by Cate Woods
‘I guess we should probably do this sitting down, right?’ asks Sam, the clunkiness of our greeting breaking the ice, his lateness forgiven. And then he smiles at me across the table and my tummy turns somersaults and I think: YES.
His facial hair is shorter, more stubble than beard now, giving a clear view of that kissable mouth, and he’s as well-dressed as ever in a grey suit. But something more than his undeniable hotness is giving me butterflies. When I look into his eyes, I get that same feeling again, the one that made me act so appallingly on our first meeting, the notion that we are somehow destined to be together. Perhaps not even in a romantic way – I’m not talking about soulmates or any of that Hallmark crap – but that we’re meant to be in each other’s lives. There’s something familiar about him, even though we’re from different sides of the planet and have known each other for a grand total of about twelve minutes.
Of course, I keep all of this to myself, because I don’t want to terrify the poor guy, and instead I stick to small-talk convention and ask about Sam’s job.
‘I’m a banker,’ he says with an apologetic grimace, mentioning the name of a big American investment bank that even I’ve heard of. ‘I work in a department called Private Wealth.’
‘That sounds exclusive,’ I say. ‘Like how Donald Trump would refer to his piggy bank: “Yeah, this is where I keep my Private Wealth”.’
Sam grins at my terrible Trump impression. ‘Well, he’s not one of our clients, thank God, but we do only deal with ultra high net worth individuals.’
‘So how much money would I need in my account to do business with you?’
‘Ten million dollars minimum.’ He looks me square in the eye and smiles. ‘But I could definitely make exceptions.’
I can feel the chemistry between us and I’m getting more confident that this is actually a date date – because surely you don’t smile at someone like that if you just want to be friends? – and I get a lovely little shiver of anticipation at what might be on the cards, but then: disaster. The waitress-slash-starlet sashays up to our table, and I suddenly know how a sparrow must feel when a peacock rocks up and whips out its tail feathers. Like, I might as well just flap off, because honestly, who’s going to throw me any crumbs now?
‘Are you ready for me to take your order?’ she asks, all flicky blonde hair and fluttery blue eyes.
I watch as Sam turns and gets his first look at her, my heart already sinking; his eyes widen ever so slightly – although he’s far too well mannered to gawp – and he says, I kid you not: ‘How you doing?’ Not exactly in that Joey Tribbiani from Friends way (‘How you doin’?’) but there’s definitely a hint of interest in his tone. Meanwhile, she transforms from the politely professional server of earlier into a brazen vixen sexpot on the prowl for Canadian man-flesh.
‘I’m doing really well, thank you,’ she says. ‘You?’
‘I’m good, thanks,’ says Sam, returning her smile.
Why did she have to be our waitress? Why why why? We’re virtually the only customers in the place. There’s a table of four businessmen across the room from us and they’ve got a male waiter looking after them. Surely they should have assigned Miss World to the blokes? The tips alone would have made that a more sensible decision.
She takes our order and, to be fair, Sam does instantly turn his attention entirely back to me when she finally leaves, and he doesn’t glance at her disappearing back view in that maddeningly unsubtle way blokes can have, but still, I’m definitely rattled.
‘So, tell me, Annie,’ says Sam, leaning forward as if fascinated in what I have to say. ‘How long have you been working in real estate?’
‘Not long. Just a few weeks, really.’
‘It must be so interesting, being able to look around other people’s homes.’
‘Yeah, it is,’ I say, my Instagram feed full of clients’ stuff flashing guiltily into my mind. ‘But it’s more the photography side of the job that interests me. I used to work as an assistant to quite a well-known fashion photographer when I was younger.’
‘Who was that? Would I have heard of them?’
‘Maybe – he’s certainly got quite a reputation. Jay Patterson?’
Sam raises his eyebrows and nods, and I’m gratified to see he’s impressed. (God, I miss that look; you just don’t get the same reaction when you say you work for Curtis Kinderbey.) ‘Sure, I know him – the guy who was busted for drugs recently? That must have been fascinating. How did you end up working for him?’
