‘Well, I thought you were gorgeous, that goes without saying. But there was the way you held yourself, how you were with your friends, the way you sang my song. You sang it the way I always wanted it to sound.’ We bump knees, and when he looks at me, I feel a warm pull, like an invisible elastic band drawing me in. The woman he’s describing doesn’t sound like me. Shifting on my seat, I realise I’m fiddling with my hair again, so I reach for my drink instead. This French martini really is delicious, and I congratulate Future Me on her taste in both men and cocktails.
‘And what did I like about you?’ I ask, looking up at him from beneath lowered lashes.
He leans in slowly, then says, ‘I don’t know. Maybe when you remember, you’ll tell me.’ As he gets closer, I sense his warm, oaky smell, the hint of minty shower gel and freshly pressed linen.
‘Okay, some quick-fire questions, then, for old times’ sake,’ I say, clasping the bar to stop myself from leaning into his neck. ‘Favourite place?’
‘Our garden.’
‘Favourite song.’
‘ “Giuseppe” by Grange.’
‘That means nothing to me. Did we sleep together on our first date?’
Sam clears his throat, and I realise how attractive I find him when he gets slightly embarrassed. ‘That depends on what you define as our first date. Plus, I don’t think it would be gentlemanly of me to say.’ I look up at him now and catch the flush of pink skin rising up his neck.
‘I’ll take that as a yes. Why don’t you write songs any more?’
While I was wallowing in bed, I googled Sam. I listened to all the songs he’s ever been credited with writing and discovered he hasn’t written anything with lyrics in over five years. He shifts in his seat. ‘That’s not a quick-fire answer. Can I pass on that one?’
‘Fine, you get one pass. What’s your favourite memory?’
‘With you, or from life in general?’ Our knees are touching again, and his forearm skims my hand on the bar.
‘Either,’ I say and he ponders this for a moment.
‘Do you want one of my favourite childhood memories?’ he asks, and I nod. ‘It’s not a quick one.’
I press an imaginary button in the air between us. ‘Pausing quick-fire round.’
He takes my hand and moves my finger to another point in mid-air.
‘Here’s the fast-forward button if I’m boring you.’ My cheeks begin to ache, and I realise I’ve been grinning since we sat down. ‘Okay, so I’m four years younger than Maeve, so for most of my childhood my sisters just saw me as the little kid they didn’t want tagging along. Most of the time when they went out to play, I was left behind, but the summer I was six, there was this brief window of time where they let me be in their gang. They built me a den in the woods. Sam’s Shack, they called it. Leda made a wooden sign with a soldering iron. Maeve hung a tyre swing and cooked corn fritters on the camping stove. We played out there every day of the holidays. Then Maeve went to secondary school and neither of them wanted to play in the woods after that. But I had that one perfect summer.’
Picturing Sam as a little boy, playing with his sisters in the woods, being so happy to be included, makes my heart swell for him.
‘Are you still close with them, your sisters?’ I ask.
‘Leda more so – we speak on the phone most weeks.’ He shifts in his chair, then takes a sip of his pint. ‘What’s your favourite childhood memory? You know, I don’t think we’ve ever had this conversation.’
‘Me?’ I try to think. I’m an only child, so I don’t have any sibling memories to call upon. ‘I don’t remember a lot of details about my childhood, but I remember it being happy. Summers sitting on the grass making daisy chains, watching my dad endlessly tend to his vegetables.’ I pause, remembering Dad’s blank face when I told him our joke. ‘Do you think my dad’s okay? Mum’s worried he’s forgetting things.’
Sam reaches out to squeeze my knee. There is something so reassuring in the gesture, beyond anything he might be able to say.
‘Okay, I have one,’ I say, keen to steer us back to lighter conversation. ‘It was coming up to my tenth birthday. Every day on the way to school, Mum and I would walk past this fancy bakery. There was this cake in the window, and I would stop and point it out every time we passed – it was the cake I wanted for my party. It was a rich mocha gateau with liqueur icing, totally inappropriate, but I just loved the look of it. I wanted it so much. It looked like a cake from a picture book, something you might draw. Mum said, “No, that’s not a cake for children.” I kept asking, saying I’d forgo all other presents if I could only have this cake, but still she said no. Then, on the day of my party she walked out of the kitchen with it, this cake from the bakery. None of my friends would eat it – they thought it was disgusting, she actually served this alcoholic cake to all these ten year olds.’ I laugh. ‘But I loved it. It was the best birthday cake I’ve ever had.’
Sam reaches out and takes both my hands, knitting his fingers between mine.
‘You’ve never told me that story before.’
‘Haven’t I?’
‘No.’ Our knees meet again, and now I am sharply aware of every part of my body that is in contact with his.
We talk for hours, telling each other stories from our lives before, from the times I can remember. Sharing these stories, I can be myself, I don’t have to try and hide what is missing. We order more drinks and move to a booth near the back of the bar. Sam is funny, interesting and attentive. This has to be the best date I’ve ever been on. Unlike all the weird, self-involved, twenty-somethings I’ve been out with recently, Sam is delightful company. He’s mature, handsome and engaging. He really listens when I talk, and the way he looks at me, with this unfiltered affection – it ignites something inside me I didn’t even know was there. As an added bonus, I can be confident he’s not going to suddenly admit to having a crisp-eating fetish, or holding any alarming political views, because he’s already been thoroughly vetted, by me.
When I tell him the story about the bones in the shower, he lets out a deep, unfiltered laugh that makes everyone in the bar turn to try and see what’s so funny. Sam’s eyes settle on mine, as he says, ‘We never do this any more, just the two of us.’
‘Why not?’ I ask. Then I feel him reach for my hand beneath the table, and slowly circle a finger around my palm. It’s sexy as hell.
‘I don’t know. We’re always so busy, or we’re socialising with friends, making plans, doing admin. We never make time to just chat and tell each other stories. I love your stories. I have always loved the way you tell stories.’
His finger on my palm feels exquisitely torturous in its limitations, and I can’t focus on what he’s saying. I lean in and kiss him, right there in the bar. At first, I feel his surprise, but then he responds, moving a hand up my neck into my hair, kissing me back. His lips are firm yet soft, hot and— ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he says, his voice now a husky whisper.
We stumble out onto the street, laughing like teenagers. His hands are on my waist, but I need them to be all over me. Pushing him against the wall of the bar, I lean in to kiss his neck.
‘You’re so hot,’ I say into his warm skin, running a hand down his thigh. ‘How did I end up with someone like you?’
‘We’re in the street, Lucy. Someone will see us,’ he says, his deep voice rasping slightly, and I can feel he wants me too.