Page 62 of So, I Met This Guy . . .

‘I know, it was like that with Dad at the end in the hospice. Cancer really does a number on you.’

‘Try dementia.’

I stroke his arm supportively. Just last week they’d got the diagnosis he was dreading. Theo’s mum has dementia and is probably going to have to move into a residential care home. He’s been finding it difficult. He’s had so much emotional upheaval in recent years. There was me thinking I was in a vulnerable place when I met him, but he was too. Both of us were grieving the loss of our old lives; I’d lost Dad, but he’d gone through a divorce and moved across an ocean. Two lost and lonely souls, looking for love and hoping to start over. We were so lucky to find each other.

‘Which is why we’ve got to grab happiness when we find it,’ he says, grabbing me to prove his point. ‘Live life like there’s no tomorrow. We’re not getting any younger.’

‘Is this just your excuse to open another bottle of red,’ I laugh, but he looks hurt.

‘Don’t make fun of me, Mags.’

‘Oh love, I’m sorry. I wasn’t . . . I didn’t mean . . .’

Releasing me, he reaches into the fridge for the parmesan, then opens a cupboard and pulls out a grater. I watch him, allowing myself to feel a small, delicious moment of contentment. He knows where all my ingredients are. Where my spoons go and where I keep my cheese grater. There’s something so basic about all of that, so comfortable, and I feel a rush of love. Back in my twenties I craved adventure and excitement, but now in my forties the domestic thrill of someone knowing where my kitchen utensils go is what I want.

‘I was just joking, being light-hearted; cancer and dementia are pretty depressing.’

‘But I’m being serious. There are no guarantees and life is short.’

My eyes meet his.

‘Come on, let’s get a place together, let’s move in together.’

‘Seriously?’

‘I’ve never been more serious about anything.’

‘But shouldn’t we move a bit slower? I mean, it’s all moving so fast.’

‘What are we waiting for? We’re both grown-ups. Neither of us has kids. We’re footloose and fancy free!’

I pause. Trying to be sensible, but his enthusiasm is infectious and the possibility of what this might become is bubbling beneath the surface, threatening to overwhelm me. And this time it’s in a good way.

‘We could get something amazing together if we pool our money. You could sell this place, I’ve got the money for the house sale in LA once all the paperwork’s done, we could buy a place in the country—’

‘The country?’

‘Get some animals . . . a couple of donkeys, some chickens . . .’

‘Since when did you want chickens?’

He’s getting all excited now, twirling me around the kitchen, and I’m laughing.

‘Imagine it, just you and me against the whole world.’

But I don’t need to be told, I am imagining it, though I can hardly believe it. Just a few short months ago I was at my lowest, feeling lonely and still grieving Dad. Life seemed hopeless, pointless, and now look. It’s unbelievable how one person can turn it all around.

‘But the flat’s part of the gallery, I won’t want to sell it.’

As I speak I see his mood dip, like when the wind suddenly goes out of a boat’s sails, his face crushed.

‘But I can remortgage,’ I suggest quickly.

‘No, it’s OK. Forget I mentioned it.’

‘No, no, but I want to.’ I’m insistent now. ‘I can remortgage and that way I can keep the gallery and rent out the flat. If we need more money, I can even take out a business loan.’

‘You don’t have to. Seriously. It’s not about the money.’