A Passionate Love Affair with a Total Stranger

by Lucy Robinson

  ‘You’re an absolute twat,’ Hailey said witheringly, when I called her and relayed the plan. ‘I literally cannot believe you’re doing this. Seriously, Charley, you need therapy.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence. I’d called Hailey looking for approval (or, more realistically, a bit of girly camaraderie). Possibly I’d set my expectations too high.

  ‘Get the hell on a plane and come back,’ she said. She sounded actually quite angry and I realized I had scrunched myself defensively into the sofa where Sam had slept last night. His duvet was still there: I inched under it like a naughty dog.

  ‘Come on, Hails,’ I pleaded. ‘Imagine I’d told you to stop seeing Matty after you’d begun to fall for him. Would you take any notice?’

  ‘I fucking knew Matty before I fell in love with him, you freak! Charley, I’d been seeing him for three months! YOU’VE NEVER MET THIS MAN!’

  I pulled the Sam duvet over my head but then threw it off me onto the floor. I wasn’t having this. I was Charley Lambert, businesswoman and granddaughter of Granny Helen Lambert. I was not a weakling and I would not be spoken to like this. ‘Hailey,’ I said, with spirit. ‘I’ve had enough of your criticism. You’ve been foul to me about this situation from the word go and you’ve not even attempted to understand. Why are you being so cruel?’

  Hailey huffed like a teenager. ‘Why am I being so cruel ? More like, why are you acting like a wazzock, Charley? What the hell is wrong with you? How can you run a dating business and behave like this? And your fucking job, why do Salutech think you’re in London?’

  ‘I’m here on Salutech business!’

  ‘Well, do your fucking business and come home, you moronic teenager,’ she shouted. She was genuinely furious.

  I, meanwhile, was feeling so ashamed I wanted to sew myself into Katy’s minging sofa where I could be pummelled by lots of grubby artists’ bottoms and have spliffs stubbed out on me. But I couldn’t back down. Something bigger than me was in the driving seat now. ‘It’s great to know I can rely on you for support,’ I said, as if I were somehow the victim here.

  ‘You have no respect for others and their relationships,’ Hailey said. Her voice was cold. ‘Come home and bring Charley Lambert back with you. This freak masquerading as her is pissing me off.’ She hung up.

  Ignore her, said a voice in my head. Sure, it’s a bit lunatic to gatecrash William and Shelley’s date but it’s what anyone would do in your situation. Especially Hailey! She should be supporting you, not condemning you!

  The voice got indignant, reminding me about the time that Hailey had had an affair with a married Hibs footballer and nearly lost her job. Had I told her off? Had I hell. I’d gone to her flat at three twenty a.m. with a bottle of Scotch and listened patiently while she’d plotted to set fire to his penis.

  I knew that my plan for tonight was silly. But it was also harmless. (Reasonably.) I was just going to present myself to William as Another Option, then sit back and see what happened. It was up to him whether or not he called me.

  And then I was back in the madness again, fizzing over with excitement and nerves at the prospect of finally meeting Dr William. I balled myself up on the sofa and closed my eyes, imagining his sensible, intelligent face centimetres away from mine.

  Ping, ping, ping, went my inbox, as emails poured in. It was now four o’clock and I was attempting – rather unsuccessfully – to take my mind off tonight by engaging in some stiff work. I was hooked up to Katy’s piggybacked Wi-Fi, the contents of my in-tray stacked neatly beside my laptop on Katy’s kitchen table. My beautiful Lanvin presided majestically over the scene, hanging from an abandoned light fitting in the ceiling. (I hadn’t dared hang it in Katy’s vintage-filled wardrobe because it smelt like old ladies in there.) I wrenched my eyes away from it and fixed my gaze on my screen. The screen immediately glazed over. Honestly, William, I’m so cruel to myself, I’d said last week. I’d like to be kinder if I knew how.

  I stared at my phone, a terrible limbo crackling around me. The closer tonight got, the more desperately I needed support. Solidarity. Someone to tell me that my plan was brilliant. I’d thought about telling Katy but, given her Internet dating history, I strongly suspected she’d tell me to run for my life. Sam had been here earlier and I’d tried to pluck up the courage to broach it with him, but he’d been too preoccupied – terrified, even, about his five o’clock meeting with the agent, so I’d sent him off for a bath with a comforting carrot from Katy’s fridge.

