fuck-off penthouses in Manhattan is something I do quite regularly myself. When I’m not busy renting a room in a tiny shoebox downtown, of course.
Inside, though, I can’t help feeling a stab of insecurity. God, he’s obviously some major high-flyer, while I’m still broke at the end of each month.
‘I’ve been living in LA, but now I’m moving here for work,’ he adds in explanation.
‘Don’t tell me, you’re in the movie business,’ I say with a rush of excitement, before feeling my cheeks redden. ‘I saw the magazines.’ I motion vaguely towards the living room.
‘TV.’ He looks almost apologetic. ‘I’m a producer.’
‘Gosh, that’s great.’ I try to sound convincing, though I haven’t a clue if that’s great or not. Still, it sounds impressive. Everyone always wants to work in TV, don’t they? Well, apart from me. Art’s only ever been my thing.
‘Yeah, it’s pretty cool . . .’ He nods, then trails off.
There’s an awkward pause and for a moment we just stand there in the hallway, looking at each other. I can feel the space between us thick with questions and emotions.
‘Wow, sorry, I just realised, I haven’t even offered you a drink or anything,’ he starts apologising and rubbing his temples.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I say hastily.
‘I’m afraid I don’t have much in, apart from some Evian.’
And that funny quinoa stuff, I think, remembering the packet in the fridge.
‘Look, why don’t we go out and get a drink?’ he suggests all of a sudden. ‘Catch up properly?’
I’m taken aback. Go for a drink? Me and Nate?
‘Oh, er . . .’ Flustered, I start trying to stall. ‘I’m not sure . . .’
‘There’s a great little place on the corner,’ he continues eagerly. ‘Come on, how about it?’
He’s looking at me expectantly, a big smile on his face, and out of the blue I feel a snap of indignation. My God, I can’t believe it. He thinks I’m just going to trot off to a bar with him for a cosy chit-chat. After what happened? I should tell him to sod off.
I should, but of course I’m not going to.
‘Let me just grab my bag.’
I’ve imagined this moment a million, trillion times: bumping into him again. What I’d say, how I’d look, exactly what it would be like. I’d look fabulous, of course. I’d be wearing my thin jeans. I’d be having a good hair day (well, I don’t really have good hair days. I have at-least-it’s-not-frizzy and phew-my-fringe-hasn’t-kinked-yet days). Oh, and I’d have some amazing man on my arm.
Not that I believe you need a guy to make you feel good about yourself, but come on, enough of the feminist principles. You bump into the love of your life who married someone else, trust me, you don’t want to be single and wearing your frumpy work clothes, or a pair of flip-flops that make your legs look completely dumpy.
Sitting on a barstool, I rub my legs self-consciously. Ugh, they feel all bristly. Which is when I remember that I forgot to shave them.
‘I mean, what are the odds?’
Tugging down my skirt, I look across the bar at Nathaniel. Shirtsleeves rolled up, he’s sitting opposite me, shaking his head in disbelief.
We’re in a little French bistro on the corner of his street drinking red wine. I don’t usually drink red wine. I don’t actually like it. It makes my tongue feel all funny, like when I eat rhubarb. But I did that thing you do when you’re a bit nervous and you say you’ll have what they’re having, so Nathaniel ordered a bottle.
Which took about twenty minutes, as he wanted to taste everything on the menu first, swirling each one round the glass and sniffing it. He obviously knows a lot about wine, unlike me. I don’t know the first thing.
‘It is a bit of a coincidence.’ I nod, taking a large gulp of wine.
I feel absurdly nervous. As if I’m on a first date.
Quickly I scrub that thought.
‘Just a bit.’ He nods, rolling his eyes. ‘It’s incr¿€es. ‘It’s sncredible. I’ve always wondered if I’d ever see you again.’
‘You have?’ My voice comes out in a squeak.
‘Well, yeah,’ he says, looking down at his wine glass self-consciously.
My chest tightens and my stomach does this funny swooping thing. He’s thought about me. During all this time he’s thought about me. I feel a surge of validation. All this time I always wondered. Always hoped.
‘Did you ever think about me?’ He raises his eyes and gives me a long, searching look.
My stomach