Love @ First Site (32 page)

"Not appalled, that's for sure," I say.

"But not happy either?" He looks disappointed.

"I didn't say that, did I?" I reply softly. "It's just a lot to take in, particularly that Seb Northam business. What was
that
all about?"

He pours the last of the wine bottle into our glasses, and I notice there's another sitting in an ice bucket by his side. The waiters have obviously been told to stay well away until called.

"Well," he says tentatively, "I kind of figured that you might not think of me in
that
way. You know . . . we met through Will, didn't get off to a very good start, and then became friends because of your TV report on Sunshine House. Hardly Romeo and Juliet, is it? And I know how you like to feel an instant
spark
in relationships, because you've told me enough times."

I wonder whether this is the time to interject and point out that I've had a radical change of heart over that particular relationship rule of mine, but decide to save it for later.

"I'm very mistrustful of that whole spark business," he continues, "because it always wears off and leaves a residue of disappointment. To my mind, it's much better to be friends with someone first."

He reaches across the table and grabs hold of my right hand. I feel a tingle that surprises me. "You see, I already
know
that you can be unerringly stubborn when you think you're right about something, that you occasionally suffer black moods in the mornings, and that, just sometimes, you become totally focused on work to the exclusion of all else. I know
all
that because we've been friends first.

"We've already learned the worst about each other and can go forward with no surprises, whereas normally, you discover the worst things about your partner
after
falling in love and it sometimes erodes what you have."

He lets go of my hand and leans back on his chair, stretching his left leg out to one side and cupping his hands behind his head.

"But none of those worst things matter because I also happen to know you are one of the kindest, most loyal people I have ever met, someone who can appear to have a hard shell to those that don't know her, but who
I
know to have an endearingly soft center."

"Just call me M&M," I quip, trying to ignore the fact that my insides are fluttering with apprehension.

"Anyway." He sighs, moving his arms in front of him again and leaning forwards on the table. "Because of your penchant for dating total strangers rather than mates, I felt the only way to woo you, if you like, was to start from scratch by pretending to be someone else . . . voila, Seb Northam. I tweaked a couple of facts about him so you wouldn't suspect, but otherwise he's intrinsically me."

I nod my head slowly, smiling slightly to show I'm not cross. "And the photo?"

He laughs. "Ah yes, the photo. It's my brother James, taken at his birthday party a couple of years ago. I figured we look similar-ish, but not enough for you to figure out the truth."

"It certainly worked," I concede. "I didn't suspect a thing."

His face turns serious again. "Jess, you have no idea how hard it was for me to be developing these feelings for you, all the while listening to you talking about all the dates you were going on. It was so frustrating."

"So why didn't you just ask me out?"

He looks derisive and clicks his fingers. "Oh yeah, just like that. Easier said than done, particularly as questions like that have a habit of ruining good friendships. I
was
close
to it at one point, but then Will casually mentioned that you had the hots for some bloke you'd met through the Internet, and I thought I was going to be sick with jealousy."

"Ah, yes." I nod sagely. "Simon R.I.P." I make the crucifix sign across my chest. "Sadly, he didn't live up to the hype."

"Glad to know the voodoo doll worked then." Ben grins, running a hand through his hair. "Anyway, I had earmarked New Year's Eve as the time I was going to sink my own weight in booze, confess to the Seb thing, and finally pluck up the courage to try and ravish you, but . . ."

"But I accused you of being gay," I interrupt with a sheepish smile.

"Precisely. Silly cow." He raises his eyes heavenward to show the insult is meant affectionately. "So that's why I came up with the idea for this lunch."

Grabbing the second bottle of wine, he pours us two generous glasses. I can feel the alcohol relaxing me now, stripping away the earlier tension caused by this little surprise. The combination of candlelight and a windowless room is disorientating, and it could easily be nighttime, but a quick glance at my watch shows it to be 1:30 p.m.

"So are we going to eat?" I inquire, waving my glass at him. "Because if I have much more of this on an empty stomach, you might have to carry me out of here on a stretcher."

Smiling warmly, he's clearly relieved that I'm showing no signs of a quick exit. "Sure. Shall I just order a couple of plates of stew and stodgy dumplings to line the stomach?"

"I'm on the Fatkins diet, so that sounds perfect," I say, maintaining eye contact as he stands up.

After he's disappeared through the door into the restaurant, I take a deep breath and try to take stock of what's been said so far. Most crucially of all, I try to nail down exactly what I feel about it, as I know that whatever I say today will probably make or break our relationship, be it as friends or lovers.