  I looked back at my laptop, which, having given up any hope of input from me, had wandered off into screensaver mode. My eye followed a roving picture of me, Ness, Mum, Dad and Katy on the beach by Tantallon Castle with Malcolm last year. Ness was sitting on a rock behind me, her arm round my neck.

  Ness! I sat up. Ness would support me! She was my twin: she never judged me. Ever. Even when I’d had to sack someone for wining and dining a journalist in an underhand bid to get (illegal) coverage for one of our drugs, Ness had bolstered me up and told me everything was OK. I needed Ness and I needed her right now. She’d understand!

  ‘What’s up, little Charley?’

  Ness – a good nine inches shorter than me – was the only person in the world who called me ‘little’ Charley.

  ‘Hello,’ I said. My voice sounded croaky and strained.

  ‘Oh, Charley, what’s wrong, my love?’ Ness ran the literary department at the Traverse Theatre and it sounded like she was in the brightest, loveliest room in the world.

  I found myself too ashamed to speak, sitting in Katy’s carrot-infested kitchen.

  ‘It’s not that bloody John, is it? Oh, Charley, I really –’

  ‘No. Ness, I know this sounds mad but I think I’m in love with someone I’ve never met.’

  There was a guarded silence. ‘Are you online dating?’ she asked.

  ‘No. It’s … it’s a man that one of my clients is dating. Tonight’s their first meeting, in fact. We started chatting and … I think he’s amazing, Nessie. I don’t know what to do. I can’t think straight, knowing he’s meeting up with someone else.’

  Ness sighed. ‘Oh, little Charley … Remember what Katy went through? She said she lost her mind when she was chatting to men online.’

  ‘I KNOW. But, Ness, I’ve been flirting with men online for weeks. I have amazing banter with some of them! And I’ve felt nothing. But then this started and bam. I think I have to do something, Ness.’

  ‘Such as what?’ She sounded worried.

  Ping, ping, ping, went my inbox. Four months ago I’d have ended the call, rolled up my sleeves and dived into the emails. I wouldn’t even have been on the phone to my sister during work time, let alone planning some mad intervention on a school night. But things had changed. Somewhere in London a tall man in a polo neck was winding down his working day so that he could go and meet a woman who seemed ‘so familiar’ and whom he thought was ‘beautiful’.

  Ness was asking me something but I couldn’t hear her. ‘Are you near a computer?’ I asked her.

  ‘Er, yes?’

  ‘Right. I’m sending you something,’ I said. ‘Call me back when you’ve read it.’

  I emailed her the Word document into which I’d copied and pasted my correspondence with William. Then I stared blindly at a delegate list for our Simitol press conference and waited for her reply.

  Ten minutes later my phone rang.

  ‘See what I mean?’ I demanded. ‘You see, Ness?’

  Ness said nothing for a few seconds. ‘Actually, I do,’ she said hesitantly. ‘And it’s kind of broken my heart seeing all of it. He’s so much better for you than John or Nathan or any of those arrogant idiots you’ve gone for, Charleypops. And all that stuff he said about you and your work … and about letting go … Wow! I couldn’t have put it better myself!’

  ‘You see?’ I cried again, triumphantly. ‘This is why I can’t let the date happen! He’s never even met me and he understands me like you do! And he’s funny! And s
mart! And gorgeous!’

  ‘He is, I agree. You seem well suited.’

  ‘Exactly! I can’t let the date go ahead, can I?’

  ‘How would you stop it?’

  ‘Well, I sort of might be in London …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hm, yes. I sort of thought I might get there just before the client arrives and maybe strike up a conversation. Possibly give him my business card? Just so he knows I exist, Ness.’

  ‘But you can’t!’

  ‘I can! How will I ever track him down otherwise? Tonight is the first and last opportunity I have to meet him.’

  Ness sighed. ‘I can’t stop you, can I?’

  I felt a little flush of warmth spread over me. Ness was giving me her blessing. Sort of. ‘No.’

  ‘Well, call me tomorrow, and look after yourself,’ she said.

