Page 60 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

Exhilarating. Intoxicating. Can’t-catch-your-breath alive.

It all happened so quickly. So unexpectedly. I wasn’t looking for love; I was grieving. But then Theo literally walked into my gallery and my life and everything changed. I’d been in such a dark place and now I was bathed in sunlight.

Three months later, he suggested we move in together.

‘It makes sense.’

‘What, do you mean financially?’

‘No, not financially,’ he frowns. ‘Do you really think I’m so unromantic?’

‘Of course not, silly.’ I laugh, and ruffle his hair as he pouts in his striped butcher’s pinny. ‘You’re the King of Romance.’

‘Which makes you my Queen,’ he replies with mocktheatrics, picking up a tea towel off my kitchen countertop and performing an over-exaggerated royal bow as I stop stirring the pan to hoot with laughter.

It’s a Saturday evening and we’re cooking dinner together in my flat, the radio tuned to his favourite Classic FM. This is how I spend my weekends now. Him in my pinny, me with a glass of wine, moving in synchronicity around my kitchen island, chopping vegetables, peeling garlic, stealing kisses as my le Creuset pans provide an orchestra of aromas. Even they look happy now, their bright orange faces cheerfully bubbling and steaming and sizzling. Gone are the days of a bag of Kettle Chips and hummus for one on the sofa with just my ginger tomcat George for company. Now it’s a scene of cosy domestic bliss. The kind you want to hate unless you’re the one luxuriating in it.

We’re so comfortable with each other. Like we’ve known each other for ever. I can’t remember a time before he was here – in my flat, in my kitchen, in my bed. Even my cat loves him. I watch as George rubs himself against Theo’s legs, purring.

‘I want us to move in together because when you know you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, why wait?’ Taking the bottle of red wine, he tops up our glasses. ‘It’s like the line from When Harry Met Sally.’

The breath catches at the back of my throat. Not only is that one of my favourite films, but did he just say he wants to spend the rest of his life with me? I take a large gulp of wine, feeling suddenly overwhelmed.

‘I love you.’

He strokes the side of my face, lifts my chin towards his and kisses me.

‘I love you, too.’

We’ve been telling each other we love each other for the last few weeks now. He said it first, but I was quick to follow. It feels so natural. As if it was meant to be. Which sounds crazy, as I don’t believe in fate. And yet there’s something about Theo that might make me change my mind.

‘It’s just . . .’

‘Just what?’

Still, there’s a little part of me that can’t let go and embrace what’s unfolding between us. The part of me that’s experienced heartbreak and heartache: the flings that went nowhere, the relationships that failed, a starter marriage in my twenties that lasted six weeks and should never have happened. The part of me that’s loved deeply only to discover those feelings weren’t returned; that’s been disappointed and rejected and stood staring into the mirror wondering why not me? The part of me that’s spent my whole life looking for exactly this connection and yet, now I’ve found it, is holding back, protecting myself, not quite believing I’m worthy of this love.

Who frankly is shit scared and looking for reasons why it can’t be true.

‘If we move in together, I want it to be for the right reasons.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I don’t want it to be a way to save money.’

As soon as I speak, I regret it – he looks so offended.

‘Is this because I borrowed a thousand pounds to pay the storage company?’ he accuses. ‘I paid you straight back, didn’t I?’

‘Yes, of course, I didn’t mean—’

‘Maggie, please. I’ve just been having a little cash flow problem because it’s taking so long to get the funds from the sale of my house in LA. The whole US system is so different to over here. Have you any idea how many emails I’ve been firing off to the realtor? I’ve been giving him hell!’

Slamming down his wine glass, he shakes his head. He looks so upset and furious, and I feel horribly guilty. I should never have said anything.

‘I know, you said it’s been difficult . . .’

I try stroking his arm, but he moves away, his jaw set. Awkwardly, I return to the stove to attend the orchestra of pans.