It’s 5.41 a.m. and I’m sitting in the living room, glass of red in one hand, a cigarette in the other, wondering if the last eight hours of my life really happened.
I finally rang James on Wednesday evening, after an hour’s worth of abortive attempts and several glasses of wine. The phone rang and rang and I started to think that maybe he was out when it suddenly stopped.
‘Hello?’
I could barely say hello back I was so nervous but then:
‘Susan, is that you? Gosh. You actually called.’
His voice sounded different – thinner, breathy – like he was nervous too, and I joked that he sounded relieved to hear from me.
‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘I thought there was no way you’d call after what I did. Sorry, I’m not normally such a twat but I was so pleased to run into you alone backstage that I … Anyway, sorry. It was a stupid thing to do. I should have just asked you out like a normal person …’
He tailed off, embarrassed.
‘Actually,’ I said, feeling a sudden rush of affection towards him. ‘I thought it was funny. No one’s ever thrown a business card at me and shouted “Call me” before. I was almost flattered.’
‘Flattered? I’m the one that should be flattered. You called! Oh God,’ he paused, ‘you are calling to arrange a drink, aren’t you? You’re not ringing to tell me I’m an absolute prat?’
‘I did consider that option,’ I laughed, ‘but no, I happen to be unusually thirsty today so if you’d like to take me out for a drink that could be arranged.’
‘God, of course. Whenever and wherever you want to go. All drinks on me, even the expensive ones.’ He laughed too. ‘I want to prove to you that I’m not … well, I’ll let you make your own mind up. When are you free?’
I was tempted to say NOW but played it cool instead, as Hels had ordered me to do, and suggested Friday (tonight) night. James immediately agreed and we arranged to meet in the Dublin Castle.
I tried on dozens of different outfits before I went out, immediately discarding anything that made me look, or feel, fat and frumpy, but I needn’t have worried. The second I was within grabbing distance, James pulled me against him and whispered ‘You look beautiful’ in my ear. I was just about to reply when he abruptly released me, grabbed my hand and said, ‘I’ve got something amazing to show you,’ and led me out of the pub, through the throng of Camden revellers, down a side street and into a kebab shop. I gave him a questioning look but he said, ‘trust me’ and shepherded me through the shop and out a door at the back. I expected to end up in the kitchen or the toilets. Instead I stumbled into a cacophony of sound and blinked as my eyes adjusted to the smoky darkness. James pointed out a four-piece jazz band in the corner of the room and shouted, ‘They’re the Grey Notes – London’s best-kept secret’ then led me to a table in the corner and held out a battered wooden chair for me to sit down.
‘Whisky,’ he said. ‘I can’t listen to jazz without it. You want one?’
I nodded, even though I’m not a fan then lit up a cigarette as James made his way to the bar. There was something so self-assured about the way he moved, it was almost hypnotic. I’d noticed it the first time I’d seen him on stage.
James couldn’t be more different from my ex Nathan. Whilst Nathan was slight, baby-faced and only a couple of inches taller than I am, James is six foot four with a solidity to him that makes me feel small and delicate. He’s got a cleft in his chin like Kirk Douglas but his nose is too large to make him classically good looking and his dirty blond hair continually flops into his eyes but there’s something mercurial about his eyes that reminds me of Ralph Fiennes; one minute they’re cool and detached, the next they’re crinkled at the corners, dancing with excitement.
I knew something was wrong the second James returned from the bar. He didn’t say anything but, as he set the whisky tumblers down on the table, his eyes flicked towards the cigarette in my hand and I instantly understood.
‘You don’t smoke.’
He shook his head. ‘My father died of lung cancer.’
He tried to object, to tell me that whether I smoked or not was none of his business, but his frown evaporated the second I put my cigarette out and the atmosphere immediately lightened. The band was so loud it was hard to hear each other over the squeal of the trumpet and the scatting of the lead singer so James moved his chair closer to mine so we could whisper into each other’s ears. Whenever he leaned in, his leg rested against mine and I’d feel his breath against my ear and neck. It was torturous, feeling his body against mine and smelling the warm spiciness of his aftershave and not touching him. When I didn’t think I could bear it a second longer James cupped his hand over mine.
‘Let’s go somewhere else. I know the most magical place.’
I barely had the chance to say ‘okay’ when he bounced out of his seat and crossed the room to the bar. A second later he was back, a bottle of champagne in one hand and two glasses and a threadbare rug in the other. I raised an eyebrow but he just laughed and said, ‘You’ll see.’