In between mouthfuls of linguine, I tell him about Dad. And Farrs. And Mum. I tell him about my catering company collapsing; how I’ve never paid Mum back; what a failure I’ve felt ever since. I tell him a little bit about how Jake makes me feel. (Not everything. Not about my skating fall, because I don’t want to cast a shadow over this evening. And definitely not about the ravens. There’s “honest” and then there’s “too much information.”)
Then I tell him all about Ryan, and he listens nicely and doesn’t say a single scathing thing about him, even though I can see the antagonism mounting in his eyes.
“I was in love with a girl called Astrid at school,” he says, when I’ve finished. “If she’d come breezing back into my life, I think I would have lost all sense. So I get it.”
I even tell him how I got the nickname “Fixie”: that when I was three, I used to walk around determinedly, saying, “Got to fix it. Got to fix it.” (Although I could never explain exactly what I had to fix.)
“So what’s your real name?” Seb asks, and I hesitate, then lower my voice and practically whisper, “Fawn.” I know it’s my name, but Fawn doesn’t sound like me. It sounds like an animal.
“Fawn?” Seb regards me critically. “No. I prefer Fixie.”
“Pretend I never told you,” I beg him.
“It’s forgotten.”
The lights in the restaurant have been dimmed by now, and candlelight is flickering on our faces. The waiter clears our plates and we read the dessert menus, like you do, but only order coffee. And then I lean forward.
“Now. Your turn.”
He starts with his work. He tells me about how he set up his company and what a struggle it was but fun too—and how it’s all about finding the right people. As he describes his colleagues, his enthusiasm pours out, and his eyes shine with what I can only call love. He tells me how he can’t stand injustice and arrogance and that’s what drove him into ethical investment. He gives me a small lecture on which are the worst executive practices, in his opinion, and how companies should be run, before breaking off and saying, “Sorry. Boring. Boring.” (It wasn’t.)
Then, when our coffee cups are both drained, he tells me about his family’s deaths, in more measured tones. He tells me how they all survived his dad’s death pretty well and thought, We’ve had our bad luck, and got on with life, but then his mum died while he was at uni and then his brother was killed….Then he notices my eyes swimming with tears and breaks off.
“Fixie, it happened,” he says, grabbing my hand and squeezing it. “It happened. That’s all you can say about it.”
“I suppose,” I say after a pause. “But, oh, Seb…”
“I’m fine. I’m fine. I’ve moved on, I’m at peace with it, I appreciate what I have….Sorry,” he adds, as though noticing for the first time where his hand is.
“No, that’s OK,” I say, my voice a little husky. I blink away my tears, determined to get a grip. If Seb can be so positive about it, then I should be too.
I squeeze his hand back, and he looks at me with a kind of cryptic, quizzical expression, and with a sudden lurch I realize where we are in the evening. We’ve talked. We’ve shared a bottle of wine. We’re holding hands.
“So, I was thinking,” I say, my gaze fixed on a distant point. “Shall I…uh…see you back home? You know, with your ankle and everything. You might need a hand up the…uh…steps. If you have steps. Do you have steps?”
My nervous gabble comes to an end and I wait breathlessly for his reply.
“I do have steps,” says Seb. “And that would be very kind of you.” His eyes meet mine, and something about his expression starts a pulse inside me.
“Right.” I try to sound casual. “Well.”
Seb gestures for the bill, then gives me another look, which makes my insides melt. “Shall we get out of here?”
We find a cab and Seb gives the address, and as the cab travels through the lit-up Christmassy London streets, neither of us says much. My breathing is shallow; my whole body feels taut. I’m super-aware of every move Seb makes but grateful he’s not one of those guys who lunges at you in the taxi. I want it to be private. I don’t want the driver watching in the mirror.