly the done thing to air all your deep-seated commitment issues at PTA meetings, is it?”
Tash smiled and sipped her green tea. “I’m only saying, just because his marriage didn’t work out doesn’t mean he’s fundamentally dysfunctional.”
I sipped my coffee and trained my eyes on Dylan, who was currently wrestling his way heroically through a ball pool.
She turned to face me, eyes suddenly greedy for juicy details. “So, come on. What happened the other night? Did you kiss? Did you—”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “We just hung out at his studio, then we went for a drink, then he pecked me on the cheek and I got the bus.”
“Oh,” she said, crestfallen. “So, what—you don’t think there’s any chemistry?”
Oh, there was definitely chemistry. I could feel my stomach leap whenever I so much as pictured Caleb’s face. “There is,” I said slowly. “It’s just... he walked me to the bus stop, and there was a big queue, and it didn’t seem quite right to start snogging in front of it like teenagers. You know?”
She looked relieved. “Oh, yeah. Makes sense.”
A beat passed.
“You’re sure you don’t recognize his name?” I asked, even though we’d already been over this. “You didn’t go to school with anyone called Caleb?”
She shook her head slowly. “Nope. Definitely not.”
“Weird. I could swear I know him from somewhere.”
“So, are you seeing him again?”
I nodded. “He’s got a few things on this week, so we said Friday.”
I caught Dylan’s eye as he beamed at us, clapping enthusiastically against my thigh with my free hand.