So I tell him about my days as a full-time top photographer’s assistant and part-time party girl and Streisand super-fan. I’m on far more solid ground with this subject, and as I reel out my well-rehearsed anecdotes, breezily name-dropping A-list celebrities and locations, it hits home once again just how much more of a catch Barb was: better looking, more interesting, basically a lot more fun; certainly a more fitting prospect for a Manhattan-dwelling banker type like Sam.
Sure enough, he seems fascinated by the old me.
‘Well, you’re officially the most glamorous person I know,’ he says, after I tell him my story of Kate Moss complaining about the coffee I made for her (embellishing my role a little, naturally). ‘So why did you stop working in fashion?’
I hesitate, taking a sip of wine while trying to decide how I should respond. I never like telling new acquaintances about my parents’ accident, partly because it makes them feel awkward, but also because I don’t want them to cast me as a victim. I get the impression, however, that Sam would probably take it in his stride.
So I say: ‘My mum and dad died in a car crash five years ago and I really struggled to deal with it, so I had to quit my job with Jay.’
‘God, I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how tough that must have been. No wonder you needed to take a break.’ There’s a flash of pity in his eyes, but it’s quickly replaced by something closer to admiration. ‘How the hell do you cope with something like that?’
‘I didn’t, really, not at first. I got loads of support – I’m really close to my sister, Tabitha. But when I was ready to go back to work, the fashion world had moved on without me.’ I shrug. ‘It’s fine, it’s a young person’s game, really.’
‘What are you talking about? You’re still young!’
‘You’re very kind, but I wouldn’t have the stamina anymore. Certainly not for the partying that went along with the job.’
Sam nods. ‘Yeah, I know what you mean. These days I’m happier at home in my apartment than hanging out in a club where you can’t even get a seat. Friends will ask me to some cool party and I’ll be like, “Sorry, but I need to get home and watch Frasier reruns with my dog”.’ He shakes his head, chuckling to himself, and I smile too because he’s basically signalling that he’s not a player, which is excellent news. ‘Seymour is like my surrogate child – I plan my life around that mutt . . .’
Okay, now would be the perfect moment to mention Dot. This is the ideal opening. I’ll tell him I have a baby and that I’m no longer with the father, but it’s all very chilled and civilised. His face will light up with delighted surprise and he’ll ask if he can see a photo of her. He’ll coo over how cute she is, then our eyes will meet, I’ll feel his hand reaching for mine and he will softly admit that he’s always wanted to be a father, and when can he meet her?
. . . Yeah, but that’s not really the most likely reaction, though, is it?
Let’s try that again: I’ll tell him I have a baby and that I’m no longer with the father, but it’s all very chilled and civilised. His eyes will bulge with horror and he’ll stammer something about how that’s really great, but inside he’s now thinking of me as a feckless single mother looking for some schmuck to help raise her kid and is frantically wondering how he can get the hell out of here without being rude.
Because it is a bit of a passion killer, isn’t it? Not just that I’ve got a baby, so wouldn’t have as much time for lots of sexy, irresponsible fun with him, but – to put it bluntly
– the fact that I am no longer box-fresh. Sam could have his pick of women; why would he go for the one whose vagina has had to stretch to accommodate a human head? After all, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a dog is cute and a bit sexy, while a single woman with a baby is desperate and a bit sad.
Sam’s a decent guy though, and he seems to like me. He’ll get it, right? And if not – well, better to find out now, surely. I take a deep breath and adopt my most upbeat, breezy tone. ‘So, here’s a funny thing . . .’
‘Right, so we’ve got the sea bass . . .’ Oh bloody hell, Jennifer Lawrence is back with our main courses. Fantastic timing. And am I imagining it, or has she undone a couple of buttons at the top of her shirt? ‘. . . And the pumpkin gnocchi,’ she says, setting down the plates in front of us, totally unaware that she’s just ruined my big moment.
‘Thank you, it all looks delicious,’ says Sam.
Off you trot now, I think, shooting the waitress ‘piss off’ vibes, but she lingers by the table, smiling at Sam, and then says: ‘Whereabouts in Canada are you from?’
WTF? How did she know he’s Canadian?
‘Toronto. But I live in New York these days.’
‘My dad grew up in Montreal.’
‘Do you still visit?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, every Christmas. My grandparents live there. I love it.’
