I look at the pile of papers nearest to me and see a typed list of names, each with what looks like a brief bio below it.
‘Interviews for a feature I’ve got to do,’ he explains, seeing me looking. He picks up the papers and dumps them on the other side so I can perch on the edge of his desk. ‘It’s a nightmare trying to get hold of them.’
‘I don’t know how you find anything.’ My drawers at work might be a mess, but the top of my desk is almost empty. A photo of the kids and a plant sit next to my in-tray, and I make sure everything is tidied away before I go home. At the end of each day I write a list of everything I have to do the next day, even when some of them are the things I do on autopilot, as soon as I get into work. Open the post, listen to the answer-phone messages, make the tea.
‘Organised chaos.’ He sits down on the swivel chair in front of his desk and pats his knee for me to sit on his lap. I laugh and sit down, one arm around his neck to keep my balance. I kiss him, letting my body relax into his before I reluctantly pull away.
‘I’ve booked a table at Bella Donna.’
‘Perfect.’
I’m not a high-maintenance woman. I don’t waste money on clothes and beauty products, and if the kids so much as remember my birthday, that’s good enough for me. Matt wasn’t one for hearts and flowers, even when we were young, and nor was I. Simon laughs at my cynical nature; says he’s slowly bringing out my softer side. He spoils me, and I love it. After years of struggling to put food on the table, a meal out is still a luxury, but the real treat is time together. Just the two of us.
I have a shower and wash my hair, spraying perfume on my wrists and rubbing them together, letting the scent fill the air around me. I put on a dress I haven’t worn for a while, and am relieved to see it still fits, and pull out a pair of black patent heels from the tangle of shoes at the bottom of my wardrobe. When Simon moved in I squashed up my clothes to make room for his, but even so he has to keep some of his belongings in the loft conversion. The house has three bedrooms, but they’re all tiny: Justin’s is a single, and Katie barely has room to move around her double bed.
Simon’s waiting for me in the lounge. He’s put on a jacket and tie, and he looks the way he did when I first saw him come into Hallow & Reed. I remember him meeting my polite smile with something far warmer.
‘I’m from the Telegraph,’ he told me. ‘We’re running a piece about the rise in commercial rental prices: independents being priced off the High Street, that sort of thing. It would be great if you could talk me through what’s on your books at the moment.’
He met my eyes, and I hid the ensuing blush in the filing cabinet, taking longer than I needed to find a dozen or so particulars.
‘This one might be interesting for you.’ I sat down at my desk, a piece of paper between us. ‘There used to be a gift shop there, but the rent went up and it’s been empty for six months. The British Heart Foundation will be in there from next month.’
‘Could I speak to the landlord?’
‘I can’t give you his details, but if you give me your number I’ll pass it on.’ I blushed again, even though the suggestion was perfectly legitimate. There was a crackle in the air between us I was sure I wasn’t imagining.
Simon wrote down his number, his eyes creasing into a frown. I remember wondering if he normally wore glasses, and if he had left them off through vanity, or forgetfulness; not knowing then the frown was simply a side effect of concentration. His hair was grey, although not as thin as it is now, four years on. He was tall, with a lean frame that fitted easily in the narrow chair by my desk, legs crossed casually at the ankle. Silver cufflinks just showing below the sleeves of his navy suit.
‘Thank you for your help.’
He seemed in no hurry to leave, and already I didn’t want him to.
‘Not at all. It was a pleasure to meet you.’
‘So,’ he said, watching me intently. ‘You’ve got my number … may I have yours?’
We hail a taxi on Anerley Road, even though we’re not going far, and I catch the fleeting look of relief in Simon’s face as the cab pulls over and he sees the driver’s face. Once, when Simon and I were first dating, we jumped in a black cab, our coats pulled above our heads against the rain. It was only when we looked up that we saw Matt’s face in the rear-view mirror. For a second I thought Simon was going to insist we got out, but he stared out of the window instead. We sat in silence. Even Matt, who could talk the legs off the proverbial donkey, didn’t try to make conversation.
The restaurant is one we’ve been to a few times, and the owner greets us by name when we arrive. He shows us to a booth by the window and hands us menus we both know off by heart. Fat strands of tinsel have been draped over the picture frames and across the light fittings.