It's true I have never thought about Ben in a sexual way, but that could easily be explained away by the fact that, right from the outset, Tab alluded that he might be gay. On the plus side, I felt bereft when I thought I might have upset him with my insensitive blethering on New Year's Eve. But was that simply because I value his friendship or because, subconsciously, my feelings ran a lot deeper? And if they don't now, could they?

Whoops, no time to dwell on all that. He's back.

"Two plates of stodge on its way." He grins, settling back into his chair.

"Excellent."

We sit there, smiling at each other, for what seems like an eternity. Both clearly wondering where the conversation goes from here, neither knowing quite how to restart it.

He clears his throat. "So why did you come on a date with Seb Northam?"

"Pardon?"

"What was it about him that made you decide to turn up today?" he elaborates.

I shrug. "Dunno really. He seemed very nice, and I figured that as I was single it wouldn't do any harm to at least have lunch with him and see what he's like in person."

"That's it?" He raises his eyebrows. "You weren't blown away by his witticisms, drawn in by his overpoweringly attractive personality?"

I laugh. "Oh yes, that too of course."

"Glad to hear it."

My expression turns serious. "And something Olivia said made me come along as well."

"Oh?" He leans forward slightly.

"She said that having a good relationship and kids was what life was all about . . . that work doesn't keep you warm at night." I stare down at the table, absentmindedly picking at a fleck on the cloth. "She also pointed out that I'm thirty-four and time is running out if I want to have a chance of finding the right person before my ovaries shrivel to the size of raisins."

Now, let's just pause a moment here. Can you
imagine
repeating what I've just said on most first dates? The man would leave skid marks.

But Ben stays firmly in his seat, not even a flicker of panic on his face. Quite the contrary, in fact. He looks absorbed.

"So you thought Seb might have a chance of fulfilling that criteria?"

I purse my lips. "Maybe. Maybe not. But I thought I'd never know if I didn't at least give it a try."

"And what about Ben R. Thomas?" he asks softly. "Can you see yourself achieving it with him?"

"Who knows?" I smile enigmatically. "We'll just have to wait and see."

Thirty Seven

I
t's May 3, and I'm thirty-five today. All together now, aaaaarrrgh! Actually, I'm just being overly dramatic, as ever. I feel absolutely fine about it, particularly given the year I've had. Truth be known, I'm just glad to have reached this milestone in one piece.

Last year, if you remember, was the "surprise" party that Olivia tipped me off about, with Kara's even more hateful surprise present at the end of it. Little did I know then that it would set me on a journey to run the full gamut of single--well, mostly anyway--men and their dating foibles.

So, this year, I have headed any planned surprises off at the pass and organized a little party myself at a cheap and cheerful Italian restaurant just a few hundred yards from my house.

On the promise of a set menu for twelve heavy drinkers, the staff have agreed to section off the rear of the room for my exclusive use, and Tab and I have been here for the past couple of hours decorating it with brightly colored table confetti, candles, and various shaped balloons bearing the words "Happy 30th." Just my little joke.

"Ta dah! That looks fantastic!" Tab stands back to admire her handiwork, a garish "Happy Birthday" banner stretched from one corner of the room to the patch of ceiling just above the table. "I think we're just about done."

I rush over to grab the corner of the stepladder as she starts to climb down. "You shouldn't be on that bloody thing in your condition," I chastise, patting her bulging stomach as her feet hit terra firma.

She waves a dismissive hand at me. "Nonsense, I'm fine. I'm in the blooming stage. You know, where you want to nest all the time. I spend my life up stepladders at home, putting right all those irritating things that Will and I have been ignoring for months." She holds her arm up and bends it at the elbow. "Strong as an ox, that's me."

I smile. "Funny isn't it? Despite your bit of trouble conceiving, you now seem to be having the least problematic pregnancy of all time."

"I know, and thank the Lord for it. I don't think I could have coped with morning sickness
and
the ghastly Janice."

"Ah yes, how is the miserable old witch?"

"The same. Testing laughing gas on a daily basis, having us all in stitches. She's a real card." Tab squints at a small, stained clock on the far wall. "What time is it?"

I look at my watch. "Eight on the dot. Someone should arrive in a minute, probably Richard and Lars, as they're always so punctual."

Sure enough, barely have the words left my mouth than Richard bursts in through the door of the restaurant, a vision in tight, black PVC jeans and a T-shirt bearing the charming slogan "Do I
look
like a fucking people person?" I wince at the thought of my mother's expression when she sees it.

