I’m not going to get drunk, I hastily resolve. I’m not going to sleep with him and I’m not going to get drunk.
The maître d’ is approaching me. Here goes.
“I’m here to meet a … a friend. He reserved a table. Benedict Parr?”
“Of course.” The maître d’ leads me a winding route through the restaurant, past about ten tables at which possible men are sitting with their faces averted. Each time, my stomach heaves with apprehension. Is that him? Is that him? Please not that one—
Oh God! I almost squeak. Here he is, rising from his chair. Stay cool. Smile. This is so, so, so surreal.
My eyes are running over him, registering details at top speed, as though I’m in the Assess Your Ex Olympics. Slightly odd patterned shirt; what’s that about? He’s taller than I remember. Thinner. His face is definitely thinner, and his dark wavy hair is short now. You’d never know that he once had Greek-god locks. There’s a hole in his ear where his earring used to be.
“Well … hi there,” I greet him.
I’m satisfied at the way I sound so understated. Especially since a bubble of excitement is growing inside me now that I’ve had a proper view. Look at him! He’s gorgeous! Just like he always was, but better. More grown-up. Less gawky.
He leans in for a kiss. A grown-up, civilized double kiss. Then he draws back and surveys me.
“Lottie. You look … incredible.”
“You look pretty good yourself.”
“You haven’t aged a day!”
“Same goes!”
We’re beaming at each other in a kind of amazed joy, like someone who’s won a raffle and come up to collect a dodgy box of chocolates as a prize and found it’s actually a thousand pounds in cash. We can’t believe our luck.
I mean, let’s face it, a lot can change in a man’s twenties. Ben could have turned up looking like anything. He could have been bald. He could have been paunchy and stooped. He could have developed some kind of irritating tic.
And he’s probably looking at me, thinking, Thank God she hasn’t had a trout pout put in/gone gray/gained sixty pounds.
“So.” He gestures charmingly at my chair and I sit down. “How have the last fifteen years been?”
“Fine, thanks.” I laugh. “You?”
“Can’t complain.” He meets my eye with the same mischievous grin he always had. “OK, that’s the catch-up done. You want a drink? Don’t tell me you’re teetotal now.”
“Are you kidding?” I open the cocktail menu, feeling a sizzle of anticipation. This is going to be a great evening. I already know it. “Let’s see what they’ve got.”
Two hours later I’m buzzing all over. I’m exhilarated. I feel like a sportsman in the zone. I feel like a convert who’s found religion. This is it. This is it. Ben and I are amazing together.
OK, so I haven’t stuck to my resolution regarding alcohol. But that was a ridiculous, shortsighted, stupid resolution. Dinner with an ex-boyfriend is potentially quite a tense, sticky situation. This could have been awkward. As it is, with a few cocktails down me, I’m having the best evening of my life.
What’s amazing is how connected Ben and I are. It’s as though we’ve picked up exactly where we left off, as if the last decade and a half never happened. We’re eighteen again. We’re young and big-eyed. Sharing wild ideas and silly jokes and wanting to explore everything the world has to offer. Ben immediately started telling me about a play he’d seen the week before, and I countered with an art exhibition in Paris (I didn’t mention that Richard took me), and our conversation has been flying since then. There’s so much to say. There are so many memories.
We haven’t done the tedious list of who-what-when. We haven’t exchanged job details, previous relationships, any of that boring crap. It’s so refreshing not to hear the words “So, what do you do?” or “Is your flat a conversion or purpose built?” or “Do you get a pension?” It’s so liberating.
I know he’s single. He knows I’m single. That’s the only update we needed.
Ben has drunk quite a lot more than I have. He also remembers much more than I do about our time in Greece. He keeps sparking old memories which I’d buried. I’d forgotten about the poker tournament. I’d forgotten about that fishing boat sinking. I’d forgotten about the night we played table tennis with those two Australian guys. But the moment Ben reminds me, there it all is in my head again, in a vivid flash.
“Guy and …” I’m crinkling up my nose, trying to remember. “Guy and … what was his name … oh yes, Bill!”
