“Oh, that stuff,” I say with a light laugh, because I’m suddenly afraid of baring my soul. What if he doesn’t like my soul? What if he thinks, Sheesh! Never expected her soul to be like that!
“Yes, that stuff.” He plants his elbows on the table, his face lit up with that eager, interested expression I’ve come to know. “Who is Fixie Farr? Tell me.”
So I take a deep breath—and I tell him. In between mouthfuls of linguine, I tell him about Dad. And Farrs. And Mum. I tell him about my catering company collapsing; how I’ve never paid Mum back; what a failure I’ve felt ever since. I tell him a little bit about how Jake makes me feel. (Not everything. Not about my skating fall, because I don’t want to cast a shadow over this evening. And definitely not about the ravens. There’s “honest” and then there’s “too much information.”)
Then I tell him all about Ryan, and he listens nicely and doesn’t say a single scathing thing about him, even though I can see the antagonism mounting in his eyes.
“I was in love with a girl called Astrid at school,” he says, when I’ve finished. “If she’d come breezing back into my life, I think I would have lost all sense. So I get it.”
I even tell him how I got the nickname “Fixie”: that when I was three, I used to walk around determinedly, saying, “Got to fix it. Got to fix it.” (Although I could never explain exactly what I had to fix.)
“So what’s your real name?” Seb asks, and I hesitate, then lower my voice and practically whisper, “Fawn.” I know it’s my name, but Fawn doesn’t sound like me. It sounds like an animal.
“Fawn?” Seb regards me critically. “No. I prefer Fixie.”
“Pretend I never told you,” I beg him.
“It’s forgotten.”
The lights in the restaurant have been dimmed by now, and candlelight is flickering on our faces. The waiter clears our plates and we read the dessert menus, like you do, but only order coffee. And then I lean forward.
“Now. Your turn.”
He starts with his work. He tells me about how he set up his company and what a struggle it was but fun too—and how it’s all about finding the right people. As he describes his colleagues, his enthusiasm pours out, and his eyes shine with what I can only call love. He tells me how he can’t stand injustice and arrogance and that’s what drove him into ethical investment. He gives me a small lecture on which are the worst executive practices, in his opinion, and how companies should be run, before breaking off and saying, “Sorry. Boring. Boring.” (It wasn’t.)
Then, when our coffee cups are both drained, he tells me about his family’s deaths, in more measured tones. He tells me how they all survived his dad’s death pretty well and thought, We’ve had our bad luck, and got on with life, but then his mum died while he was at uni and then his brother was killed.… Then he notices my eyes swimming with tears and breaks off.
“Fixie, it happened,” he says, grabbing my hand and squeezing it. “It happened. That’s all you can say about it.”
“I suppose,” I say after a pause. “But, oh, Seb …”
“I’m fine. I’m fine. I’ve moved on, I’m at peace with it, I appreciate what I have.… Sorry,” he adds, as though noticing for the first time where his hand is.
“No, that’s OK,” I say, my voice a little husky. I blink away my tears, determined to get a grip. If Seb can be so positive about it, then I should be too.
I squeeze his hand back, and he looks at me with a kind of cryptic, quizzical expression, and with a sudden lurch I realize where we are in the evening. We’ve talked. We’ve shared a bottle of wine. We’re holding hands.
“So, I was thinking,” I say, my gaze fixed on a distant point. “Shall I … uh … see you back home? You know, with your ankle and everything. You might need a hand up the … uh … steps. If you have steps. Do you have steps?”
My nervous gabble comes to an end and I wait breathlessly for his reply.
“I do have steps,” says Seb. “And that would be very kind of you.” His eyes meet mine, and something about his expression starts a pulse inside me.
“Right.” I try to sound casual. “Well.”
Seb gestures for the bill, then gives me another look, which makes my insides melt. “Shall we get out of here?”
We find a cab and Seb gives the address, and as the cab travels through the lit-up Christmassy London streets, neither of us says much. My breathing is shallow; my whole body feels taut. I’m super-aware of every move Seb makes but grateful he’s not one of those guys who lunges at you in the taxi. I want it to be private. I don’t want the driver watching in the mirror.