Sam nods. ‘It’s a beautiful part of the world.’
I’m trying to think of something to say so I can elbow my way into their little chat, but all I know about Canada is that they have elks and a fairly hot prime minister, neither of which are going to be much help here.
‘So do you get back to Toronto much?’ the waitress asks, head tipped to the side in the most adorable way.
‘Sure, often as I can. My parents and sister live just outside the city.’
Well, this is news to me. Now this woman is literally stealing information that is rightfully mine. I suppose Sam can’t not reply to a direct question, but does he really have to offer her additional details? Why couldn’t he have just said ‘yes’ and then ignored her, like English people would?
As I watch Sam and the waitress talking, a terrible thought suddenly occurs to me. What if the special rapport I thought I had with Sam isn’t actually that special after all? Perhaps he’s just a friendly guy who’s good at chatting, and I’ve been mistaking his natural charisma for incredible sexual chemistry. Because, although it pains me to admit it, the way he’s being with our waitress – charming, smiley, a bit flirty – is almost exactly the same way he’s been with me.
In an instant, the vision of the two of us snuggled up together in his apartment watching Frasier reruns, Dottie on the sofa between us and Seymour at our feet, fizzles out with a sad farting noise, like a deflating balloon.
While the waitress bangs on about something called ‘beavertails’, which seem to be a sort of Canadian snack, I test out this new information to see how it makes me feel. Sam just wants to be friends. That’s okay, isn’t it? You can never have too many friends, and I don’t have any Canadian ones at present. When he goes back Stateside we can be pen pals! Plus, if Sam had wanted to get involved romantically, it would all have been horribly complicated and stressful bearing in mind my current personal situation. Yes, this really is for the best, all things considered.
I stare down at my plate, but what had looked mouth-watering just a few moments ago now seems stomach-turning. I poke morosely at the gnocchi, my appetite gone the same way as my good mood.
‘Is your food alright?’
I look up to find Sam watching me with a quizzical smile, and now that sex is off the table it hits me just how desperately I actually want him – so much so that I can feel it as a physical ache, like period cramps. I get a vivid flashback to the moment we kissed: the softness of his lips, his warm breath, the smell of his skin. It’s just so rare that you meet someone that gives you goosebumps, and for a heady half-hour back there I really thought Sam might feel the same way – and after the gut-punch of Luke’s betrayal, it was exactly what I needed. But now it looks like I’ve misread the whole situation.
If only you’d met him after you had your nose job, whispers a little voice inside me, then he might have fancied you.
‘Annie?’ Sam is now looking at me with genuine concern. ‘What’s the matter?’
I open my mouth to reply, but I’ve been sucked so far into this vortex of self-pity that I can’t find the words, so I fake a coughing fit, holding up my hand in an ‘I’m-okay-just-give-me-a-moment’ way, and in the time it takes me to drink some water, I give myself a stern talking-to. I can either stumble through the rest of this lunch feeling sorry for myself, which would be no fun for anyone, or I can follow Claris’ advice – relax and enjoy yourself and try not to worry about the bigger picture – and make the most of being taken out for a swanky lunch by a lovely man without agonising over what the future might hold. Clearly, the latter is the only sane choice.
‘Sorry, something went down the wrong way,’ I say. ‘How’s the sea bass?’
We talk for a while about New York – a place I know well from my fashion days – and then about travelling in general, and we discover that we share an ambition to walk the Inca trail to Machu Picchu, which makes my inner romantic scream, ‘See, this is fate after all! You’re meant to walk it together on your honeymoon!’, until I firmly tell it to shut the eff up. And I discover that when I’m just being entirely myself, rather than ‘mum’ Annie, or ‘Barb’ Annie, or even ‘sexy potential shag’ Annie, I start to relax with Sam in the same way I would do with Fi or Jess. We manage to avoid the subject of past relationships, as I guess you tend to do when romance is off the table, which means I don’t have to tell any lies about Luke. And, best of all, our supermodel waitress doesn’t reappear again; it’s an average-looking male waiter who delivers our pudding, then our coffee and who then hovers awkwardly with the bill because our lunch has run on far longer than it should have done and they need to clear the tables ready for dinner.
