I remember wondering if he was Luke the first time I lived this day, even though his scarf was the wrong colour, and then being completely intimidated by how well he was put together, how expensive his clothes looked. However, thirty-five-year-old Jess has a few private physio clients who have a penny or two to spend, and isn’t as intimidated as twenty-three-year-old Jess was, so when he sits on the stool next to mine I don’t bury my head in my phone to avoid interaction.
He also orders the Pinot Noir and as he’s waiting for the bar staff to fetch it for him, he turns to me, his eyes appraising. ‘Are you meeting someone here?’
‘Yes.’
He nods, as if this means something to him.
I take a sip of my wine. ‘Blind date?’
One corner of his mouth curls up. It makes him look a bit rakish, a nice offset to the mannered appearance. ‘Something like that.’
I give him a polite smile, more because I don’t know how to respond than because I think what he’s saying is amusing.
He turns to face me fully. ‘I think I may be the one you’re waiting for.’
I open my mouth to explain that he’s got it wrong, but then an idea crashes into my brain on a flash of white-hot lightning. My smile grows warmer. ‘I think you might be right.’
CHAPTER TEN
JESS
When Luke comes dashing through the restaurant door at twenty past seven, the stools by the bar are empty. He looks around and the hopeful smile slides from his face. Even though I know he doesn’t know what I look like, I shift back in my chair, taking advantage of a potted palm.
The guy with the cashmere scarf is called Brandon, and he’s something big in commercial real estate, apparently. Imayhave hijacked his blind date by letting him think I’m the person he’s supposed to be meeting, but seeing as another woman hasn’t turned up looking for him, I’m not feeling too guilty on her behalf. Brandon is being classy and charming, and he thinks I’m the bee’s knees. Whywouldn’tI want to have dinner with him rather than the man who just stormed out of my life, basically implying I’m not good enough for him?
Luke stands near the restaurant entrance with his hands on his hips, scanning the room for a full minute, the lumpy red, homemade scarf hanging round his neck, even though it’s May and he must be sweltering. His nan always knits him something for Christmas. It is always hideous. How a woman who’s beenknitting for more than four decades can create such monstrosities I’ll never know. It was one of the things I loved about Luke that he always wore what she made him, no matter how ghastly it was.
I almost feel sorry for him. I almost stand up and try to attract his attention.
But then I think about how this can’t possibly be real, how I’ve already lived this day once and it happened the way it happened. Maybe I slipped and fell when I was chasing after Luke after our big party. Maybe I’m in a coma. I read a magazine article a couple of months ago about a woman who had an accident the night before her wedding and had a traumatic brain injury. While she was unconscious she had this long-running, ultra-realistic dream about how she married the best man instead. Maybe this is something like that. Weirdly, I think I’d prefer to believe I’m just lying in a hospital bed rather than the alternatives: that I’m insane, dead or truly time travelling through my life.
I turn my attention back to my dinner companion. He’s talking about wine and literature and the opera. And it’s interesting. I’m enjoying his company, even if he’s quite probably a figment of my own imagination.
I see Luke pull out his phone, possibly to text me, so I thrust my hand into my bag and push the button to put mine on silent. I don’t want a loud ‘bing-bing’ to give me away when I’m only a handful of metres away from him.
He hovers near the bar in his stupid scarf tie for another fifteen minutes, looking like a lost puppy dog, and it’s a relief when I see a smudge of red in my peripheral vision as Luke and his scarf exit the restaurant and stride back in the direction of London Bridge Underground station.
I turn back to my substitute blind date to find him looking at me, an amused twinkle in his eyes. ‘You know, you’re not quite what I thought you’d be.’
‘I’m not?’
‘I think I was expecting … I don’t know, something more obvious.’ He smiles again, and I take hope in the fact he doesn’t seem fazed or even disappointed. ‘But I did say I was prepared to be surprised, and I think I quite like the “secretly sexy librarian” approach. The red hair is a definite plus.’
What a weird thing to say. Is it a compliment? I think it is, but I honestly can’t tell.
What does ‘more obvious’ mean? I’m puzzling over there ‘secretly sexy librarian’ bit. Do I look uptight? I know I can come off as a bit guarded sometimes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to have fun. Maybe I’ll just have to pick up the mood a bit, try and be a little more effervescent than I usually am.
When our starters are cleared away and the main courses are delivered, he stops asking me questions about myself and segues into a monologue about his work colleagues, especially his boss’s boss, who is in town for some big event. It’s obvious Brandon is desperate to impress him. And then just keeps droning on and on, for almost half an hour.
‘You are paying attention, aren’t you, Jessica?’
My eyes snap up to meet his. I’d been studying the dessert fork, thinking what a lovely shape it was. ‘Huh?’
‘You need to keep abreast of the names.’
‘Oh, God … sorry.’ He must have been able to tell I’d tuned out. How embarrassing.
He looks slightly peeved. ‘You might have to try a bit harder, especially since we’re going to be meeting up with them all later.’
