Love @ First Site (31 page)

So I want to apologize profusely for doing so, and say that your private life is absolutely none of my business and I should never have intruded. My only defense is that, because I confided in you so early about Olivia, I suppose I felt our friendship was closer and more confessional than it actually was from your point of view. I overstepped the mark and I'm sorry.

For what it's worth, I couldn't care two hoots whether you're straight, gay, bisexual, trisexual (!), or totally asexual. All I care about is that you've been a very good friend to me and I hate the thought that, instead of waiting for you to tell me yourself, I may have hurt you by being so intrusive.

So can we just forget that conversation ever happened? Please? I want to press rewind and go back to how we were--a friendship with no pressure, just good mates who are there for each other in times of crisis.

Groveling apologies again, and I hope you can see your way to forgive me.

Jess x

I reread it a couple of times, then click on "send" before I can change my mind. I just hope it does the trick. Sighing, I close the lid of my laptop and lean back against the sofa, my thoughts full of how different my life is just one year on.

Last New Year's Day, there was no Ben, Kara and I were friends (at least of a sort), and I was still working at
Good Morning Britain
and hating every minute of it. I was single but--in the absence of an Internet ad--still following the traditional route of trawling wine bars and parties. And most poignantly of all, Olivia didn't have cancer.

I wonder, not without some trepidation, what twists and turns my life will have taken another year from now.

Thirty Six

T
he wind shoots noisily down my bedroom chimney, jolting the grate and waking me with a start. Disoriented, I sit bolt upright and take a few seconds to realize that the world hasn't ended and I'm not late for work. It's 10 a.m. Saturday morning and I sink gratefully back onto my pillow, fantasizing about having a housekeeper who would now bring me a refreshing cup of tea. Or an obliging boyfriend who would do the same, perhaps?

For the first time in ages, I find myself lamenting the lack of a serious relationship in my life, and not just because I'm too lazy to get off my backside and make my own tea. No, even thinking back to the days of the hapless Nathan, there was something reassuring about waking up on a wet weekend morning and having someone to cuddle up to or even just slop around the house with. Company on tap if you wanted it, a long, solitary bath with a good book if you didn't.

As a singleton, there isn't that choice. Sure, I could hit the phone and invite myself to someone's house, but sometimes that feels like piggybacking on their lives rather than simply living my own.

Sighing, I haul myself out of bed and pad through into the kitchen to make that much-needed cup of tea. Waiting for the kettle to boil, I unplug my laptop from its charger and switch it on.

There are four new e-mails, all work related, and my heart sinks. It's now been three days since I e-mailed Ben to apologize about my behavior on New Year's Eve, and the silence has been deafening. Like staring at a phone you want desperately to ring, I have been obsessively checking my in-box at least once an hour, silently willing there to be a reply from him.

But nothing. I can only assume I have offended him so greatly that he's either going to make me suffer for several more days, or he's simply decided to do what I have finally done with Kara and cut me out of his life altogether. Let's face it, who needs friends like drunken old me?

Scrolling down, I double click on Seb Northam's e-mail from earlier in the week, the one suggesting lunch today. What harm can it do, I muse, as I stand up and cross to the kettle.

After all, we've been cyberchatting for a couple of months now and he seems personable and funny, not to mention passably pleasant looking in his photo. Not an oil painting, but then again, not a seaside postcard either.

And if I'm honest, Olivia's little Christmas Day speech about life's priorities has been playing on my mind. Yes, thirty-four is still young in so many ways, but if, as I do, you want to get married and have children, then time is of the essence. Particularly if you want to do things the traditional way of meeting someone, giving it a couple of years to make sure you're right for each other, getting married,
then
trying for a baby. By my calculation, even if I met someone right now, my ovaries would be approaching 104 by the time I got round to needing them.

Nope, there's nothing else for it. I've got to get back out there and date. Starting now.

R
awnsley's is a traditional English restaurant with stalwarts such as braised beef and Guinness pie or fish and chips on the menu. Both are scrawled on the "specials" blackboard outside, along with beef stew and dumplings.

