‘That must have been horrific. I’m sorry to hear you went through that, I really am. Dealing with the death of your most loved people at any age is horrendous, but I can’t imagine what it must have been like to endure that as a child.’ Tears unexpectedly nip at my eyes. I’m blindsided by his sincerity. ‘I get it,’ he adds. ‘I really do.’
‘You’ve lost your parents?’ I ask.
‘No, not my parents. My wife. She died last year.’
I draw in a sharp breath. Despite years of being on the receiving end of people’s response to such bleak news, I find I’m not sure how to handle it. I’m disappointed in myself, but the truth is, the thoughts going through my head right now are not for sharing. Matthew is in his mid-thirties, I’d guess. His wife obviously died before her time. It’s a horrible story. Awful. Completely tragic.
So it’s totally inappropriate that somewhere deep in my brain a little voice is saying, ‘This does mean he’s single, though. Every cloud has a silver lining.’
An outrageous thought.
5
The two-hour drinks reception flies by. I get this odd sensation that I want to somehow grab time physically with both hands and dig in my heels to slow things down, but time can’t be manipulated at will.
At dinner, we are seated at different tables, too far away from one another to make eye contact. I’m so tempted to mess with the seating plan, but as my guests are sponsors of the conference, they deserve my full attention. It would be undisciplined and out of character of me to prioritise this flirtation. I resist. By the time the food is eaten and plates are cleared, I discover Matthew has left the dining room.
The next morning I get up at 5.08 as usual. I am dependent on street light. The yellow electric light slips through the gaps between buildings like paint spilt. It is peculiar running through a city rather than the woods. A totally different experience. My muscles still ache, the sweat gathers in my eyes and on my back; the difference is there is no space. I miss my black treelines, punchy against the opaque quiet country light that stretches across the boundary of my land. I run in loops, dodging people hurrying, head down, to or from early or late shifts; traffic cones, buses, bikes, pools of vomit – a badge of someone’s revelry the night before. Despite the unsatisfactory nature of the exercise, I enjoy my limbs stretching, my lungs burning. I’m in a great mood.
I shave some minutes off my usual routine as I settle for a shop-bought smoothie. By 6.10, I’m ready to check out. I’m planning on leaving a message for him with reception. While running, I mentally composed something friendly but not exposing. The age gap looms like a tall wall, but one I think I can scale. On the hotel notepaper I scribble a request for copies of the photos he took, but when I ask if I can leave the note for Mr Charlton, I’m informed that he has already left.
‘No message for me?’ I ask, hoping to sound breezy. Almost certainly I don’t, because the receptionist grimaces sympathetically as she shakes her head.
Right.
There’s no refuting the brutal fact that my romantic opportunities have diminished exponentially with every passing year since I turned thirty, so I’m no stranger to disappointment. However, his vanishing without swapping numbers or even saying goodbye after our great chat in the bar last night stings. I straighten my shoulders, take a deep breath – literally and metaphorically sucking it up – and head to the airport. From there I catch a plane back to Heathrow and a Tube to the office. This is why I love my job. There’s always a to-do list waiting for me. It is reliable.
I’m not the sort to constantly think about a brief encounter with a man; my mind is absorbed by bigger things. That said, I find my thoughts wandering. I think of his eyes, which were revealed slowly as his lids rested half closed, giving him a relaxed vibe. I think of his body. He’s clearly fit, with the sort of leanness that promises a six-pack; he has good forearms. I decide I will allow my mind to drift his way for up to five working days. That’s it. Tops. Within that time it is perfectly possible that he’ll reach out to me. I’m easy to find if he wants to, and if he doesn’t, well, so be it. Despite this resolve and faux-serenity, I catch myself living with the shameful wait that others have described to me but I haven’t experienced since being in my late teens. Waiting for his call, waiting for an email, waiting for a request on Instagram or LinkedIn. I’ve always tried to stay above this sort of nonsense.
Early on the morning of the fourth day of this self-imposed deadline, my marketing director runs into my office looking openly stressed. He’s currently very wrapped up in the project of rebuilding the company website. It’s dated and not especially user-friendly. The new site will feature an introduction to the executive team; the aim is to present us as approachable in a time when everyone distrusts everyone, and energy providers most of all. Even green ones. A lot of people dislike getting their photo taken. I’ve heard several people on the exec team express concern about how jowly or old they look. I say people, I mean women. The men – notably more jowly, notably older – do not seem bothered by the idea of their image being captured for posterity. For that reason, I’ve refused to utter a single word about my qualms, although I have them too. I do not want to perpetuate the narrative that whether I am judged to be attractive or not is relevant. I’m a conscious feminist.
