‘It certainly makes going to work more compelling.’
He shakes his head in something like awe, certainly admiration. ‘You seemed so relaxed when presenting. I’m not sure I could do anything like that. I like hiding behind my camera.’
‘I’m normally very relaxed, yes. I believe what I’m saying about working towards a smart, decarbonised, decentralised energy system. I know my facts, so I don’t have to rehearse.’
‘Normally?’
I had slipped the word in because it was honest, but also as a small play. I wanted him to pick it up. ‘I confess I was a little nervous today.’ I take a sip of water.
‘Because the delegation was so large?’
‘Because you were in the audience.’ I meet his eyes and smile slowly. ‘I wanted to make a good impression.’
‘Mission accomplished,’ he says with a grin, sitting back in his chair.
4
After that, the conversation flows effortlessly. We talk about the TV shows we both know, the podcasts that interest us. I tell him how much I enjoy running, and he says he likes hiking but doesn’t do it as often as he used to. When I did make the effort to go on dates, it was still with a mental checklist. Is he a psychopath? Is he a bigot? A Star Trek fan? These are all red flags for me. Everyone has a list now. It saves time, but it does kill chemistry.
We have chemistry.
The glorious strangeness of knowing someone is interested in that particular way – not because they have trawled countless profiles swiping left, left, left, then right, based entirely on a selection of static (often filtered) images – is exciting. I feel lit up, and consequently I become more sparkling, funny, confident. We make one another laugh by recounting our worst experiences of meeting people at conferences. His stories centre around being relentlessly pursued by those enthusiastic delegates whose goal in life is to have their photo in the local paper.
‘One man wanted a more edgy corporate photo at an insurance conference and insisted the delegates recreate a mosh pit. To his credit, he’d given it some thought: he arrived with whistles and smiley-face T-shirts that he wanted people to wear.’
‘That sounds fun,’ I say, smiling. ‘Certainly not problematic.’
‘Right, that’s what I thought at first, but he wanted to crowd-surf. We had to do about ten takes and people got tired. They dropped him.’
‘Deliberately?’ I gasp.
‘Not sure. Anyway, he refused to be derailed from his aim. He insisted I travel with him in the ambulance and “carry on snapping”.’
‘Did he make it into the local paper?’ I ask, laughing.
‘I hope so. He deserved to after all that.’
‘My worst experience was when I was mistaken for my PA, Edward, and Edward was mistaken for the CEO. I guess the speaker was listed as E. Westly,’ I confess.
‘And the conference organiser made the assumption that the man must hold the more senior role,’ Matthew guesses.
‘Correct. Despite Edward being twenty years my junior.’
‘And when was the mistake identified?’
‘When they tried to push me off the stage and drag Edward on.’
By talking about the worst experiences of meeting people at these types of events, we are of course telling one another that this experience is pretty good. One of the best. We swap to wine, sharing a bottle of Cloudy Bay Sauvignon Blanc. Matthew tells me that he’s recently moved back to the UK from New York. He was born in New Zealand and brought up in South Africa. ‘My dad was a diplomat.’
‘Wow, that sounds glamorous.’
‘I suppose it does.’ He grimaces slightly theatrically, in a way that suggests he’s often told this story and knows how to counter the suggestion that he was brought up in an overly privileged way. ‘As a kid, I just remember wishing my parents didn’t have so many functions in the evening, that they’d stay home, maybe read me a story, tuck me in like other kids’ parents did. Plus, I really wanted the same accent as everyone else at school.’
‘You don’t have an accent at all,’ I comment.
‘That was the point. All the other kids sounded like they were New Zealanders or South Africans. My parents wanted me to sound BBC English. It was hard.’
I try not to react. I have learnt how to hold my face in an impassive expression, not to judge people’s childhood resentments. Experience has shown me that most people have a minor gripe: they felt another sibling was favoured; they weren’t allowed a TV in their room; they were made to play sport to an exhausting level to realise a parent’s unfulfilled ambition. I can always trump it. I wish I couldn’t.
Matthew continues. ‘I longed for a sibling. Maybe if I’d had one, I wouldn’t have felt so lonely.’ He sighs, and I do feel a tiny bit sorry for him. I can empathise with loneliness, but I’d have given anything to have parents who dragged me from one country to another. ‘Do you have siblings?’ he asks.
‘A younger brother.’ I don’t offer any more. I hope he moves on. If he doesn’t, and if I’m honest, then the mood is going to be ruined.
‘And what about your parents?’ It’s an open question. I could dodge it, but I decide it’s best to get it on the table and out of the way, although I am aware I’m about to land the least flirtatious sentence in the history of dating.
‘They’re dead.’
‘Oh, I’m so very sorry. How sad.’ He doesn’t look away embarrassed or mumble. I’m impressed that he’s offered two sentences rather than the more usual two-word platitude people generally manage. ‘When did they die?’ he asks.
‘I was twelve and my brother was ten.’
‘How?’
‘A car accident.’ I take a large gulp of wine and glance around the room. I should be used to telling this story. I’ve delivered this fact about my life on dozens, probably hundreds of occasions. Over time, I’ve taught myself not to show any emotion about it, as I find that if I do so, it embarrasses whoever it is that has stumbled into the conversation about families. I’m so British that even when talking about the death of my parents, my greatest concern is making other people feel comfortable with it. I usually say something like ‘Oh, it was a long time ago’; sometimes I even joke, ‘Why are you sorry? It’s not like you planted the tree they ploughed into, did you?’ Gallows humour.
‘There was this crazy woman who stepped out into the road. Dad swerved to avoid her but ended up ploughing into a tree. He died immediately. My mother died eight hours later in hospital.’
Matthew does not do what most people do. He doesn’t look at his feet, turn away or turn the conversation. He reaches out and squeezes my fingertips with his own. His hand is warm; my fingers are always cold.
