So between bites of his rabbit dish, Max describes the world-class diving, the plush resort, the beaches, the heat.
“Did you know the group?” I ask. “I mean, beforehand?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve been diving with the same company before—Egypt, Israel—but the group’s always different.”
“And did you... meet anyone interesting?”
Smiling, he hesitates. “Are you asking what I think you’re asking?”
“What do you think I’m asking?”
“Whether I was messaging you one minute then... doing something else the next.”
I smile too. The rhubarb from my pickled mackerel starter is tart on my tongue. “I mean, I wouldn’t judge. You were on holiday.”
He sets down his fork and takes my hand. “No. I meant what I said. I was thinking about you the whole time I was there.”
I’m inclined to believe him. Max was always so straight-up, so honest—the kind of guy who would never copy anyone else’s coursework, or take even a single penny in miscalculated change.
I swallow. “So, come on. Tell me about your life here. Your friends, your job. I want to know everything.”
Because actually, right now, I just want to hear Max talk, so I can simply sit back and quietly love the sound of his voice again, after all these years.
—
We stay in the restaurant till late. The minutes melt into hours. Time becomes a river—long and beautiful and begging to be swum through. We finish our drinks, then order more. We discuss his work, and I fill him in on my years at Figaro. He describes his flat in Clapham, and I tell him about moving in with Jools.
I’m vaguely aware that outside, dusk has become dark. I’m trying to pretend our little corner of the restaurant isn’t hot with electricity.That his hand doesn’t keep nudging mine. That beneath the table, our knees aren’t bumping.
“So, Luce. Tell me. Are you... with anyone?” Max’s glass is raised to his lips, his eyes glimmering above the rim.
“Nope. Been single for about two years.” I make a face, exhale. “God, that sounds like a lifetime. You?”
“Actually, about the same. I broke up with my last girlfriend a couple of summers ago.”
I swallow. It’s still an odd and uncomfortable feeling, picturing Max with someone else. I guess when someone leaves and you’re not ready, a part of your heart will always go with them.
“And since?” I ask.
He tells me tactfully that he’s been concentrating on work. I find myself daring to wonder what he’s like in bed these days, nearly a decade on.
Once we’ve finished eating and drunk coffee, we’re almost the last people in the restaurant, so I reluctantly suggest getting the bill.
“That’s already taken care of,” Max says.
“What? When?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Max,no. It’s too much.”
“Forget it. Really.”
“No. This place is...”That’s irrelevant, really. “I want to pay my half.”
“Well, how about you pick up the bill next time?” His eyes brim with amusement. He’s enjoying teasing me, I realize.
I tip my head, deliberately evade the suggestion. “You don’t have to be all smooth moves, you know.”