We could easily carry on the conversation, but Sam says with what sounds like genuine regret that he needs to get back to work. He insists on picking up the bill and as we walk out I feel his hand gently resting in the small of my back.
‘Thank you so much for lunch, I had a really lovely time,’ I say, as we stand on the busy pavement outside the restaurant.
‘Me too.’ His eyes are fixed on mine, and despite all my good intentions about living in the moment, I’m hoping with every fibre of my being that he suggests meeting up again. Instead he says: ‘Can I get you a taxi?’
‘No, it’s fine, I’ll hop on the tube.’
‘Okay, Cinderella.’ I get the impression he’s prolonging our goodbye, although I’m sure that’s wishful thinking. ‘Well, I better get back to the office.’
‘Yeah, all that money won’t count itself.’ I grin.
He smiles at me. ‘Well then, take care.’
Then he lightly kisses my cheek and disappears off into the crowd without a backward glance.
30
Tabby is lounging on my bed in Jess’ attic room, working her way through a bowl of sweet ‘n’ salty popcorn, while I run straighteners through my hair. The radio is playing some half-remembered house anthem from the early Noughties. It would be a scene straight out of our teenage years – except for Dot’s cot in the corner, Tabby’s pregnant belly and the fact that we’re drinking tea rather than contraband Baileys.
‘So this woman marched up to me at the fish counter in Waitrose,’ Tabby is saying, ‘and she put her hands on my stomach and said, “You’re obviously having a girl, you’re carrying exactly the same way I was with my daughter”. And I was just like’ – Tabby does a pantomime gawp – ‘and I told her, very politely, that actually I’ve had a scan and it’s a boy, and she said – and honest to God, Annie, she was really cross – she said, “Don’t be ridiculous, it’s definitely a girl, they get those scans wrong all the t
ime”. And then she walked off, tutting to herself!’
‘Oh my God, you were bump-shamed! Why do people treat you as public property when you’re pregnant? It’s like you’re suddenly just this vessel.’
‘I know! And she was so bloody sure of herself . . .’
Tabby reaches for the popcorn, giggling. She had another scan this week, and the baby’s measurements were far more reassuring; it lightens my heart to see her looking happy and relaxed.
‘God, what if she was right?’ she adds, her handful of popcorn frozen en route to her mouth. ‘We’ve gone for a truck theme for the nursery!’
‘Well then, your daughter will be a lovely lady trucker when she grows up.’
‘Not sure Jonathan’s parents would be too pleased about that . . .’ She nods over at the dressing table. ‘Chuck me your make-up bag, will you, hon, I should at least put on some mascara before we go out.’
I do as she asks, then head for the bathroom. ‘I’m going to pop to the loo and then we should probably get going.’
It’s our monthly girls’ catch-up tonight, and Tabby and I are meeting Fiona and Claris at a tapas bar in nearby Brixton (Jess is in Paris at a beauty conference – it’s one of life’s mysteries how she manages to hold on to such a glamorous, perk-heavy job when she barely seems to work). Luke is looking after Dot, and although I’m really looking forward to seeing the girls, especially as I need to give them a blow-by-blow account of my lunch with Sam, once again it’s the prospect of an uninterrupted night’s sleep that’s making me really excited – more so than ever, in fact. I made the mistake of mentioning to one of the Little Splashy Quackers mums last week that Dot was now sleeping through the night, and since then the universe has been kicking my butt big time, with Dot waking several times every night and screaming until I stick her on the boob. Last night she woke at 1 a.m., 3 a.m. and 5.30 a.m., and although she dropped straight off again after being fed, I had no such luck, and spent much of the night lying awake, stressing about the Luke situation and wondering if I’ll ever hear from Sam again. After bad nights like this I become obsessed with how much sleep I’ve had, piecing together the snatched fragments to reassure myself I won’t go crazy from sleep deprivation: ‘It’s fine, I’ve had a total of . . . let’s see . . . four and a half hours’ sleep – that’s plenty! Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson made seven Fast and Furious movies on only three hours’ sleep a night! And Donald Trump only gets four hours – and he’s sort of holding things together, right? Right . . . ?’