Which probably explains an awful lot.
“So.” Will returns with his beer and my wine, and puts them on the table with such enthusiasm that he immediately ruins the only nonsticky table in the building. “I’m chuffed you texted, Cassie. I spent the entire morning thinking about you, and working out how long before I could ask you out while striking the right balance between keen and cool. I’d decided two days, so you beat me to it.”
My face fills with heat and I’m so delighted I beam at the table.
One sip in, and I’ve already improved things.
“You may also be pleased to hear that I backed up all my files.” Will swigs from his pint with an air of triumph. “Went straight home last night, backed them all up, felt a sense of inner peace and tranquility I genuinely thought was a myth, so thank you.”
I smile—feeling quite altruistic—then realize I’m staring at my wine.
Every single list, without fail, includes Make Eye Contact: apparently there have been copious studies done about the importance of eyeball-to-eyeball connection. Which is unfortunate, because the sensation of knitting needles being stabbed through my pupils to the back of my brain somewhat reduces my ability to feel sexy or romantic.
With immense effort, I lift my eyes and stare at Will.
The moment our eyes connect, there’s an intense rush of warmth, intimacy, bonding—it’s working!—but the longer I hold it, the more intense and painful it becomes. How long is right? It feels a bit like offering to hold a baby and then realizing you have no idea when to hand it back again without being rude.
Eight seconds. Ten seconds. Twelve seconds.
Will clears his throat and looks away, and I think it’s just gone from romantic to serial killer in fifteen seconds.
I look down. Stupid internet. “So, what do you do for work?”
“I film animals.” Will grins and leans on the table with both his elbows; his entire body is suddenly surrounded by bright yellow, the color of a Post-it. This always happens when he talks about his job. His enthusiasm for his career is so thorough, so undiluted, it reads as just one, pure color. “I’ve wanted to do it ever since I was a kid. I saved up all my Christmas money for three years, bought my first camera at nine, took wobbly film of a squirrel in a garden. Although I’m still waiting for the footage to be accepted by the people at BAFTA.”
I laugh, even though I know he hasn’t actually submitted it yet.
“That’s very impressive dedication,” I agree, drinking my wine. “At nine I was still convinced I was going to be an international pilot.”
“Presumably you’re not?”
“No. Turns out I am petrified of flying. Discovered it at ten and changed my destiny accordingly. Did you know the word petrified actually comes from the ancient Greek word petra, which means rock? I found out on an easyJet flight to Athens. Literally solidified. I had to be physically picked up by my dad and carried off into baggage reclaim like a piece of marble.”
I can still feel the texture of my father’s slightly scratchy blue jumper, smell his sage-and-salt smell, sense the cheek stubble as he kissed the top of my head with so much love I could feel it in my toes. It’s as if it’s still happening: as if I’m still being carried across Gatwick Airport in his arms.
My eyes fill slightly and then I look up and meet Will’s gaze. He smiles so warmly, I feel myself smiling back: memory neatly secured back in its box.
You know what? This actually is easier.
On our original first date, I was far too nervous to look at Will for more than half a second at a time. Now I know him better, it doesn’t hurt nearly as much. I’m not as scared; I know this information about him already. There’s a firm base of knowledge to rely upon and reference, which means I can relax slightly.
Also, I’m not spending 90 percent of my energy either trying to look like I’m listening or actually listening.
I can do one or the other, but not both simultaneously: I’m not a magician.
“So PR wasn’t your lifelong childhood dream, then?”
“Sure.” I grimace and tap the coaster up and down repeatedly. “Scribbling press releases around pictures of unicorns, pretending to call journalists with a yogurt pot. No. I left school and...” I take a deep, brave breath: decide to be open. “I’m a lot like my mum—pretty much identical, actually—and I think everyone just expected me to follow her into academia. She was very well-known, in her field. But I was eighteen and I didn’t want to always be in her shadow, or feel like I didn’t have my own path, wasn’t my own person, so I specifically went in the opposite direction. It didn’t really matter what direction at the time, as long as it was different. So I picked Media and Communications out of the brochure by closing my eyes and opening it on any random page. Not one of my most insightful moves, as it turns out.”
“Very brave, though,” Will chuckles.
“That’s just a word people use for decisions that are poorly thought through.” I grin wryly. “Plus, I ended up living back at home and commuting anyway, so it was an empty gesture of independence.”
Let’s just say that university, much like school—involving crowds, noise, social events, group feeding, itineraries that nobody ever seems to respect properly—wasn’t a habitat I was naturally suited to.
“I did the exact opposite,” Will laughs, swigging from his beer. “I picked a course in cinematography that was as far away as physically possible from where I grew up. Literally got a map, drew a line. Four hundred and fifty miles.”
“Edinburgh is that far from Bournemouth?” I say without thinking.
Silence, then: “Sorry?”
Will’s voice has sharpened, his eyes are startled, and nobody warns you what it’s like to romance as a prophet: you become the creepiest date on the planet. I promised myself no time travel this evening—a traditional date, no meddling with the universe—but I cannot let that mistake stand: I sound absolutely crazy.
Carefully, I close my eyes.
“Literally got a map, drew a line. Four hundred and fifty miles.”
“Which is from where to where, exactly?”
“Edinburgh to Bournemouth,” Will confirms, and I feel a familiar rush of happiness: nailed it. “A nice eight-hour drive between me and my massive, noisy family, who I love dearly but needed a break from when I hit eighteen.”
I think I got away with that, but I’m going to have to be a lot more careful going forward. I cannot reveal how much I already know about Will, which is going to be extremely difficult. I really like loudly knowing all the answers to everything: it’s one of the least “likable” things about me.
“And do you live alone?” I attempt to look curious: as if I don’t know he has a tiny one-bedroom flat in Finsbury Park. “Or with friends?”
“Alone.” Will pauses, scratches his nose, laughs loudly. “I was about to describe myself as a lone wolf, and then realized that’s not true at all. I love being surrounded by people. It just sounds a little bit sexier than me walking around in my boxers, drinking out of bowls and using a fork to make my coffee.”
“Strange that it’s always carnivores that are allowed to be alone without being judged, isn’t it?” I think about it. “Do you think that’s a masculinity thing? Eagles. Wolves. So unfair. Like, solitary gerbil doesn’t really have the same ring to it.”
“Very true. I’m just an isolated hamster.”
“A singular rabbit.”
“An unaccompanied goat,” Will laughs, scratching the top of his left ear. “You make an excellent point. Basically, I broke up with my ex nearly a year ago, and when she moved out I just got too busy to find a new place to live.” He shakes his head. “I’m doing it again. I didn’t get too busy—I got too lazy.”
Her name was Rosie and Will is literally the least lazy person I’ve ever met: he’s the kind of person who finds something fun to do while the kettle is boiling. By comparison, I’m basically a mushroom.
“And you?” He leans forward toward me, across the table, and it takes all the control I have not to abruptly reach out and touch his hands. Control yourself, Cassandra. “Do you live alone?”
“I wish I did,” I sigh. “I live with a couple, Sal and Derek, although maybe not for much longer.”
Honestly, I’m still trying to work out the timings.
“That can’t be much fun.” Will grimaces in sympathy. “Have you been single a long time? Because living with a couple right under your nose like that can’t be particularly easy.”
I take a moment to work out how to respond to this honestly.
Not that long, Will. Actually, we broke up yesterday—which is in about four months—and spoiler alert: it was you!
“Not so long,” I admit carefully. “It’s relatively recent.”