along these lines. But not so soon. His blue eyes are boring into me expectantly.
“Me too,” I say at last, and take a forkful of halibut.
“Don’t tell me you’ve ever had a relationship better than ours. Because
I
sure as hell haven’t.” Ben bangs the table with his fist. “Maybe we got our priorities screwed up. Maybe we should have said,
Fuck university, we’re staying together
. Who knows what might have happened? We were good together, Lottie. Maybe we’ve wasted the last fifteen years
not
being together. Don’t you ever think that?”
His speed is taking my breath away. I don’t quite know how to react, so I stuff some more halibut into my mouth.
“We might be married by now. We might have kids. My life might make
sense
.” He’s almost talking to himself, popping with a kind of suppressed emotion I can’t read.
“Do you want kids?” I say before I can stop myself.
I can’t believe I just
asked a guy on a first date if he wants kids
. I should be struck off. Except … it’s not a first date. If it’s anything, it’s a zillionth date. And he mentioned them first. And, anyway, it’s not a date at all. So.
“Yes, I want kids.” His intent gaze lands on me again.“I’m ready for a family, prams, going to the park, all that shit.”
“Me too.” I feel tears spring to my eyes. “I’m ready for a family too.”
Oh God. Richard has popped into my head yet
again
. I didn’t want him to, but he has. I’m remembering that fantasy I used to have of Richard and me making a tree house for our twins called Arthur and Edie. Almost savagely, I open my evening bag and reach for a tissue. Crying was
not
the plan. Thinking about Richard was
not
the plan.
Thankfully, Ben doesn’t seem to have noticed. He refills my glass, then his own, with wine. We’ve already finished the bottle, I notice with a slight shock. How did we manage that?
“Remember the pact?” His voice takes me by surprise.
No
way
.
Adrenaline has flooded my body. My lungs are squeezed so tight, I can’t breathe. I didn’t think he’d remember the pact. I wasn’t going to bring it up. It was a teeny, tiny, jokey promise we made once. It was nothing. It was
ridiculous
.
“Should we exercise it?” He’s looking at me frankly. I think he might be half serious. Or serious. No. He
can’t
be serious—
“Bit late,” I manage, my throat tight. “We said if we were unmarried at thirty. I’m thirty-three.”
“Better late than never.” I feel a fresh jolt. His foot has found mine under the table and he’s edging off my shoe. “My flat’s nearby,” he murmurs. Now his hand is taking mine. My skin starts tingling all over. It’s like muscle memory. Sex memory. I know where we’re heading.
But … but … is that where I want to head? What’s going on here?
Think
, Lottie.
“Would you care to see the dessert menu?” The waiter’s voice snaps me out of my trance. My head jerks up and I take the chance to whip my hand away from Ben.
“Er … thanks.”
I scan the dessert menu, my cheeks beating with blood, my mind circling furiously. What do I do now? What? What?
A little voice is telling me to rein in. I’m playing this wrong. I’m making a mistake. I have a terrible sense of déjà vu, of things following the same old pattern.
All my long-term relationships have started like this. Hand-holding over a table. Pulses racing all over my body. Nice underwear, and everything waxed, and hot, inventive, fabulous sex. (Or terrible sex, that one time with the doctor bloke. Yikes. You’d think a medic would be a bit more up on the way a body works. But I ditched him fairly swiftly.)
The point is: the beginning is
never
the problem. It’s afterward.
I’m feeling a strange conviction I’ve never felt before. I need to change everything I’m doing. Break the pattern. But how? What?
Ben has taken my hand again and is kissing the inside of my wrist, but I ignore him. I want to marshal my
“Me too,” I say at last, and take a forkful of halibut.
“Don’t tell me you’ve ever had a relationship better than ours. Because
I
sure as hell haven’t.” Ben bangs the table with his fist. “Maybe we got our priorities screwed up. Maybe we should have said,
Fuck university, we’re staying together
. Who knows what might have happened? We were good together, Lottie. Maybe we’ve wasted the last fifteen years
not
being together. Don’t you ever think that?”
His speed is taking my breath away. I don’t quite know how to react, so I stuff some more halibut into my mouth.
“We might be married by now. We might have kids. My life might make
sense
.” He’s almost talking to himself, popping with a kind of suppressed emotion I can’t read.
“Do you want kids?” I say before I can stop myself.
I can’t believe I just
asked a guy on a first date if he wants kids
. I should be struck off. Except … it’s not a first date. If it’s anything, it’s a zillionth date. And he mentioned them first. And, anyway, it’s not a date at all. So.
“Yes, I want kids.” His intent gaze lands on me again.“I’m ready for a family, prams, going to the park, all that shit.”
“Me too.” I feel tears spring to my eyes. “I’m ready for a family too.”
Oh God. Richard has popped into my head yet
again
. I didn’t want him to, but he has. I’m remembering that fantasy I used to have of Richard and me making a tree house for our twins called Arthur and Edie. Almost savagely, I open my evening bag and reach for a tissue. Crying was
not
the plan. Thinking about Richard was
not
the plan.
Thankfully, Ben doesn’t seem to have noticed. He refills my glass, then his own, with wine. We’ve already finished the bottle, I notice with a slight shock. How did we manage that?
“Remember the pact?” His voice takes me by surprise.
No
way
.
Adrenaline has flooded my body. My lungs are squeezed so tight, I can’t breathe. I didn’t think he’d remember the pact. I wasn’t going to bring it up. It was a teeny, tiny, jokey promise we made once. It was nothing. It was
ridiculous
.
“Should we exercise it?” He’s looking at me frankly. I think he might be half serious. Or serious. No. He
can’t
be serious—
“Bit late,” I manage, my throat tight. “We said if we were unmarried at thirty. I’m thirty-three.”
“Better late than never.” I feel a fresh jolt. His foot has found mine under the table and he’s edging off my shoe. “My flat’s nearby,” he murmurs. Now his hand is taking mine. My skin starts tingling all over. It’s like muscle memory. Sex memory. I know where we’re heading.
But … but … is that where I want to head? What’s going on here?
Think
, Lottie.
“Would you care to see the dessert menu?” The waiter’s voice snaps me out of my trance. My head jerks up and I take the chance to whip my hand away from Ben.
“Er … thanks.”
I scan the dessert menu, my cheeks beating with blood, my mind circling furiously. What do I do now? What? What?
A little voice is telling me to rein in. I’m playing this wrong. I’m making a mistake. I have a terrible sense of déjà vu, of things following the same old pattern.
All my long-term relationships have started like this. Hand-holding over a table. Pulses racing all over my body. Nice underwear, and everything waxed, and hot, inventive, fabulous sex. (Or terrible sex, that one time with the doctor bloke. Yikes. You’d think a medic would be a bit more up on the way a body works. But I ditched him fairly swiftly.)
The point is: the beginning is
never
the problem. It’s afterward.
I’m feeling a strange conviction I’ve never felt before. I need to change everything I’m doing. Break the pattern. But how? What?
Ben has taken my hand again and is kissing the inside of my wrist, but I ignore him. I want to marshal my