It’s exhausting.
The employees concerned about their wrinkles and excess pounds want serious, straight-to-camera black-and-white photos, assuming they’re more likely to be flattering or certainly easier to Photoshop. The marketing team have argued that as the brief is to present us as an approachable company, candid colour photos must be the order of the day. A guy with his hair tied into a casual topknot explained to us what he was hoping for. ‘You know the sort of thing, head thrown back, an irrepressible laugh escaping, hashtag trustworthy.’
Hashtag really? I kept the thought to myself and suggested that we brief the photographer to take two sets of images. Today is the day the exec team are to have their photos taken, but the marketing director is panicked, as the photographer has phoned to say he’s sick. ‘Can’t we just postpone the shoot for a week?’ I ask.
‘No. The website launch will slip, and coordinating diaries to get everyone in the office has been the absolute worst. We need a replacement, but what photographer of any calibre will be available at short notice?’ He looks frazzled. I tell myself I’m just doing him a favour. I have no vested interest.
‘Long shot, but look up a guy called Matthew Charlton. His work is excellent. Tell him we’ll pay three times his usual rate if he can work today. I’m pretty sure he needs the money, so the offer will be too good to miss. If he has anything in his diary, he’ll most likely cancel.’
Matthew is in the office by 11 a.m. I’m not sure what sort of reception to give or expect to receive. When all’s said and done, we had a few drinks and a chat. I have no way of knowing whether he’s that polite, interested, interesting with everyone he meets. He probably thought of me as safely older and therefore he was excitingly direct because there was no sexual attraction on his part. None whatsoever. Bleak thought. It’s most sensible to simply remain professional and a little aloof. A little aloof is never a bad move. I’m the sort of person who would prefer to be underdressed than overdressed at a party. However, when it’s my turn to go to the boardroom, which has been turned into a mini studio for today’s purposes, I nip to the loo and zhuzh my hair.
He seems delighted to see me, which is a relief. I thought I recalled him clearly, so I’m shocked to discover how vibrant he is in the flesh. Even bigger and better and brighter than I recalled. The attraction I felt instantly reasserts itself. Damn. This is only good news if I get something back from him to suggest he feels the same.
He’s running late. It quickly becomes apparent that people like to linger around him. He smiles a lot; he tells funny stories, cracks jokes. His jokes aren’t delivered in an oppressive, give-me-all-your-attention manner; he appears naturally witty and gregarious in a low-key way. It’s obvious he wants to make people feel relaxed, and he succeeds. He has an endearing habit of throwing out gentle little compliments.
‘I like your earrings. The way they catch the light makes it seem as though they’re winking at me.’
Elizabeth, head of sales, reaches up to touch her earrings. ‘Oh, these. My husband got them for me for our last anniversary.’ She smiles. Click. A photo that will no doubt capture her recalling her wedding anniversary.
‘Mate, great skin-fade.’ Raj, who leads the digital division, shyly runs his hand over his shaved head and grins. Click. A photo that will capture the pleasure felt when someone appreciates the effort you’ve made.
Finally it’s my turn to be photographed, and he says simply, ‘Ah, I’ve saved the best until last.’ And there it is, something extra for me. ‘How’ve you been?’ he asks.
‘Good, good. Fine. Busy,’ I reply unimaginatively. He starts to click the camera.
‘Thanks for giving me this work.’
‘We were stuck.’ My response isn’t especially elegant, although it is true. Matthew laughs.
‘Well, I’m grateful.’ I smile at the camera and say nothing. I’m not being coy; I just don’t want to be captured mid-sentence. Matthew continues. ‘Because I’ve been racking my brains for an excuse to get in touch. I’ve been wondering whether there’s a partner in the background, and if there isn’t, whether you would be interested in going out. Maybe dinner?’
‘No, no partner.’ I beam broadly back at him, relief and delight flooding through my bones.
Click. ‘I think that’s the shot,’ he says with a confident grin. ‘And my answer.’
6
March
‘So, you’re alive then,’ Heidi says as she picks up the bottle of wine that stands glistening in the ice bucket on the table. The bar is loud with the sound of chatter and laughter, good times, but still I can hear my friend’s disapproval and frustration in me. I throw her what I hope is a winning smile. She pours a generous measure of wine into the third glass; the other two are less than half full, underlining the fact that I’m late. Matthew was on the phone, and I just lost track of time. So unlike me. I’m not even sure what we were talking about. Nothing, something, everything.
It was Matthew who pointed out, ‘Hey, I thought we weren’t seeing each other tonight because you’re going out with your friends.’
‘That’s right. I’m meeting them at seven-thirty.’
‘Have you seen the time? You’re going to be late.’
