“They’re not, particularly. But... we’ve got stuff to discuss, andI’ve not eaten, so...” He puts a hand to the back of his neck. “Can we meet at the cottage later?”
I wrinkle my nose. What could be more pathetic than waiting at my boyfriend’s house for him to get home from dinner with his wife? “No, I’ll stay at Tash’s tonight. Call me tomorrow.”
“Luce.” And now he does grab my hand, before I can walk away. “I swear, this is just... business.”
Business? Stuff to discuss?Is he being deliberately evasive, or is he trying to protect my feelings? Does business mean divorce? And isn’t that what solicitors are for?
Maybe it’s just a clumsy choice of words, but calling itbusinessseems slightly disingenuous. Because since when was having dinner with your wife to discuss your divorce devoid of all emotion, something toward which you have no significant feelings at all?
I’m half expecting him to try to kiss me, but he doesn’t. He just squeezes my hand, then lets it gently drop before walking back along the cobblestones toward her.
Go
Max has joined me and a group of people from Supernova for after-work drinks. It’s not often he finishes early enough, so I felt my pulse quicken with excitement when I saw him walking into the bar earlier. I still feel that way every time I catch sight of him, even after all these years.
The bar is a favorite of Zara’s (she’s related in some way to the owner, I think) and is popular with the advertising and media crowd. It’s one of those underground places with a secret door, so dark insideyou can barely see. As a rule, I hate spaces without windows and an obvious escape route, but if Zara suggests somewhere, you don’t chip in with an alternative.
I’ve been here once or twice before. Because the room is so small, it always feels crammed, thus perpetuating its exclusive, popular vibe. You end up feeling almost lucky to be here, which is ridiculous. It’s just a bar.
“Lucy tells me you’re in property litigation,” Zara says to Max, once I’ve introduced him to everyone. He’s just bought a round, which has made all eleven people in this corner of the room fall a little bit in love with him.
“I am, for my sins,” he says, with a friendly wink.
“You might be able to help me, then.”
“I can certainly try.”
“My neighbors. Nightmare couple. They’re building anannex,” Zara says, in the same way most people would saysex dungeon. “I’ve seen the plans. Completely unnecessary, and a hideous eyesore. It’s going to take all the light from my kitchen.”
Max clears his throat politely. “Okay. Sometimes that’s more of a planning issue, but it depends on—”
“Tell me about it.” Zara leans forward, martini in hand. Her chunky gold bracelet keeps banging against our table, and she’s wearing a navy blue jumpsuit that on anyone else would look prison-issue but on her resembles something at the top of a magazine trend-o-meter. “Whoarethese jokers at the council? I objected, but they granted it anyway.” She shakes her head. “They’re building it for their teenage devil children, who are only going to use the thing to snort drugs and play loud music. Nothing you can do? Send them a threatening letter, or something?”
People do this a lot to Max—imagine they can engage him over a swift half down the pub. I smile into my Virgin Mary. It’s the drink I order more often than not these days, because it reminds me so muchof seeing Max that night in The Smugglers, when he appeared outside the window and back in my life.
He asks Zara some questions, starts talking about the enforceability of restrictive covenants. Zara, eager, gets out her phone. I appreciate the effort Max is making: he could so easily have dismissed her, spelled out in no uncertain terms that her complaint is legally baseless—but he knows how important Supernova is to me, and how eager I am to earn brownie points with the toughest woman in the world to impress.
Phoebe, my deskmate, leans over. She’s wearing a headband and crop top—the weather never seems to factor when she’s choosing what to wear—and I envy her easy confidence. She called a member of senior managementdudein a meeting last week and he blushed more than she did. “Anyone in for karaoke later?”
As Zara gives Phoebe a look I can only describe as withering, I smile. “Unless Max is keen, I think we’ll—”
“Actually,” he says, “I wouldn’t mind blowing off some steam.”
I stare at him. Back in the day, we always used to laugh at karaoke, maybe even feel a little smug that we didn’t have to get up onstage to prove we lacked inhibition. “Really?”
“What’s your song?” Kris asks him.
“ ‘Wonderwall,’ ” Max says, without missing a beat.
Kris looks surprised. “Huh. I’d have had you down as more of a ‘My Way’ kind of guy.”
I meet Max’s eye and smile. He used to sing “Wonderwall” to me at uni, whenever it came on in a bar or at a gig, and every time he did, my whole body hummed with happiness.
—
It’s been just over a month since I agreed to try again with Max, to put the past behind us. We didn’t even kiss before I left his flat that night, but forty-eight hours later, I called him, suggested a supper club Joolshad recommended. The idea of eating around a table with strangers appealed to me—I thought it might be a simple way to ease back into each other’s lives without the pressure of a one-to-one meal, or the temptation of jumping into bed together if we spent our first night hanging out at home.
In the end, though, I realized I hadn’t fully thought it through—we had to answer lots of awkward questions about where we’d met and how long we’d been together. Still, it served as an icebreaker, and we did meet some interesting people, including a weather presenter who Max and I both half recognized, and a formerX Factorcontestant, who we definitely didn’t.