"I take it The Ivy was fully booked?" he says, casting a derisive eye over the interior.

"Fuck off." I smile sweetly. "Where's Lars?"

"Just unloading your present out of the Pickfords van. He's right behind me."

Right on cue, Lars ambles in, carrying a large parcel beautifully wrapped in silver paper.

"Happy birthday." He grins and hands it over.

"Thanks, honey." I kiss him on both cheeks. "I'll open it later. Glass of bubbly?"

I can ill afford it, but I have spent roughly $500 on providing champagne and wine, with everyone else agreeing to fork out for their meal.

Leaving Tab to ensure that Richard and Lars are furnished with drinks, I walk through to the kitchens to have one last chat with the chef. As he's Italian and barely speaks any English, this involves much hand-waving, miming of various culinary tasks such as tomato chopping, and lots of smiling in the hope that he'll do me proud with a delicious birthday meal.

By the time I reemerge fifteen minutes later, most of my guests have arrived and are gratefully slurping their way down their first glass of champagne.

"Darling, you look divine!" Mum sweeps down on me, her double pearls clacking together. "Happy birthday! But you're not thirty . . ." She waves her hand towards the balloons.

"It's a
joke
, Mum." I smile thinly. "Where's Dad?"

"He's sitting down in that corner, talking to Michael. I don't know what about, but I'd hazard a guess at rugby." She glances over her shoulder. "But never mind them, doesn't Olivia look
fantastic."

I follow her eye line to where Olivia is chatting animatedly to Madeleine. She does indeed look sensational in a black gossamer sleeveless cocktail dress and dainty diamante encrusted sandals with kitten heels.

Her hair is now growing back nicely, cut into a short, urchin style that frames her face beautifully and makes her eyes look huge. She can still look gaunt in a certain light, but she's starting to fill out again in all the right places, her appetite having returned to normal.

After finishing the last of her chemotherapy, she had a month's respite before moving on to the less debilitating radiotherapy. Now that's over, she's deemed to be in remission and the game of watching and waiting has begun. Just occasionally, she still gets a little panicky about the cancer coming back, particularly when she reads similar stories in the newspapers.

But for the most part, she's getting on with her life and trying to be as normal as possible for the children. Matthew and Emily's packed memory boxes are tucked away in a dark corner of the attic, and that's where I hope they'll stay.

"Hey you." I sidle up to Olivia and plant a kiss on her right cheek, still cold from the outside air. "You look amazing."

"Doesn't she?" Madeleine leans across to give me a kiss. "I was just saying exactly that, and I
love
the hair. I'd keep it like that."

Olivia smiles. "I must say, it's so much easier to look after, but Matthew says that mummies should always have long hair, so on that basis, I'm growing it back to shoulder length."

I turn to face Madeleine. "You look . . . um . . . different," I falter.

Given that this is the woman with a penchant for bustiers and "pussy pelmets," as Richard so fetchingly describes short skirts, Madeleine has undergone something of a transformation this evening. She's wearing tailored black trousers, a beige cashmere top, and black suede loafers with a little metal bar across the front. Her hair is sleekly combed into a ponytail.

She looks slightly sheepish. "I know it's not exactly my style, but Marty loves me to dress like this," she whispers conspiratorially, glancing across the room to where he's talking to Will.

Marty is the rugby player she met at Tab and Will's New Year's Eve party, the one whose face she snogged off most of the evening, then dragged home afterwards. But, unusually for Madeleine, who generally sees one night as a long-term commitment, they have been dating ever since. Even more surprisingly, she has remained faithful.

"The same man for five months and now you're changing the way you look to please him?" I tease. "My God, it must be love!"

Her face flushes slightly. "I'm not sure about that, but I do know I have no need to look elsewhere. He's
fantastic
in bed . . . such stamina! He can go for hours."

Olivia lets out a low groan. "God, I can't think of anything worse than someone grinding away for days on end. I much prefer quickies." She grins.

They both look at me, as if my view will be the deciding factor.

"Oh . . . um . . ." I stumble. "I suppose I like a little bit of both really."

"What are you three whispering about?" Michael has appeared.

"I was just telling them we like quickies," says Olivia.

"As opposed to what?" he quips, ruffling her hair.

"When's dinner?" It's Dad, rubbing his hands together in glee at the thought of impending nosh.

I look at my watch and see it's 8:30. "Good point." I clap my hands together loudly, trying to get everyone's attention above the hum of noise. "Grub up, everyone!"

