Page 44 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

She heaved a sigh. ‘God, I wouldn’t know where to start.’

‘Oh, that’s easy.’ Flick smiled. ‘In journalism, they call it the inciting incident.’

Maggie glanced at Flick with interest.

‘It’s something, however big or small, that happens in your life which sets in motion a sequence of events.’

Tightening her grip on the steering wheel, Maggie focused back on the road ahead.

‘In other words, how it all began.’

Maggie

So, I met this guy.

Well, isn’t that how every love story starts?

It was a Tuesday afternoon in February last year and I was at the gallery. I remember the date as it was Pancake Day and I was thinking about my dad. He’d died the summer before. Pancakes were his favourite and every year I’d catch the train up to see him, armed with a bag of flour and a dozen eggs. Dad would fire up the frying pan, I’d make the batter, and we’d both take turns in trying to flip them. I was hopeless. There’d be more on the floor than in the pan. Not that Dad cared. Greedy bugger would smother them in golden syrup and gobble up the lot.

So, I’m feeling a bit tearful, sitting in the back with a cup of Earl Grey that’s gone cold and half a packet of stem-ginger cookies, lost in thought and wondering who I’m going to make pancakes for now, when the doorbell chimes.

I pop my head out.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi. Is it OK to browse?’

And abruptly all thoughts of pancakes vanish and There He Is. A tall, dark, handsome stranger. Standing in the middle of my little gallery. Literally.

‘Yes . . . yes, of course.’

I quickly brush biscuit crumbs from my cardigan. They’re all caught in the pink mohair. Tiny guilty ginger crumbles.

‘I’ve just moved to the area and I’m looking for some art for my new apartment.’

‘Well, you’ve come to the right place then,’ I joke.

It’s a bit feeble, but it makes him smile and I notice he’s got a really nice smile. The kind that reaches the corner of his eyes and makes them go all crinkly. And somewhere, deep inside this grief-stricken soul of mine, I feel a flicker of something.

‘If you like landscapes, we’re currently exhibiting some wonderful paintings by a local artist,’ I continue, pointing to the walls where various large brooding oils are displayed.

‘Hmm . . . yes . . . I like their use of colour.’

‘Isn’t it extraordinary?’

He nods and continues walking slowly around the gallery. Pausing in front of each painting. I watch him studying each one. Meanwhile I take the opportunity to study him. His dark hair is swept back off his temples, his face is tanned and he’s wearing a woollen overcoat. Deep blue, with the collar turned up, it’s beautifully cut and looks expensive.

I feel abruptly self-conscious in my jeans-and-cardie combo and faded old suede boots.

‘And if you’re looking for something a little cheaper, we have signed limited edition prints too,’ I add, though somewhat redundantly. This does not look like a man that needs to worry about money.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know much about art.’

‘Oh, you don’t need to. I always think it’s whatever you feel a connection with.’

‘Is that so?’

He turns to me with a cheeky smile and raises an eyebrow. Wait. Is he flirting with me? I feel myself go all hot underneath my armpits and deeply regret my mohair cardie. No. Don’t be silly. Of course he’s not. No one’s flirted with me for years. Since my last relationship finished in my mid-forties, I’ve been single and invisible.