Chapter 36 It’s a Date
It’s a Date
The restaurant is achingly cool and everyone is a decade younger than me.
Young women in their twenties, brimming with a joyful confidence that my generation never possessed at their age—busy with their lives, living out in the world.
“Tough day?” Matt asks, noticing my wandering eyes. My attention snaps back to him, in his rumpled preppy outfit, and he laughs. “Tough day, I said?” he repeats gently, refilling my glass.
“Sorry,” I say. “I was just thinking about how busy London is. You can get lost in it, can’t you? In the crowd.”
His forehead creases, genuine concern in his eyes.
“You okay?” he asks. “You regret the move?”
I am not OK. And I am starting to think that I do.
I shake my head and take a sip of my wine; it’s cool and tart in my mouth.
“Everything just feels a bit confusing right now, you know?”
“Your divorce?” he asks simply.
I’m so surprised by the straightforwardness that I laugh. But using the divorce as an excuse for being distracted is not something I have a problem with.
“I don’t know—in a way, I guess. The world just feels like a very odd place right now. A cold place. Do you feel that?” I ask, after a moment.
I instantly regret saying that. I sound mad. Am I mad?
My eyes flick up to his face, expecting to see a man sighing internally, but instead he is agreeing.
“God, yeah,” he agrees, tipping back his glass.
“Really?” I ask, still expecting him to pop his napkin back on the table and leave, with a work-emergency excuse, before the starters arrive.
“Totally, I’m there, too,” he continues.
“Boy, am I feeling it. Everyone I know is married, with kids. I swear I hardly see anyone. Everything is on a screen, meetings, family calls, friends, and when it’s not on a screen it’s everyone on their best behavior, no one’s honest anymore.
All too scared, I guess. We don’t really know anybody anymore, do we?
Not like uni, or your twenties; everything siloed at some point, and I didn’t get the memo.
So, yeah, I get it. It’s frosty out there.
And if you even try to break through the shell of surface interactions, then people get this look in their eyes, this fear, like ‘Why are you talking to me?’ Like we’ve all forgotten that is how you make friends. ”
“This is exactly it,” I respond, with sudden joy. “You try to be friendly, say hi, help someone, normal things that in the past would have been nice, and you’re suddenly suspicious.”
“Yes! Like being friendly is definitely a long con. Hang on—maybe it is?” he says facetiously.
“I don’t know. I suppose I just had this idea of the city, and it wasn’t that everyone was super friendly—but I thought people would be more civic I guess.”
I catch the irony in my words, as no one I’ve met since arriving has been half as suspicious as I have.
Matt sobers. “Yeah. I heard about Greg’s little outburst today.”
“How?”
“Lucy Kiefler texted me,” he says between sips, as if this needs no further explanation, him being in constant contact with a notably attractive woman post–mental breakdown.
“Oh. Are you and Lucy good friend—”
He puts a hand on my hand, and I stop short, the intensity of his warm skin on mine sensorially overwhelming. “I water her plants when she’s away and she gives me any extra veg she grows.”
His eyes are locked with mine, a mildly amused crease in the corners.
“I don’t know what happened with your marriage, but my ex cheated on me,” he says. “I’m not that guy.”
The way he says it, its implication is so intense and honest that I’m aware my cheeks have flushed and my breath is quickening, a warmth growing inside me.
“Okay,” I manage, then clear my throat. “Sorry, so, Lucy texted you.” I don’t know why but this new level of intimacy makes me brave. “Can I ask you, do you think Greg could be capable of something?”
Matt’s eyebrows shoot up. “What do you mean?” he asks, then quickly masks his surprise at the question with a joke. “Like killing an estate agent with his own sign?”
“No, like, do you think he might have a secret?” I push.
Matt’s eyes flicker over my features, and I instantly regret asking this.
But when Matt finally speaks, his answer is slow and considered, not at all what I expect.
“I think everyone on our street has a secret, has made mistakes. Maybe on every street, but definitely on ours. I guess you’ve just got to hope they don’t make more or repeat the past.” His words hang in the air between us for a moment until a boyish smile breaks over his face. “Too much?”
The tension breaks with laughter, his hand on mine again, and in that moment, his electric touch seems to pull every fiber of my being toward him with a sudden and fierce need.
Suddenly I see snapshots of Matt in my mind: him at the end of a rugby match, wet with sweat, hair in his eyes; in a suit, almost surprised by his award; now, in front of me, warm-skinned, the crisp collar of his shirt against his neck, the soft cashmere of his sweater brushing my arm, the tenor of his voice vibrating right through me.
I bite my lip as a waitress appears with two plates. Matt takes back his hand, and I gulp my wine.
By the time dessert arrives we have moved on to our families. My parents now gone, his retired in Australia. He is alone, too, save for his sister, who lives half an hour away in Walthamstow with her nightmare husband.
“And your ex?” he asks, pushing the remainder of the chocolate mousse in my direction. “Do you see him ever?”
“Ben? God, no—he’s in the U.S.”
“Not amicable, then?” Matt asks delicately.
“Ha, no. He was as keen on us being friends as he was on being faithful. I don’t even know which state he’s in.”
Matt acknowledges this, then grimaces. “I looked him up, I think. On your Facebook. I know that’s weird,” he confesses, after a moment. “And, full disclosure, he’s not what I expected.”
“You’ve been stalking me?” I realize I’m a little too relieved.
“I had a try. There’s not much to go on other than LinkedIn, but yeah. I’ve been stalking you.”
“Okay,” I answer with a smile. “I deleted almost everything after the divorce. Wait—what do you mean he’s not what you expected?” The idea of him looking me up makes me feel giddy.
He grins at the question. “You just look…and he looks, I don’t know, like an ordinary, middle-aged guy. Tired. Of life, or something. Is that awful?”
I grin with my entire soul. “Oh, Matt, it’s so, so awful. Thank you,” I giggle, the wine buzzing through my blood. “I cannot tell you how good that is to hear: an ordinary, middle-aged guy.”
He smiles, and beneath the table his knee brushes mine—he doesn’t pull away, one knee between mine. The feel of his trouser fabric on my skin, the heat beneath intoxicating.
—
On the walk back to our street, I am not concentrating as we amble down the dark residential roads, slipping from one pool of streetlight to the next as he leads me.
I pull my coat tighter, the air chilly now with the sun long gone. Matt slips his warm hand into mine and squeezes it.
When we reach the darkened square, he stops; and pulls me to him, delicately lifting my chin to let his lips meet mine.
The scent of dessert wine mingles with his warm cologne as he kisses me.
I lean in to the kiss, letting my lips part against his. A feeling I haven’t felt for years stirs inside me, a near-frantic need.
He pulls back, our bodies hard against each other, desire aching inside me. I suddenly want him so much it hurts.
His face inches from mine, he leans close to my ear, his breath warm on my neck. “I want to show you something. Do you want to come back to mine?” he whispers.
“Yes,” I manage, my voice catching.
“I want to show you the new house I’m working on,” he tells me, his lips finding my neck, tracing kisses down, his hand slipping between the front of my summer coat and finding my waist, my breasts.
I want to moan in pleasure but we’re out on the street in summer, everyone’s windows wide open. I catch my breath and stop myself.
“Do you want to come back with me?” he asks, his hand now sliding down between my legs.
“Yes,” I manage. “Yes, please.”
“Okay,” he says softly, pulling back, slipping his hand out of my coat and kissing me hard. “Okay. I’m going to show you what I’ve been working on for over a year now. I think you’ll be impressed.” His voice is thick with need, too, and I know as well as he does why we’re going back.
He takes my hand, gently, and leads me away from our street, in the opposite direction.