Seb lives in a 1930s-looking block in Islington, and as we get out of the taxi I can’t help laughing, because he was totally fibbing.
“There’s a ramp, look,” I point out. “As well as steps.”
“Ah yes.” Seb nods. “What I meant was, it would be very kind if you could help me up the ramp.”
He strides up the ramp—without my aid—and I follow him, giggling, and then we’re in the lift and rising up to the fourth floor, where he ushers me through a gray-painted front door.
“Here we are,” he says as the door closes behind us. “Home.”
He gestures around, and I’m vaguely aware of a pale wooden floor with white walls, but to be honest, his flat is the last thing I’m interested in. I put my arms around his neck, which is something I’ve been longing to do all evening, and close my eyes, inhaling him.
His shoulders are the right height. He smells good. He feels good. His lips brush against mine and I give a little whimper, because I really, really want this. Does he realize this? Does he realize it?
Yes, of course he does. (I may actually be a little drunk.)
As his mouth meets mine properly, warmly, I press up against him hard and he makes a deep, indistinct sound.
“Wait, your ankle,” I say, suddenly breaking away.
“What does my ankle have to do with it?” Seb looks confused.
“Dunno,” I admit, and I start to giggle. “Health and safety?”
“You’re delicious,” says Seb, drawing back to survey me. “And as you know, I still owe you big time. Big time.”
He kisses the side of my neck and I feel the light brush of his teeth. And the thought that we have all night ahead of us makes me dizzy with lust.
“So … this is you paying off what you owe?” I manage, my breath coming in short pants.
“This is me chipping away at it,” he says, slowly unbuttoning my shirt. “Little by little. I know it’ll take a while.… Oh my God.” His eyes darken at the sight of my breasts. “How long will it take to work off my debt? Forever, I hope.”
“I’ll let you know when you’re there.” I murmur as his lips gently meet my collarbone. My head is thrown back in bliss and I never want this to end either. “I’ll let you know.”
—
The night is a blur of sex and sleep and sex again. Some time in the early hours of the morning, I find myself staring at him in the dim bedroom light, at the strong, lithe form of him. His back has a curve to it like the sweep of a boat. I steal out a hand to stroke it, wondering whether he’s awake, when he turns and his eyes glint at me.
“Do you sail?” I say, half sleepily.
“No. Used to row, though.”
“Huh.” I nod my head: That makes sense. Then I hear myself saying, “Do you believe in the one? Do you believe in fate?”
I’m not expecting him to take me seriously—in fact, almost at once I regret saying something so needy. Ryan would have said, “Totally, babe,” without even listening properly, but Seb is silent. He’s staring up at the ceiling. He seems to be thinking.
“The rational part of my brain,” he says at last, “understands that everything is random. There are a million possibilities in the universe. Us meeting is just one of those possibilities, and just as meaningless.”
He sounds so matter-of-fact, I feel my heart droop a little. But then he carries on, in the same tone:
“The thing is, though, I can’t imagine a world that didn’t bring us together. We were meant to be. Don’t you feel it? You were meant to walk into Café Allegro. The water molecules were meant to fall though the ceiling. It’s been event on event on event. Your parents bought a shop in Acton. Mine didn’t move to France.”
“Were they going to?” I say in surprise.
“They thought about it when I was eight. Imagine—I wouldn’t even have lived in this country. It’s all been coming toward this moment.” He rests his head on his hand to gaze at me, a shaft of moonlight falling on his cheekbone.
“This exact moment,” I echo, teasing him.
“This precise moment right here.”
“So this is pretty epic.” I gesture, rumpling the duvet with a smile. It seems quite mundane, for an epic moment.
Although, actually, what more-momentous instant is there in life than being in bed with the person you feel is right? Really, really right? As these thoughts pass through my head, I suddenly feel light-headed, almost scared. Because he is right for me. He is, he is.
“So … this is it?” I say lightly. “This is what it’s all been heading for? This is as good as it gets?”
“No. It’s only going to get better.” He pulls me toward him, his mouth gently finding the crease of my neck, his body warm and safe. “It’s only going to get better.”