‘Absolutely.’ His grey gaze grips me. ‘Listen, I’ve got to head off now, but... would you fancy going out for a drink some time?’
We meet the following Friday, at a bar in the middle of town. Oliver says he’s had a tip from Danny, his business development guy, about a place that does next-level cocktails. Inside, the initial signs are good: it is one of those intimate, lamplit spaces filled with snug leather booths and velvet armchairs, the décor plush and moody. But when we come to order our drinks, it becomes clear that the broader theme of the bar is essentially... well, sex.
The neon wall art, vast gallery of naked-person portraits and exclusively rude cocktail list are all beginning to make sense now. That, and the name of the bar: Sweetlove’s.
‘Danny just said it was retro,’ Oliver says, rubbing his face with one hand, after I’ve encouraged him to see the funny side. ‘He obviously thought this would be the prank of the century. I’m looking forward to Monday.’
I’m amused to notice he has gone slightly pink in the face. ‘So, tell me,’ I ask, ‘how is your Screaming Orgasm?’
He groans. ‘Really bloody good. Annoyingly enough. And your—’ He breaks off and shakes his head. ‘Nope. I can’t even say it.’
‘My Dirty Banana? Delicious.’
He bark-laughs. ‘Oh, God. I am sorry, Rachel. You must think—’
‘Not at all.’ Beneath the table, I nudge my knee against his. ‘I mean, it’s an ice-breaker, if nothing else.’
‘I don’t think we really needed one, but... thank God it’s you,’ he murmurs.
I mention Emma at the earliest opportunity, not only because she is my favourite subject, but because I want to eliminate the possibility of any misunderstandings at the outset.
Oliver listens intently, bright-eyed, as I talk about her. Then he says, ‘She sounds wonderful. I adore kids. I’m lucky enough to have two nieces. My sister tells me off for spoiling them rotten, but...’
I smile. ‘What else are uncles for?’
Every now and then, as we chat, our hands or legs brush and we share a smile, let our gazes linger. It is so different from being out drinking with Lawrence, which always felt a bit high-stakes, as if one of us could easily say the wrong thing or misjudge the moment at any point, whereupon the whole night would instantly darken, the mood turning sour and wrong.
But it doesn’t once feel that way with Oliver.
We get another round in. Oliver has relaxed a bit now, orders a Knickerdropper Glory without flinching. I go for a couple of Slippery Nipples, because I haven’t done shots in ages.
‘You know,’ he says at one point, ‘whenever I called your office, I always used to hope the switchboard would put me through to you.’
Our eyes meet, and the memory of his whipped-cream phone voice flows back to me. I feel an irrational twinge of guilt now,for always having passed him on to one of my salivating single colleagues.
I knock back my first shot. ‘Okay. Return confession. The women in my department used to fight over who got to speak with you, whenever you called.’
Oliver appears, understandably, fairly delighted by this. He leans back against the booth we’re in, stretching out his long legs. He is wearing a designer shirt, but somehow it looks much less ostentatious on him than I suspect it would on Lawrence. ‘And were you... one of them?’
I shake my head apologetically. ‘Sorry. I was married.’
Actually, that’s not quite accurate, I should add. I’m still married.
‘Tell me about him. Emma’s father.’
I open my mouth to correct him, then change my mind. I’m not sure why, exactly. ‘We rushed things. Don’t get me wrong – I wouldn’t change having Emma for the world. But Lawrence and I... we were never a great match.’
‘It happens,’ he says sympathetically. ‘But hey – you got your beautiful little girl, right?’
I agree with a smile. ‘I take it you never had any of your own? Kids, I mean.’
‘Ah, no. I always wanted to – just never met the right person, I guess.’ He smiles too, but a little wistfully. ‘Or maybe I did, but not at the right time. It’s a funny thing, getting older, isn’t it?’
I push a sudden pulse of Josh from my mind. ‘You can’t be much older than me.’
‘Forty-two? And obviously, I know that’s notold. But still. The idea that I might never have kids of my own...’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s just a bit weird.’
‘I get that. I thought the same once, too.’
