Apart from getting myself another driving licence. I’ve never been able to face doing that.
I thought I’d go back to Emma when I could prove that I’d sorted myself out but I never did. At first it was because I knew that I’d hurt her and I was scared that I’d hurt her again, as though there was maybe something about being in love that made me behave like an idiot. And then, as life happened, Iknewthat I would have hurt her by not getting back in touch, and by how life had panned out.
So that was that. Emma and I were not meant to be together long term.
And… yep, here we are.
In touch, for these few days, but certainly not revisiting the past.
There’s been a very long silence.
Emma has her lips pressed together and I think her eyes are glistening.
I am an idiot.
‘So I would very happily have a glass or two of red,’ I say, because that’s what we were talking about and I can’t talk about any of what’s on my mind and what I’m sure is on Emma’s.
‘Great.’ She gives me a very, very wide and very, very forced-looking smile.
‘So… would you like to choose? Or shall I choose?’
‘I’m very happy for you to choose. I’m not good with wine. Shall we get a carafe? Or a bottle?’ She sounds angry now, as though she’s almost throwing her words at me. And that will perhaps be because I have just told her that I cleaned myself up pretty quickly, and yet I never went back to her.
‘Maybe a carafe?’ I say cautiously.
‘Good idea.’ She’s still punching her words out.
I could address… things. Explain.
I take the coward’s approach and open my menu.
‘The food looks good,’ I say.
We begin with a platter of antipasti.
In desperation, in the face of more frostiness than I have ever before experienced from Emma, I drag out some eco facts from the back of my mind about Italian farming methods.
When the waiter puts two plates of rabbit stew down on the table, I open my mouth to continue the one-sided chat, and Emma says, ‘Let me guess: you have rabbit farming facts?’
‘Who doesn’t like a rabbit fact?’
‘That’s actually a really good question. You’d have to be stone-hearted not to like talking about rabbits,’ Emma agrees. ‘That moment when you’re out for a walk or looking out of the window on a train and you suddenly realise that they’re everywhere. All those little bunny tails.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Apparently they’re tricky to look after, though.’ Emma’s clearly making a big effort and I hugely appreciate it.
It’s as though the air between us was twisted and it gradually straightens itself out over the course of the evening as we both work to keep the conversation light until it’s actually flowing quite naturally.
And then while we’re eating a beautiful lemon tart and fruit, Maroon 5’s ‘Memories’ begins to play.
We really don’t need to hear the wordmemoriesright now.
I look at Emma, and she looks at me.
And Emma – to her enormous credit – screws up her face at me and shakes her head but then she laughs. And I laugh too. And then wereallylaugh. We’re almost crying with laughter.
And in that moment I know that I willalwayslove her.
