‘It was seven years ago, the first time we met up,’ I say. ‘In London. Carnaby Street, near Christmas.’
‘Very nice,’ she says, from the armchair opposite me.
‘It was. All bright and trendy, but with character as well … he chose it. It was a dull day, cold, but when I got there he was sitting outside the café. I knew he would be. For a while I just hid around a corner, peeking out at him, trying to decide whether to turn around and get back on the train.’
‘Why?’ she asks, frowning. ‘You weren’t doing anything wrong.’
‘I know – and I’d told Harry; it was all fine – but, well … as soon as I saw him I felt nervous, and excited, and I wasn’t used to that. I think I’d convinced myself he was just another friend, but seeing him reminded me that he was also very special to me. And that felt big and a bit scary, even scarier than being in such busy crowds. I was going to have to sit there and talk to this man I was close to, about myself and my life and his life, and I wasn’t sure I could pull that off.
‘In the end, I did. He kept looking at his watch, and seemed sad, and there wasn’t any way I could hurt his feelings like that.’
I remember it so vividly: the press of people, the designer shops, the bustle. Mainly, of course, him. He had a smart coat on and his hair was longer – brushing his shoulders. I wanted to reach out and touch it, bury my fingers in it.
I walked up behind him, said, ‘Penny for them?’
‘Sorry, I’m not that cheap,’ he replied, remembering his lines.
We laughed, and sat, and as soon as I was in his presence again, I realised that I felt energised. That the world felt lighter, more magical. That the crowds weren’t bothering me any more. That the anxiety I felt about the train journey was worth it.
‘And how did it go?’ Em asks, seeing me drift away.
‘Well. He’d made some changes. Simple stuff, like going through Anna’s things and donating them to a charity shop. Though he did say it took him ages, because he stopped and examined everything and remembered her wearing it. It made him sad, but he did it.
‘He’d rented a desk in an office in the city, sharing a space with other people who worked in creative businesses. He’d been to see his father, who he’d lost touch with. Travelled a bit. Told me this hilarious story about signing up for a solo passengers’ trip and being the only man, and the only person under forty, and being chased around a dining room by an over-friendly fellow traveller. Even went on a few dates. We basically carried on doing what we’d always done – cheering each other up.’
‘You had been in touch before though, hadn’t you?’ says Em. ‘This wasn’t the first time you’d spoken?’
‘No, but we mainly emailed. I think that was easier for us both. We could be more measured, more careful. We’d shared photos and stories, and talked about how we were. Recommended books and movies to each other, talked about everything under the sun – apart from stuff that might be too painful. Anything that would be too difficult – that would jeopardise us being able to stay in each other’s life.’
Em nods. ‘I think I know what you mean. You had to keep it at a certain level or you’d have to give it up. Like an addiction.’
‘Exactly. And seeing him again, in person, sitting with him, laughing with him … it was harder to stay on the right side of that addiction. It was … oh, Em, it was a relief! A huge, great, big relief – like I could be myself again. Like I was home. We talked about nothing of importance at all, but it was divine.’
She smiles, and looks a lot happier herself.
‘I always loved you two together,’ she says. ‘And I know, I know – it never really happened. You married Harry. It was a million years ago. But you always had such fun … such a spark … was it the same?’
‘Well, yes. It was. Even when we were talking about the fact that he’d been asked out by the lifeguard at his pool, and I asked if she looked like someone fromBaywatch, and he said “no, he doesn’t”, and we just couldn’t stop laughing at it even though it was silly. It felt a bit like being high – or how I imagine that would feel anyway.’
I told him about the bungalow, and he told me about a new project he was working on, and he tried to persuade me that rain butts and solar panels were sexy, and I talked about Olivia, and everything we said and everything we did was completely harmless – but at the same time, I felt guilty. Guilty for enjoying myself so much, I think, as much as anything.
‘We were only together for a couple of hours,’ I tell Em, ‘and it was strange and wonderful and over too soon. Looking back, I think I felt more in those two hours than I had in the last two years. When we were saying our goodbyes, he just … he reached out, and touched the scar on my forehead, and that was it. The barest of touches. Nothing naughty. But … it made me realise how much he meant to me, how much I’d missed him. How I needed to find a way for us to stay in each other’s life, even though I was married and he was starting to get out and about in the dating world.
‘I wanted us to stay friends, and so did he. So, for a while, we did. We managed it. We saw each other once a year, usually around the same time.’
‘So what went wrong?’ says Em, leaning forward and looking at me intently. ‘Why did you lose touch?’
‘He asked me to leave Harry.’
‘Oh my goodness!’
‘I know. And the worst thing is, Em, I really wanted to. I never did anything with Alex that a married woman shouldn’t do … except, if I’m honest, perhaps simply forget that I was married for a few hours.
‘It was four years ago, and we’d actually met up in Paris. Harry had a meeting there, with some research doctors at a rehab centre, and he promised me he’d be fine on his own for a bit as the whole place was as wheelchair friendly as it could be. We had a room there, and I went with him, and arranged to meet Alex in Paris instead – it didn’t make much difference to him, coming to meet me in London or coming to meet me in Paris, and it was the same time we usually met. I don’t enjoy journeys, and he knew that.
‘Me and Harry went on the Eurostar, because it was easier for Harry, but I was in pieces going through that tunnel. Harry didn’t even notice I was bothered, but it was the first thing Alex asked – how was the tunnel?’
We met for dinner in the Marais, a place he knew well. It’s one of the city’s oldest communities, and it appealed to the architect geek in him – all cobblestone streets and medieval buildings and arches that made me feel like I was wandering through monastic cloisters, even as I looked inside designer boutiques staffed by impossibly chic women.
