Chapter One Present Day #2
‘Just the water. Sparkling.’ She reminded the man of her drinks order, which was yet to materialise.
‘For me too.’ Nico smiled. ‘Copycat.’
The waiter walked away.
‘Oh God, have I failed already?’ Nico laughed.
‘No, you won’t know if you’ve failed or progressed to the next round until we leave. If it’s been great, I’ll text you a thumbs-up, and if it’s been rubbish then I won’t text you at all.’
‘Harsh!’ he fired back.
‘Yet clear, and I think clarity is important, don’t you?’
‘I do. And I shall adopt the same. A thumbs-up means you did well and no text... well, means you’ll be back to swiping right.’
She laughed at his cheek, and they shared a moment – a lingering look, both aware of how they were using humour to further break the ice, relax, get over any nerves, and to see if the instant attraction might have anything more substantial behind it.
It was typical of her luck. She had been on numerous dates over the last year with people who had all held promise until she actually spent time with them.
It had helped her realise that she often preferred the idea of spending time with someone to the reality of it.
Not that she considered herself to be overly picky or demanding, just that her standards were high and her list of traits in a potential partner non-negotiable.
The fact that it was a long and complicated list was neither here nor there.
An image of Richard entered her mind – gorgeous, funny Richard, who had shown much potential until he’d flashed her his tattoo of Dolly Parton, smack bang in the middle of his chest. Madeleine loved a blast of ‘Jolene’ as much as the next person, but a tattoo on his chest?
The thought of being in a semi-naked state, staring down at the perfect curves of Dolly, against whom no woman could compare.
.. She’d blocked his number shortly after.
Then there was Quentin, who was fabulous and flirty.
A silver fox dentist with a classic Porsche who smelled as if his pores actually secreted Tom Ford’s Tobacco Vanille.
She could have happily sat and sniffed him for hours.
That was until she realised he started most sentences with, ‘I am not lying when I say...’ or ‘To tell you the truth...’ and ‘I swear to God...’ which gave her the distinct impression that he was indeed lying, not telling her the truth and about to let God down badly.
It put her right off. She had been with him in Covent Garden when she had bumped into her old best friend Trina, who she hadn’t seen for a while.
It was a little awkward, yet still Trina knew her well enough to text her immediately with a thumbs-down symbol.
It told her all she needed to know. So yes, typical of her luck to feel this attracted to Nico when she was about to fly across the pond for good.
Not that it was going to stop her enjoying her time with him until she left. She would, she figured, be mad not to.
It was easy to make light of her dating disasters, simpler to concentrate on the frivolous.
The truth, she suspected, when it came to her lack of success, was far more about not being able to be herself, not fully.
Having to play a part and be wary – always wary – of when she would have to pull off her mask and tell all.
‘Have you been here before?’ She let her eyes rove the ornate dining hall with the frescoed walls and busy tables where men in tailored, starched, button-down shirts sipped wine, and the laughter was loud, bullish.
‘Yes. But only ever for working lunches.’ ‘Me too.’
‘My parents are big foodies. My dad’s Greek, so food and wine are in our blood – big feasts for every celebration, and nearly everything warrants a celebration. My mother, who you have met of course ...’
‘I have indeed.’
She noticed how he paused for a second, as if inviting or expecting her to offer an opinion on Belinda Yannis, which of course she did not.
‘Yes, so my mother comes from a farming family.’
Madeleine was aware of the farm. Rumour had it that it covered most of the South Downs, and also that it was no ramshackle cottage in which they brewed tea and discussed their day, but rather a vast country house plonked in the middle of the estate.
A house that came with a title, as far as she recalled.
‘She grew up hunting, fishing and foraging – eating what they caught, what they found, growing fruit and vegetables and baking for great parties.’
‘It sounds idyllic. So you grew up on the farm?’
‘Not really. I visited it.’ He raised his hand and smiled in acknowledgement of the bottle of sparkling water deposited on their table and the two tall glasses with ice, mouthing, ‘Thank you.’ She liked his respect for the waiter.
Things like that were important to her. ‘But I spent most of my time away at school. During the holidays, which, thank goodness, felt endless, we went to Skiathos, where my father’s family has a home.
It’s on a cliff with the most incredible view of the sea and sky I’ve ever seen.
If you took me there blindfolded, I’d know it by the scent alone.
’ He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
‘The pine forests, the rosemary and thyme that’s abundant, ripe mandarins, the woody-scented bark of the olive trees, eucalyptus leaves – all underpinned with the fragrant incense and oils from the church.
It’s like nothing else.’ He breathed in through his nose and she envied him the memory.
‘It sounds glorious.’
‘It really is.’ He nodded and sipped his water. ‘A special place.’
‘My upbringing was a little different. Not quite so privileged.’
The waft of dog shit on the breeze, the diesel fumes, the ripe fruit chucked off the roof by bored kids just to watch the splat, the scent of the overflowing communal bins, the weed being smoked on the balconies... and the heady scent of piss wafting from the lift and stairwells.
She swallowed. Here it was. The thought that was always waiting in the wings.
The awareness that if this attraction developed, she would need to tell him about her past. It was all a question of timing, and something she relished – it felt good to detail just how far she had come – yet dreaded in equal measure, knowing she had never once shared her story and not felt the sharp lance of judgement at her breast. It was, however, going to be hard to avoid if he stuck around; she felt the need to speak the truth, which she was certain would either see him scurrying for the hills or applauding her achievements, as if she were a shining example of rags to riches.
.. not that she was by Nico’s standards rich, but she was certainly comfortable.
And not that she’d be telling him anything today – far, far too early in developments to be shedding skin.
‘But happy? A happy upbringing?’ he asked, with such a look of concern it was almost as if anything other than this would be hard for him to imagine, and even harder for him to bear.
‘Yes, happy.’ She quickly buried the pang of sadness that sprang up when she considered how things had changed.
‘And that’s all we can ask for, right?’ he asked softly.
She smiled and sipped her water, as the nyor-keeee / nyo-kee arrived.
‘God, I’m famished.’ She lifted her fork.
He smiled at her as she went in.
‘What?’ she asked, the delicious, soft gnocchi nestling on her tongue beneath the salty tang of parmesan.
‘I like a girl who eats.’ He nodded, as if in approval, and reached for his fork.
‘Oh, you’ll like me, then. A lot.’
‘I think you might be right...’ He let this trail and her heart jumped with joy in her chest.
Eleven hours and twenty-five minutes.
That was the length of the flight from London Heathrow to LAX.
Not so long really. Not even a day.
After waving to Nico as he jumped in a cab, she texted him a thumbs-up.
It felt good, exciting, as it always did at this stage, when everything was flimsy, insubstantial, and therefore mattered little if it solidified into something more or not.
It was a frivolous time in any courtship, and possibly her favourite part – without weighted conversations about the future or their wants, without deep analysis of where they were heading or whether they wanted to jump ship; without having to open up about the past, how they’d lived, how they’d got to this point and the experiences, good and bad, that had shaped them.
It was enough that they wanted each other physically and that they made each other laugh.
She was determined to live in the now and enjoy the moment, doing her level best not to think too far ahead – trying not to picture cosy winter walks wrapped in wide scarves as they strolled hand in hand, lazy summer days spent with the sun on their skin and cold, cold wine drunk al fresco.
Of a more practical – some might say cynical – nature, she had never been a romantic and saw no reason to let her guard down now.
Dr Schoenfeld would be proud of how she remained present. Heading there now, she saw her therapist at least a couple of times a week – it was her me time, provided clarity to her jumbled thoughts, and was entirely necessary to keep her worries and anxieties in check.