I loiter outside for a few seconds, taking deep breaths and trying to calm myself. God knows why I feel so nervous when I have unabashedly turned up for so many dates with complete strangers and not felt in the slightest bit jittery. Perhaps it's the fact that Seb and I have already revealed so much, despite never having clapped eyes on each other. Ducking into a doorway at one side of the entrance, I take out my pocket mirror and check my hair and makeup one last time. The latter is "au naturel," in other words, equally as much as any other kind of makeup, just less obvious. I hope.

After a good hour of deliberation and frustration at home, I have opted for a black polo neck sweater, cream trousers, and black ankle boots, with a cream parka jacket on top. The look can best be described as that ubiquitous oxymoron "smart casual." Right. Here I go. The restaurant is dark, very dark. Great for hiding any blemishes, but less obliging for an attractive first impression, given that you have to squint alarmingly to be able to see anyone.

There are only two tables currently occupied, and both of them already have three people en suite. So, unless I have unwittingly agreed to a group date, I'm the first here.

I contemplate leaving and walking round the block a couple of times, but I don't think my hair could cope. Besides, being first puts me in poll position to scrutinize him as soon as he comes squinting through the door.

"Madam, how may I help you?" A hand-wringing, obsequious waiter hones into view, dipping his entire body below mine as if I'm the King of Siam.

"I'm meeting a Mr. Northam here for lunch," I reply.

"Ah yes, he's here."

"He is?" I peer into the gloom, wondering how I could have overlooked a solitary diner.

"Yes, he's out the back."

Out the back? Bloody hell, I think, if he can't get a table in the main part of a virtually deserted restaurant he must have a
really
imposing presence. What have I gotten myself into?

"Let me take your coat and I'll take you through," says the waiter, gesturing to a small door at the rear of the room.

Following him, I start to panic slightly about the decision to come, and seriously contemplate doing an about turn and escaping. I now wish I'd suggested coffee in a brightly lit, crowded cafe, rather than agreeing to lunch in this gloomy, half-empty place. If I decide after five minutes he's not my type, it's going to be incredibly difficult to curtail an intimate lunch in an isolated back room.

Before I can make a decision, the waiter is tapping on the door. "Hello, sir? Your guest is here."

He tentatively pushes the door open, and I peer in over his shoulder. It's a small, dimly lit room with just one table for two laid out in the center. Seb is sitting in the nearest chair, his back to the door.

"I'll leave you now, madam." The waiter smiles, standing aside for me to walk in. He closes the door behind me, and I stand there motionless for a couple of seconds, taking in the surroundings. A small ledge-cum-dado rail around the room is peppered with tealights flickering in the gloom, and in the center of the table a large church candle adds to the slightly eerie ambience. George Michael's "I Can't Make You Love Me" plays softly out of two speakers positioned in the far corners of the ceiling.

"Hello?" I say tentatively, craning my head towards Seb, who still hasn't turned round. The image of
Psycho
's mother in her rocking chair snaps into my mind.

Taking a couple of steps forward, I walk past the side of his chair and turn to look at him. The blood drains from my face and my nerve endings stand to attention.

"What the fuck are
you
doing here?" I exclaim, feeling my cheeks flush hot with a mixture of confusion and slight anger that some sort of trap has been set without my knowledge. We all know how I hate surprises.

"Ah yes, a typical Jess-style greeting. Lovely to see you too." He smiles sheepishly and gestures to the chair in front of him. "Sit down."

"No thanks." I stay where I am, my hands on my hips. "Ben, what's going on?"

His expression is apologetic. "I'm Seb Northam."

Brow furrowed, I plonk myself into the chair without thinking and turn to face him. "OK, you've lost me."

"I'm Seb Northam," he repeats. "It's an anagram of Ben R. Thomas. My middle name is Robert, by the way . . . I don't think I ever told you that," he adds matter-of-factly.

I blink rapidly, my brain computing what he's just said. "So
you're
the one who's been sending me all those e-mails?"

He nods, giving me a nervous grin.

"
Why?"
I ask. "Why not just e-mail me as yourself?"

"It's a long story." He sighs. "Are you going to share a glass of wine with me and stay and listen to it, or carry on being hostile?"

"I'm not hostile," I reply indignantly.

"Oh no, not at all," he says, arching an eyebrow. "Scowling expression, body turned to one side, arms crossed . . . no, no . . . not hostile at
all
."