  I grinned. ‘Love you so much, Nessie, thank you …’

  Three hours later I walked down Beak Street, looking for Polpo. Delicious wafts of baking dough were coming from a pizza place on my right, and I wondered if it might be a better idea to cancel my mission and instead scoff a pizza in dignified solitude. Apart from anything else, I’d begun to feel rather uncomfortable about my appearance. My Lanvin dress was stunning in its simplicity and my heels (brought out on the rare occasions when I met a man taller than me) had made me feel special back at Katy’s. But as I passed through a sea of jeans-wearing Soho types – most of whom for some reason appeared to be tiny pygmies – I felt like a massive over-dressed circus attraction.

  But there was no way I was turning back. I might feel like a bit of a freak on the outside, but inside I was a madly overexcited lovestruck teenager. My heart was not so much fluttering as erupting, and all I could think of was that William and I might be minutes away from reopening our sublime connection. It didn’t matter how stupid I felt: I just had to talk to him. I had to!

  I’d check myself in for therapy at a later date.

  I stopped briefly to check my reflection in the window of a Carnaby Street clothes shop and smiled shakily. I looked fine. Nice, even. All I needed to do was hold my nerve and be me. After all, it was me whom William had liked so much: he hadn’t been interested in the all-powerful workaholic Charley whom John fancied, or the doctor-worshipping emotionally unavailable girl whom Dr Nathan Gillies had tolerated. No. William had gone for the plain old no-frills real Charley Lambert. Who knew?

  A small crowd of people stood outside a doorway ahead of me. Please let this not be Polpo, I thought anxiously.

  But of course it was Polpo. And Polpo was small. A solid mass of people lined the tiny bar and even tinier entrance, spilling out on to the street, clamouring for tables. I panicked. What the hell kind of restaurant was jammed at this time? How was I going to get a seat near William?

  ‘At least two hours,’ the waiter told me, harassed and hot. I peered over his shoulder and panicked. People were crammed in up to the rafters; the food looked amazing and the place was atmospheric and noisy. William was right: it was a good place for a date. If you could get a bloody table.

  ‘I’m up for spending a lot of money,’ I yelled desperately at the waiter. ‘And I don’t need much space. Could I sit in the corner?’ I pointed to the end of the bar where staff deposited glasses.

  ‘No,’ he shouted. ‘I told you, two hours.’

  Dammit! I felt my fists ball with frustration. I had to see him! This was my one and only chance! I scanned the restaurant again.

  And then I saw him. Sitting at the back at a high table, reading a book. He was even wearing the same polo-neck jumper. He was beautiful. I felt a strange sensation of inertia in my chest. Was I having a heart attack?

  A large woman wedged herself in front of me, obscuring my view. I wanted to pound my fists on her bull-like back. ‘Er, I was queuing,’ I announced awkwardly. She ignored me and started badgering the waiter. I could only see William’s elbow and felt faint with desperation. The woman moved back slightly and stood on my toe, causing white hot pain up the side of my leg, which could barely take my own weight.

  ‘Excuse me!’ I shouted, prodding her in the ribs. ‘Excuse me! I broke my leg in three places and you’re now standing on my foot. Can you move, please?’

  The woman still ignored me but the waiter heard. ‘Three places? OK, OK. You can go and sit at the bar when the gentleman in the red shirt leaves. Happy?’

  Maybe he thought I was a disability campaigner. I didn’t actually care. I practically hugged him.

  I looked at the red-shirt man, who was now tucking his wallet into his pocket, and ducked behind bull-back woman to have one final check of my hair and make-up. What would I do? What would I say? How was I going to play this? Faced with the reality of actually being there, in a restaurant full of real people, eating food and talking loudly, I faltered. Bull-back woman shifted, opening up my view of the restaurant again but I ducked behind her, terrified.

  ‘Off you go,’ the waiter shouted, gesturing at the now vacant seat. I took a deep breath and started to pick my way to the bar, which led me directly into William’s line of vision. I glanced at him just as he looked up at the door. He was nervous, I could see it in his face, which made me want him even more. Then his eyes scanned towards the bar and found mine.

