Page 45 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

I take off my cardie and hang it over the back of my chair.

‘Sorry. It’s a little hot in here. I think I turned the thermostat too high,’ I say, thanking God I wore a bra under my T-shirt.

‘I’m still getting used to the British winter,’ he says, motioning to the fact he’s wearing a scarf. And not the bright, stripy, Tom-Baker-as-Dr-Who kind of scarf that I wore to work today wrapped around my ancient sheepskin coat that I found in a flea market years ago, but the luxury, butter-soft cashmere kind that’s pale grey and knotted perfectly at his throat.

‘Oh, you’ve been away?’ So that explains the tan.

‘For the last twenty years, yes. I live in LA. Or I did,’ he quickly corrects himself. ‘I just sold my house and moved back to the UK.’

It’s the casual way he says LA. I feel my interest piqued. Not that it wasn’t already.

‘Bit different from sunny California,’ I say, gesturing to the leaden skies outside the gallery windows.

‘Just a little,’ he nods. ‘So, you know Los Angeles?’

‘Only from the movies. And The Real Housewives,’ I admit, then, seeing his confused expression, add in explanation, ‘It’s a reality TV show set in Beverly Hills.’

‘Oh, yes, I haven’t seen it,’ he confesses. ‘I work in film.’

‘Film?’

It comes out a bit high-pitched. Well, it’s not every day I get handsome men who work in film walking into my little art gallery on the outskirts of Bath. It’s all very glamorous. Usually, it’s tourists browsing for a souvenir or a local landlord decorating yet another holiday let. Yesterday it was one of my neighbours, looking for something for their new downstairs loo. They went for a lithograph print of a vase of flowers.

‘It’s not as glamourous as it sounds. I scout filming locations.’

‘No, working in Hollywood doesn’t sound very glamorous at all,’ I reply, and he laughs.

‘Well, put like that . . .’ He breaks off and looks at me and I get that funny feeling again.

‘So, what brings you back to the UK?’

‘Mum had a fall.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, is she OK?’

‘Yeah, yeah . . . she’s fine now but she’s not getting any younger. I wanted to be nearer, what with her being a widow now. I’m an only child and we’re very close . . . Plus, I’ve been thinking about moving back for a while, ever since the divorce—’ He breaks off. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pour out my whole life story.’

‘No, honestly, it’s fine.’ I smile reassuringly. ‘I understand.’

Underneath the smart coat and suntan, I see a vulnerability and feel an unexpected connection. He looks about my age, maybe a few years older. We’re in that time of life when the roles have reversed and it’s us that worry about our parents. Doesn’t matter whether you’re in a designer coat or not.

‘I lost my dad last summer, so I know how important it is to spend time with our parents while we can.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t upset you.’

‘No, not at all.’ I shake my head. ‘In fact, it’s nice to talk about it to someone who understands.’

‘You must miss him.’

‘Yes.’

And it’s hearing myself admit it out loud, to a complete stranger, that catches me by surprise. It’s been a tough six months. Losing a parent is hard for anyone, but Dad’s death had crushed me. My parents divorced years ago and while Mum had remarried and moved to Spain, we were never close. I’d always been Daddy’s girl.

All through my childhood and teenage years he was my constant protector and champion. Even as an adult I knew nothing bad could ever happen to me as long as Dad was alive. Boyfriends came and went – there was even a short-lived marriage in my twenties, a six-week disaster which ended when I ran home shamefaced and crying that I’d made a terrible mistake and Dad just hugged me and told me everything would be all right. He was the only man who had ever loved me unconditionally and his loss was profound.

Grief overwhelmed me. I cried constantly. I never thought I’d feel joy again. Friends were kind and supportive, but they had families and busy lives and after a while the sympathy cards and the texts stopped and people just assume you’re getting on with it. It’s your father. Losing a parent is normal. It happens to us all. Perhaps it was being single and not having a partner’s shoulder to cry on, but it hit me incredibly hard.

Feeling my eyes welling up, I go to quickly brush the tears away when I notice him reach into his pocket and he holds out a packet of tissues.