I unfold my arms and turn my body round to face him front on, but a faint scowl is still evident, more through continuing confusion than anything else. "Go on then, pour the wine."

He duly does, and hands the glass to me. Holding the stem of his own, he raises it. "Nice to see you."

"Nice to see you too . . .
Seb."

"Now, now, you see? There's that hostility again."

"Well, what do you expect?" I splutter, a small dribble of wine escaping from the corner of my mouth. "I send you an apologetic e-mail, you don't even bother replying, then I turn up for a date with some supposed stranger I've been conversing with for a couple of months and find out it's
you
! I don't even like surprise birthday parties, so this is
really
pissing me off."

He waits for me to finish, his mouth set in a firm line. "Well, sorry you're pissed off, Jess, but it was the only way to get through that thick skull of yours."

"Get what through?"

He sighs again, a longer, deeper one this time. "This wasn't how I envisaged this at all. I wanted it to be special." He sweeps his arm towards all the candles and slumps back in his chair with an air of hopelessness.

"
You
did all this?" I say, with a note of surprise. It hasn't struck me before, such was my shock at seeing him.

He looks at me incredulously. "Well, who the hell do you think did it?"

I shrug. "I don't know. I hadn't really thought about it. I suppose I imagined it was for something happening later."

He slaps his hand against his forehead. "Two hours of hard slog to create a romantic ambience and you think it's for some bloody birthday party or whatever later on. I may as well have booked a table by the toilets in a Happy Eater."

"Sorry." I wince pathetically. The word "romantic" sears itself into the front of my brain, and for the first time I focus on what this might be all about.

He shakes his head slowly, as if I'm a lost cause. "So do you want to hear the long story or not?"

"Go on then," I say, leaning forward on my elbows.

Taking a deep breath, he looks at me apprehensively. "On second thought, fuck the long version . . . The truth is . . . I think I'm falling in love with you."

I stare at him blankly for a couple of beats, my stomach lurching. "You're falling in love with me?" I parrot.

"Yep. Think so." He looks at me expectantly.

"But I thought you . . ." I tail off awkwardly.

"Ah yes, you thought I was gay," he says helpfully. "Don't worry, you can say it."

"So you're not then?"

"Nope. Not one iota, although I
do
have a couple of Judy Garland albums I should probably confess to."

"A dead giveaway," I say. Inside, my heart feels like it's about to break out of my chest at his revelation, but I'm not sure whether it's through panic or excitement. I haven't yet had time to assimilate it properly or form a response, so I decide to gloss over it for now. "Now I feel even
more
stupid for what I said on New Year's Eve."

"Forget it," he says simply. "Considering what you'd been told, I suppose it's understandable you thought that."

"You mean the locker room embrace?" I sip my wine and study his face for a reaction.

He raises his eyes heavenward. "That wasn't what it seemed at all."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really, as it's very personal to the other person. But I'll tell you anyway, just to clear up any lingering doubt." He bites his lip. "The guy plays for the rugby team. I don't really know him that well, but he knows what I do for a living, so when his younger sister was diagnosed with leukemia recently, he wanted to talk to me about it, to get some advice and insight and be reassured. He approached me after practice one day and we got to talking and, understandably, he became very upset. So I gave him a hug. And that's it." He shrugs and looks straight at me.

Needless to say, I feel like a complete fool, and I could cheerfully throttle the moronic Will, who clearly can't tell the difference between a reassuring hug and a gay kiss. "And how is his sister now?" I ask.

He smiles. "Luckily, she has the most curable form of leukemia, so she's going to be just fine."

"Thank goodness. Let's hope it stays that way." I take a sip of wine and continue to try to stop my mind from reeling, to try to process everything that's being said.

"So . . ." His eyes bore into mine. "What are your thoughts on my little declaration?"

I shrug. "It's no big deal. I quite like Judy Garland too."

"Jess . . .
" he growls. And I grin, despite myself.

"Sorry, but it's quite a shock. One minute I think you're gay, the next you're telling me you might be falling in love with me. It takes a little time for a girl to digest all that."

He purses his lips, looking doubtful at this explanation. "But you must know whether you feel happy or appalled by the news?"