You know when you take that first bite of something sweet and your whole mouth fills with saliva? The same thing happens when I hear his voice behind me.
‘Is it still a Malibu and Coke then?’ I spin around in my chair, nearly toppling it over, and my stomach drops at the sight of him.
Alistair Morris.
It’s really him. He looks so much the same as he did ten years ago, but more like his own big brother, if that makes sense? And that’s if he had a big brother, which he didn’t – only sisters who ignored me. He looks older in a completely undefinable way. It’s all still the same old Alistair, always half smiling with that cute crooked tooth. Always slightly overdressed – particularly for this dirty pub in the middle of Soho – and always a tiny bit adorably gawky with too-long limbs he doesn’t know what to do with. There is nothing discernibly different about him and yet he is different. He’s a grown-up now.
I laugh, understanding his question. ‘I’ve mostly moved onto wine these days,’ I say, standing up and instinctively reaching for a hug. ‘Malibu is a tiny bit noughties teen, don’t you think?’ Our hug lasts a fraction of a second too long and I pull away, the smell of him still on me. It makes my skin tingle and I fight the urge to lick my lips.
‘Actually, I got us a bottle.’ I gesture at the table. ‘But obviously I can get you something else if you’re not a wine person?’ I laugh nervously at the oddness of asking someone I once knew every inch of – inside and out – whether they like wine.
Certainly he drank wine back when we were teenagers. But only when it was two bottles for £4 and only when one of us remembered to bring a corkscrew to the park. Which neither of us ever did. The Malibu and Cokes came later, when we were both closing in on eighteen and able to get into bars. Our last year together.
‘Wine sounds good,’ he grins, flashing the infamous snaggle tooth again that I loved so dearly. We sit down across from each other. ‘I’m glad you didn’t get red,’ he continues. ‘These days it gives me such awful hangovers!’
I smile nicely and take a long swig of my drink feeling a wave of irritation. I wanted to feel like a teenager again tonight – a teenager who thought a hangover was puking green liquid over someone I still then snogged half an hour later, and waking up the next day raring to go again. I don’t want a reminder that we’re old people now. Old people who get bad hangovers from wine.
There is a lengthy silence between us as we both drink slowly from our glasses, avoiding eye contact. The moment of frisson when he walked in – of memories and long hugs – has gone. We are now just two strangers with nothing in common but a shared loss of virginity. I feel a bead of sweat run down my back and I’m suddenly far too aware of the fake leather on the seat sticking to the backs of my thighs. I will not be able to go to the loo without ripping myself free.
‘Oh, hey, sorry for telling you to fuck off on Facebook,’ he says with a laugh, but the nerves make it a strange, jangly sound. ‘I thought I was being funny, but realized right away how bad it sounded. I guess I forgot for a moment that we don’t actually know each other these days.’
I nod. ‘Don’t apologize.’ I blink, remembering the horror in my stomach at his words, until the follow-up laughy face emoji. ‘Although you’re right, I guess. Ten years is a long time and people change. But not that much – I still love swearing!’ He titters politely at this and silence descends once more.
‘So, what have you been up to in the last decade?’ he says at last, his voice too high. I match his pitch, my own voice unrecognizable.
‘Ha!’ It is a squeak. ‘Big question!’ I laugh awkwardly. ‘So, um, I’m an events planner these days. I spent a bit of time working as a chef after I quit university, before moving into events. I work for the Norris Museum in south London – do you know it?’ He shakes his head. ‘It has exhibitions open to the public during the day, but they rent it out as a coolspace in the evenings and across weekends. It’s a really small events team, basically just me and my lovely assistant, Katie, but it’s great. We host weddings, birthday parties, corporate launches, business conferences… We even did a product launch for a new line of novelty candles recently. One of them was the scent of cat litter box!’ I bark a small laugh. ‘Anyway, it’s really, er, fun and there’s always something new to do every day…’ I trail off. ‘So that’s, er, my work…’ Aaaaaand I cannot think of a single other thing I have done in the last ten years. Maybe I have done nothing? What has been the point of my life? Why haven’t I got kids or pets or hobbies? I’ve got the cat litter candle, maybe that’s like having a cat? Oh, and I’ve got a fake cactus in the bathroom! Should I mention that? Oh god, I have no life.
I give myself a shake. It’s OK. It’s O-very-K. Because this is part of what I’m doing here. The Seven Exes Mission is about finding more. About finding a life. Alistair can be the other thing I do with my life. We can get married and have plants and kids and a real-life cat litter traytogether.
‘Um, so what about you?’ I finish lamely. ‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a police officer, actually.’ He smiles and my first thought is of the pot brownies in my freezer. My second thought is of him in the uniform and it makes me even more nervous.
‘Wow!’ I try weakly. ‘That must be so interesting?’
‘It can be, but it’s also a lot of paperwork,’ he shrugs, grimacing.
The silence descends again.
‘And, um, how about Louise and Shelley?’ He reaches for something safe, without knowing it’s not safe. ‘I’ve been meaning to organize a school reunion, it’s been so long since we all saw each other! Wouldn’t that be fun? Are you still in touch with them? You guys were so close around the playground.’
I nod, smiling tightly. ‘We really were!’ I clear my throat. ‘Well, yeah, um, yes, we…’ I take a deep breath, composing myself. ‘Lou and I are still best friends. We actually live together these days, along with our friend Bibi. But, um, Shelley… we, um… we ended up, well, er, a bit… and she…’ I trail off and he studies me. His brown eyes are kind.
When I don’t continue, he picks up the thread, his voice soft. ‘People drift apart a bit after school, don’t they? You can be so close to a person and then life takes you in different directions. I still see a few people from the football team, but I wouldn’t say we’re close these days.’ He pauses. ‘It’s OK, though, it doesn’t mean you can’t think back fondly to those times you shared. It doesn’t mean you can’t still care about them from a distance.’
His familiar kindness flicks a switch in me and I find myself smiling widely. I feel the knot in my stomach loosening and relaxing.
‘I think fondly of you – of us,’ I say a little shyly and he brightens.
‘You do?’
I nod and he smiles. ‘We shared a lot together, huh?’ Helaughs. ‘Hey, do you remember when you took me skiing with your family and I nearly died on a red slope because I’d claimed to be an expert?’
‘And you’d actually never been skiing in your life!’ I cover my mouth.
‘But I was really good at ice skating!’ he cries. ‘I thought it would be the same kind of thing!’
As I top up our glasses, we begin to speak more easily, reliving old memories and creating new ones. I find myself studying him; studying his pores and the newer freckle smattering across his nose. I try to be objective: if I didn’t know him, would I think he was handsome? It’s hard to differentiate this adult Alistair Morris from the School Hero Alistair Morris, Captain of the Football Team, Leader of the Cool Boy Pack.
