“It’s been how long?”
I calculate. “Six months.”
“It’s been six months and you’re still just seeing each other? Allthat means is a code phrase enabling you both to shag other people.”
“No,” I protest. “That’s not what we’re doing.”
“But you don’t love him.” It’s a statement, not a question.
I think. “I’m not sure.” I opt for honesty this time. “It still feels new, you know? As if I’ve not given it a chance yet—as if I’ve not given George and me together enough of a chance.” This is true. I’ve broken up with men much sooner than this because I’veknownit wasn’t right. With George, I don’t have that feeling. We get on well, we communicate, I’ve been preoccupied with Davey and that hasn’t been George’s fault at all. I want to give this the chance it deserves.
“If you don’t immediately know, then it means no.”
I swallow. My blood pressure is on the up.
“I knew I loved Miranda pretty early on,” Paul says before I can even reply to his last observation. “I knew I wasn’t wasting my time,” he says.
“Charming.”
“You know what I mean,” Paul replies, casting his eyes over the half of my burger that I’ve put to one side. I push the plate toward him. He continues, “I compared how I felt with Miranda to an ex-girlfriend, although I knew I didn’t need to. Camilla.”
“Posh name.”
“Posh girl,” he says. “Mucky posh, though, y’know. Drank Bollinger with her parents at the weekend and thought nothing of going down on me in a bus shelter at twoA.M.”
“Jesus!”
“I was twenty-two, horny as hell.”
“No change, I reckon.”
He sniggers. “Thought: this must be it. Camilla and I had been together for a few months. Assumed I was in love. Didn’t say it ’cause I wasn’t sure. I asked my mum how you know when you’re in love. She said, ‘If you have to ask, you probably aren’t. Becauseyou just know.’ And I knew, deep down, I wasn’t in love with Camilla. Nor was I likely to be.”
I nod. “Wise words from your mum. So you broke up with Camilla?”
“Are you mad? Of course not. I was getting regular sex. Did I not mention I was a horny twenty-two-year-old?”
I laugh.
“But with Miranda, I just knew. She swept me away. I was—am—besotted. We’re a team. We do so much for each other. We’re each other’s cheerleaders. We have time for each other and, when we don’t, we make time. She’s the first person I ring when something amazing happens, when something shit happens. Is George that person for you?” he asks.
I think, look down at a drop of spilled ketchup on the marble table. I shrug, quietly reply, “No.” Then I find myself thinking:Who do I tell?When I was “with” Davey, I told him everything good, everything bad, so easily, and the conversation flowed. And then when the worst happened and I no longer had him to tell, I didn’t even tell Miranda about Davey texting me. Miranda’s my best friend, but I worried so much about judgment. I was judging me by my own standards, not giving Miranda a chance to have an opinion on the matter. But I opt for, “It’s Joan next door or Miranda, depending on who I see first.”
“Lucky Joan. As for Miranda, you’ll have to get in line,” he says.
“Let’s see that ring again.” I’m desperate to change the subject. Paul fishes in his bag and opens the box up, so that we watch the mood lighting in the restaurant sparkle from it. “Miranda’s a lucky woman,” I say.
“Damn right she is.” He laughs. “Thanks for the help choosing the ring.”
“Pleasure.”
“Do you love him?” he asks me again, suddenly.
“How drunkareyou? We’ve just gone over this.”
“Not George,” Paul says quietly. “The other one. The American one.”
I look away. “Please don’t. It’s not worth it. He’s with someone else. I’m with someone else.”
