‘You’re Captain Sensible. I’m Captain . . . Curious.’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Relationships usually are,’ he says, then waits, as though he’s sure it’s only a matter of time before I am spilling my heart out to him. ‘Rumour has it he’s a famous writer.’
‘A writer. Not famous,’ I mumble.
Just before Christmas, Polly told me Josh had got a publishing deal for the book he’d been working on while we were splitting up. She asked if I wanted to join everyone for a few drinks, to celebrate. But, given Josh hadn’t even told me the news himself, I declined, convinced he must not have wanted me there. And who could blame him?
‘You don’t have kids, right?’ Lawrence asks.
‘Why do you say that?’
He shrugs. ‘You’re thirty-two. You were married. You don’t have them... Is there a reason?’
I sling him a look. ‘I don’t know if you got the memo back in the eighties, but you’re really not supposed to ask people that.’
Lawrence, it has to be said, has a very nice laugh. It comes right from his stomach, and feels oddly gratifying, a tiny dart of dopamine. ‘Believe me, I get every bloody memo going. But I only asked because I’m interested.’
Maybe he’s more perceptive than I thought. It’s possible he’s good at reading people, has a depth that’s easily missed, because I suspect he does spend quite a bit of time pratting about.
I don’t know why I decide to tell him the truth, exactly. A combination of the wine, perhaps, and knowing how unlikely he is to ever cross paths with Josh.
‘I did want kids. Do want them. Actually, it’s all I’ve ever wanted.’ I take another sip of wine, then another.Ah, fuck it. I’ve gone this far.‘But, last year, Josh took an anti-ageing pill, which has left me... in a really shitty position, quite frankly.’
This will go one of two ways: Lawrence will either laugh and change the subject, or he’ll lean forward and ask more, because he sees that as his ‘in’.
Unsurprisingly, he opts for the latter. ‘What the fuck is an anti-ageing pill?’ He says this with some urgency, as if he’s been on the hunt for something similar for years.
Over the rest of the wine, I tell him as much as I know, although I keep Wilf’s name out of it. Occasionally, as I talk, I notice Lawrence smiling, as if he’s trying to decide whether or not I’m crazy.
But I suspect he concludes it doesn’t particularly matter, because eventually, when I’m done, he just says, ‘Well, shit.’
‘Shit indeed.’
I was hoping I might feel relieved, after telling him all this. Instead, the guilt and resentment of having disclosed private information about Josh tastes faintly noxious. I attempt to wash it away with more wine, sensing Lawrence watching me closely.
‘The thing is,’ I say, ‘I really do love him. Did. Did love him.’
Lawrence doesn’t blanch. ‘Sometimes love’s not enough, though.’
I slide him a smile. ‘All right, Plato.’
‘No, I mean, I was in a similar situation with my ex. She didn’t want kids, and Ireallydo, and ultimately we couldn’t make it work.’
I study him for a couple of moments, then laugh lightly. ‘I’m not falling for that.’
‘I’m absolutely telling the truth. Ask her yourself. I have her number right here.’ He holds up his phone.
We both know it is the safest of bluffs. ‘Well, obviously I’m not going to call your ex-girlfriend and ask her why the two of you broke up.’
He sets down the phone, then takes my hand, looks right into my eyes. My heart begins to pound. His skin feels smooth and clean, the metal of his watch a cold jolt against my wrist. He is looking at me as if the rest of the world has suddenly turned to motion-blur, leaving only the two of us in dazzling, brilliant focus.
‘So, what do you say, Rachel?’ he murmurs. ‘Fancy getting out of here?’
30.
Rachel