  Time stood still. I stared back at him. It’s me! I called. Me, the woman you don’t know but probably should! Er … hello? For a split second his eyes widened with recognition, but then his brow furrowed and he carried on looking around, confident I was not Shelley.

  Feeling disproportionately disappointed, I realized that I was in urgent need of a plan. My original one had gone up in flames: there wasn’t a free table in the restaurant, let alone one near him. In the light of this disaster, should I go over? Make something up? Blurt out the truth? Rapidly I weighed up my options and decided that a drink would be the best place to start. I was starting to sweat now. I sat down. ‘Per favore, five minutes,’ the barman shouted, above the din. He was extraordinarily hairy.

  ‘Broken leg,’ I yelled. ‘I don’t care about the mess.’

  Manoeuvring myself outwards, I turned to stare straight at William. He was reading his book again. I turned away and started tucking and untucking my hair behind my ear, a nervous habit for which Hailey had told me off about a thousand times.

  ‘OK, da bere?’ the waiter said, clearing up the remains of red-shirt man’s cuttlefish.

  ‘Er, wine please. Red. Large.’

  ‘Which?’

  ‘Er, the house? Or whatever has the highest alcohol content. I don’t want to be sober,’ I replied.

  The waiter smiled. ‘It is best to be you when you on a date, lady. The man rumble you later if you prepare to be someone else.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘If you prepare … prepare? No, fingere …’

  ‘Oh, pretend.’

  ‘You speak Italian?’

  ‘Yes. I speak far too many bloody languages,’ I muttered, thinking longingly of my conversations with William about my excessive extra-curriculars.

  The waiter looked pleased. ‘I give you the Valpolicella,’ he said. ‘It is much better than the house. You do not pay more. It is our little present!’

  ‘Secret?’

  ‘Si ! Secret! Similar word!’

  He began to pour and I looked back at William. He was scanning the entrance again and, once more, our eyes met. A little smile crossed his lips as he looked at me – of recognition, attraction, confusion? I couldn’t tell. I tried to smile at him but as I did so he turned away again and I was crushed. He’s not looking for you, remember, I told myself. The waiter handed me a large glass of red. He’s waiting for someone else. If you want to talk to him, you’re going to have to do just that.

  I swilled and sniffed. ‘This smells spectacular!’ I told the barman. He beamed through his forest of facial hair and kissed his fingers.

  I drank a very large gulp and forced myself to stand up. It was now or never. The time was seven thirty-se
ven and, if my assumption about Shelley turned out to be correct, I had only a few minutes before she marched in bang on ten minutes late. Should have bloody well marched straight over, my head chided. Fool!

  ‘Fucking fuck off,’ I muttered. ‘Give me a break here, I’m terrified.’ Things were moving in slow motion now. ‘I’m a Scottish Amazon,’ I whispered hoarsely, picking up my wine glass and taking a tiny step in William’s direction. Scottish Amazon, my arse. I was a terrified pixie.

  And then everything went wrong. William suddenly broke into a dazzling smile. He stood up, did an awkward part-wave, then sat down, only to stand up again in a slightly chaotic fashion. Horrified, I looked over and there she was. Tall, tight-lipped but unmistakably nervous, pushing her way through the crowds towards him. I knew that walk well. It was the walk I did: a sideways crab designed for getting myself through tables. There was something about being tall that made me certain I’d send plates flying as I crossed a crowded restaurant floor.

  I held my breath as William reached out a hand to shake Shelley’s – or pull her in to kiss her cheek, I couldn’t tell which – and then, without warning, my view was obscured. Utterly furious, I scowled at the stupidly dressed young couple who had blocked my view of William and Shelley. The bastards! The stupid, trendy, ridiculous –

  ‘Charley!’ Katy yelled. She was with Sam, who stared at me with a mixture of disbelief and fear.

  I stared back at him. What the fuck?

  They stood gawping at me. ‘What the fuck?’ Katy shouted, much to the amusement of the hairy barman.

  ‘Um, hello!’ I said, as she came to life and threw her arms around me. Shelley, I saw over Katy’s jaunty vintage hat, was just sitting down, saying something humourless to William. He was nodding exaggeratedly to show that he really understood whatever it was she was complaining about. I felt sick. I had to intervene. But how?