I ignore my mother's look of horror at the sight of one of her daughters using such a vulgar expression to announce dinner. No doubt she'd like to see me tinkling a solid silver gong.

It's clear where I'm expected to sit, as Tab has attached two helium-filled birthday balloons to the back of the chair. Moving into position, I notice everyone else is standing around, waiting for me to direct them to seats.

I pat the chair to my left. "Olivia, you come here, please, then Tab there . . ." I point to the chair directly opposite me. "Everyone else, sit where you like . . . except for here." I jerk my head to the empty chair on my right.

I'll bet you're chomping at the bit to know who that's for, aren't you? OK, maybe not
quite
that excited, but you'd like to know, right?

Hang on. A blast of cold air hits the side of my legs as the restaurant door opens and the final guest marches in breathless.

Handing his coat to a lurking waiter, he holds an arm aloft in general greeting to everyone assembled, then walks round to the empty chair by my side.

"Sorry I'm a bit late. It took me longer than I thought to get here." He bends down and plants a tender, lingering kiss on my lips. "You look absolutely beautiful."

I beam with pleasure. "Thank you, darling."

A chorus of greetings and welcomes resounds from my other guests: "Hello, Ben!" "Good to see you, mate!"

So there you have it. The man who has a special, reserved place at my side is Ben. Ben R. Thomas, to be precise.

I hope that, after accompanying me along the rocky road to dating enlightenment, you're pleased that it's him. Because I know I am.

Finally, after days, months,
years
wasted on the unsuitable, I have a straightforward, delightful man with a sense of humor, the heart of a gentle giant, and the right priorities in life. A man who works selflessly to help others, yet still finds the time and the energy to be a wonderfully considerate boyfriend to me. And best of all, my family adore him.

True, it took me a while to realize what had been staring me in the face for some time, but then again, we didn't get off to a great start the first time we met and I
did
think he was gay. So that's my excuse.

Anyway, it's all immaterial now because we're so blissfully happy. Richard would say nauseatingly, and has done so on several occasions.

In case you're wondering what happened during the rest of our surprise candelit lunch . . . in between the main course and dessert, it dawned on me that Ben had gone to the trouble of creating Seb Northam in order to woo me in the way he thought I wanted to be wooed; he'd put up with my ridiculousness about thinking he was gay (and forgiven me, apparently); he'd taken the trouble to book a private room at a restaurant and decorate it with candles;
and
he'd been brave enough to say outright that he might be falling in love with me.

All I had done was turn up, and it was high time I made an effort too.

So I threw caution to the wind, walked round the table, sat on his knee, and sliced through the sexual tension by grabbing the back of his neck and snogging his face off. To my wonderful astonishment, I felt the sparks fly--and from that moment on, it was smooth sailing. High on white wine and happiness, we charted a course back to my flat and fell into bed, where we stayed until the following morning, wrapped in each other's arms. And as you ask, yes, the sex was bloody great.

The past five months with Ben has taught me a lifetime of lessons, one being that sex doesn't
always
have to be mind blowing. Sometimes it can be soft and slow, sometimes frenetic, and sometimes just downright quick, perfunctory, and lazy. He's absolutely right when he says it's an important part of a relationship, but not the be-all and end-all.

I realize now that, in the past, I mistook strife for passion. If a relationship was a constant melee of ups and downs, I thought that meant it was exciting. In retrospect it wasn't, it just meant the person dishing out the problems was a Grade A pain in the arse.

I have also learned that just because you don't feel that "pow" at the start, doesn't mean that it won't develop at a later date. It may only have been four months, but I already know that I love Ben deeply, at a level to which I have never even come close before.

We already knew so much about each other, and since we've been dating we have learned much, much more. But the familiarity hasn't bred contempt, only a sense of comfort that comes from knowing you're with someone who cares for and supports you.

And so, dear reader, you might be wondering . . . do I regret all those wasted hours of going on Internet dates?

Not a bit of it.

OK, so I finally met the man of my dreams the traditional way--through a friend of a friend in a wine bar. But in a bizarre way, it was still the anonymity of the Internet and his alter ego that gave Ben the courage to set up our first date. In the end, the all-important first steps of our fledgling romance were carried out via the twenty-first-century form of epistolary courtship--e-mail. Jane Austen, eat your heart out.

Leaning slightly to my right, I reach over and grab Ben's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. He gives me a loving smile, then scrapes back his chair to stand up, kissing my forehead as he rises.