credit . . .’
As he starts talking business, I take another sip of champagne and glance around the restaurant. It’s a well-heeled crowd. Mostly couples, and mostly older, the women all look the same, with their Hamptons tans and professional blow-dries, whereas the men are all salt-and-pepper hair and bespoke suits. Though there’s a couple over there who look quite funky, I notice, spotting an unshaven man in the corner wearing a pair of dark sunglasses.
I give a little snort of derision. Honestly, who wears sunglasses inside a restaurant? Who does he think he is? Bono?
‹spa>Absently I watch as he moves slightly to the side and I get a better look at him.
Oh my God, it is Bono.
I feel a sudden thrill. I can’t believe it. A famous person, eating dinner in the same restaurant as me! See, this is what’s so fantastic about coming to swanky restaurants in Manhattan. This wouldn’t happen in my local Italian back in Earl’s Court.
‘OK, cc me in on the email and I’ll call you tomorrow. Thanks, John.’ Hanging up, Nate turns back to me. ‘Hey, sorry about that.’
‘Oh, it’s OK.’ I smile, then lean across the table and whisper, ‘Guess what, Bono’s sitting behind you!’
I’m expecting Nate to look excited and try to sneak a peek, but instead he just sort of shrugs disinterestedly and says, ‘Oh, really?’ and reaches for his champagne.
‘Yes, I’m pretty certain it’s him.’ I nod, shooting another covert glance over his shoulder. ‘I mean, he looks exactly the same.’
‘Are you a big U2 fan?’
‘Well, not really, but I saw them in concert once and they were amazing.’
‘Yeah, me too. A friend of mine won tickets to the last gig of their three-night run in Dublin and took me along. It was a few years back now.’
‘June 2005. The Vertigo tour,’ I finish before I can stop myself.
‘Wow, you are a fan!’ he laughs.
I stare at him in astonishment. ‘I was there.’
‘’Scuse me?’ He looks at me as if he’s misheard.
‘My boyfriend took me to the same concert. Well, he wasn’t really my boyfriend,’ I add hastily. ‘We just went on a few dates and—’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘No, really, we were totally mismatched. He was into going to festivals and taking hallucinogens. OK, so I ate hash cookies once, but that’s only because I thought they were real cookies—’
‘I’m talking about the concert,’ interrupts Nate, and I blush.
‘Oh, right, I know.’ I shake my head in disbelief. First New Year’s Eve in Paris a€€Eve in Pa‹is nd now this . . . It’s almost as if we’ve been meant to meet again. As if all these years we’ve been circumnavigating the globe, going to the same places at the same time, but we just kept missing each other.
Until now.
‘Anyone would think you’ve been following me,’ he says, breaking into my thoughts, grinning.
‘Or you’ve been following me,’ I protest indignantly. Goodness, I’m getting as bad as Robyn. Of course it’s just a coincidence. There must have been thousands of people at that concert.
‘By the way, that’s not Bono,’ he confides, his eyes flashing with amusement.
‘It’s not? How can you tell?’ I look over to see he’s standing up, ready to leave. I get a jolt of surprise. Oh my God, the man is a giant. Seriously, he must be about seven foot tall. I feel a flash of embarrassment. ‘Well, the resemblance was very striking,’ I say in explanation.
‘I suppose you think that’s Madonna sitting in the corner over there too,’ he teases.
‘And next to her are Posh and Becks,’ I giggle loudly.
‘Ssh.’ He frowns slightly and gestures with his hand for me to keep my voice down. ‘A little less on the volume.’
‘Oh, sorry.’ My giggles immediately disappear and I feel a bit awkward. As if I’ve just been told off. Still, I suppose I can get a bit loud and silly when I’m tipsy, and this champagne has gone straight to my head. That always happens when I drink on an empty stomach, I muse, feeling a flash of relief as the waiter arrives with our food.
‘Mmm, this is heavenly,’ I say, tasting a delicious mouthful of pasta. ‘Do you want to try some?’
‘No, thanks. I’m trying to stay off the carbs,’ says Nate, making a start on his green salad.
‘So you can’t eat pasta?’ I ask, momentarily trying to imagine life without macaroni cheese and failing.
‘Or potatoes or bread.’ He nods, spearing a lettuce leaf. ‘And pretty much any baked goods.’
‘So no biscuits?’ I squeak.
‘Well, I wouldn’t be eating