automatically have gravitated given that in those days my priority was finding a party and staying at it until I was only capable of crawling home. Yet from the moment we met, we clicked. We had nothing in common – partly because she’d grown up in Switzerland – but we had such a laugh. When I think about those days in our poky little room, with two beds, one sink and curtains that looked as though they must’ve been in the Domesday Book, that’s what I think of: the two of us with tears of laughter spilling down our cheeks.
The swim was the fourth she’d entered and the first I’d gone to watch, partly because I was mildly intrigued by what sort of lunatics were motivated to do such a thing.
I was on the edge of the lake, cheering her on as noisily as I could, when I noticed the winner emerging from the water. You couldn’t not notice him. He was improbably beautiful: all hard body, soft smile and general, Herculean gorgeousness.
It was an odd moment. It’d been years since I could recall fancying someone like that; so suddenly, so irrationally.
I was also thrown, I think, because in the years after Alex and I went our separate ways, I’d gravitated to scrawny blokes who smoked meaningfully and looked like they’d never seen daylight. Amateur psychologists might have made something of their passing resemblance to the object of my teenage affection – and his passing flirtation with Marlboros.
Yet here I was, at the edge of a lake, averting my eyes selfconsciously from a man who was the opposite of all that. Someone athletic and muscular, with a six-pack so defined it should by rights have its own passport.
Anyway.
That, I’d thought, was that. A cloudburst of attraction lingering briefly in the air, before floating away, forgotten.
After the race, Allie and I hit the Swan Inn, along with other competitors. I was at the bar, waiting to be served, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I span round, realised who it was and a pink glow bloomed on my neck.
‘You owe me twenty pounds,’ he said.
He might be a romantic these days and ask me to marry him (as a cynical joke, admittedly) twice a month, but the fact remains: they were Dan’s first, profound words to me. You owe me twenty pounds .
‘Sorry?’ I replied, which I admit wasn’t much of a comeback.
‘Twenty pounds. But don’t worry, I’d kind of written it off.’ His lips softened into a smile. My knees gave way slightly.
‘Sorry. You clearly don’t recognise me.’ It occurred to me when he said that, that he might be someone half-famous. Like an X Factor quarter-finalist from 2007, or a weather man who fills in at weekends on the local TV news.
‘Well, no,’ I confessed, feeling suddenly certain it was going to be the latter. He had the air of someone who knew his cumulonimbus from his cirrostratus, and I mean that only in a good way.
Ironically, I was the one whose appearance had changed most by then – my dreadlocks were long gone. He said later that he had only recognised me by the seashell tattoo on my shoulderblade, which he’d doodled on the edge of a contacts book he kept for years afterwards. That counts as possibly the only reason I’ve never regretted having that tattoo done.
We shook hands. It was the first time I felt his hand in mine and it was a window into his soul: warm, honest and strong. ‘I’m Dan. We met years ago. Five, maybe six . . . yes, it must’ve been six. You were in a bar in Liverpool and you were trying to get rid of your date. Then I bumped into you at the taxi rank.’
I looked at him blankly.
‘I obviously made an impression. Well, I gave you twenty pounds for the taxi. And you said you’d phone to arrange to give it back to me.’
I blushed fervidly. ‘Sorry, I just don’t remember this. And I’ve only got a tenner, which I was about to spend on these drinks.’
‘I don’t really want it back,’ he laughed. Then he paused, contemplating his next move. I wanted him to stay. Have a
The swim was the fourth she’d entered and the first I’d gone to watch, partly because I was mildly intrigued by what sort of lunatics were motivated to do such a thing.
I was on the edge of the lake, cheering her on as noisily as I could, when I noticed the winner emerging from the water. You couldn’t not notice him. He was improbably beautiful: all hard body, soft smile and general, Herculean gorgeousness.
It was an odd moment. It’d been years since I could recall fancying someone like that; so suddenly, so irrationally.
I was also thrown, I think, because in the years after Alex and I went our separate ways, I’d gravitated to scrawny blokes who smoked meaningfully and looked like they’d never seen daylight. Amateur psychologists might have made something of their passing resemblance to the object of my teenage affection – and his passing flirtation with Marlboros.
Yet here I was, at the edge of a lake, averting my eyes selfconsciously from a man who was the opposite of all that. Someone athletic and muscular, with a six-pack so defined it should by rights have its own passport.
Anyway.
That, I’d thought, was that. A cloudburst of attraction lingering briefly in the air, before floating away, forgotten.
After the race, Allie and I hit the Swan Inn, along with other competitors. I was at the bar, waiting to be served, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I span round, realised who it was and a pink glow bloomed on my neck.
‘You owe me twenty pounds,’ he said.
He might be a romantic these days and ask me to marry him (as a cynical joke, admittedly) twice a month, but the fact remains: they were Dan’s first, profound words to me. You owe me twenty pounds .
‘Sorry?’ I replied, which I admit wasn’t much of a comeback.
‘Twenty pounds. But don’t worry, I’d kind of written it off.’ His lips softened into a smile. My knees gave way slightly.
‘Sorry. You clearly don’t recognise me.’ It occurred to me when he said that, that he might be someone half-famous. Like an X Factor quarter-finalist from 2007, or a weather man who fills in at weekends on the local TV news.
‘Well, no,’ I confessed, feeling suddenly certain it was going to be the latter. He had the air of someone who knew his cumulonimbus from his cirrostratus, and I mean that only in a good way.
Ironically, I was the one whose appearance had changed most by then – my dreadlocks were long gone. He said later that he had only recognised me by the seashell tattoo on my shoulderblade, which he’d doodled on the edge of a contacts book he kept for years afterwards. That counts as possibly the only reason I’ve never regretted having that tattoo done.
We shook hands. It was the first time I felt his hand in mine and it was a window into his soul: warm, honest and strong. ‘I’m Dan. We met years ago. Five, maybe six . . . yes, it must’ve been six. You were in a bar in Liverpool and you were trying to get rid of your date. Then I bumped into you at the taxi rank.’
I looked at him blankly.
‘I obviously made an impression. Well, I gave you twenty pounds for the taxi. And you said you’d phone to arrange to give it back to me.’
I blushed fervidly. ‘Sorry, I just don’t remember this. And I’ve only got a tenner, which I was about to spend on these drinks.’
‘I don’t really want it back,’ he laughed. Then he paused, contemplating his next move. I wanted him to stay. Have a
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