‘FUCK, you scared me, Tom!’ I yelp, staggering backwards. He reaches out to steady me and laughs. ‘Sorry. It’s these carpets, they muffle footsteps. It’s so strange – hearing you swear like that! Kathryn, my ex, used to make me put a quid in the swear jar every time I did.’
I’m starting to feel I know this Kathryn woman more intimately than I know Tom . . . ‘Oh, sorry, I try not to do it very often,’ I lie, but in my head I’m running through the entire alphabet of swear words.
I follow him through to the kitchen, which is about twice the size of mine and sports a large wooden white table in the centre, on which Tom has laid out our Chinese meal: sweet-and-sour something, Kung Po chicken, Peking duck, rice and prawn crackers. I think back to when I met Dylan at Yen . . . This time I intend to demolish that Kung Po.
Stop. Thinking. About. Dylan.
‘I thought Chinese would be a safe bet – not everyone likes spicy food,’ Tom says, setting the cutlery down. ‘Please, sit.’
We sit across from each other and, despite being famished, I do my very best not to hoover up everything in ten seconds, like I would at home. I also – small victories – succeed in not spilling anything down my dress. Tom, on the other hand, manages to get sticky sauce on his shirt.
‘How embarrassing,’ he says, wiping it away with his napkin. ‘I’m not usually this uncoordinated.’
He finds THIS embarrassing? Between me and Grace, this is an hourly occurrence. ‘Don’t be silly,’ I reply. ‘I have an eight-year-old; I’ve seen worse.’
‘Sometimes I forget you’re a mum.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I mean, it’s fine that you are, I’m just grateful you don’t go on and on about your child like some women I know. I think that’s one of the things I like best about you – you keep that side of your life private.’
His words sting – that side of my life is the most important part. I feel uneasy, like I’ve somehow betrayed Grace. I can’t even really blame him – in following these rules I’ve told him nearly nothing about her. I’m not allowed to. The feeling stays with me through the remainder of the meal and, hard as I try to ignore it, I can’t.
‘These wine glasses are beautiful,’ I deflect. ‘You have good taste.’
‘Thank you. I got custody of them in the divorce. If I recall, they were a present from Kathryn’s parents.’
And there she is again.
We finish dinner and I excuse myself to use the bathroom. I need time to think.
I’m sure his bathroom is as charming as the rest of his house, but I barely notice anything as I sit down on the closed toilet seat to decide whether a night of sex is actually going to change the fact that I’m starting to feel I might not be really all that compatible with Tom and his omnipresent ex-wife, Kathryn.
Tom’s in the living room, casually lounging on his chesterfield sofa when I return. He motions for me to sit down, stroking the seat beside him. ‘Come here, cutie.’
Coffin: meet the last nail.
‘Please don’t call me that. It’s kind of cheesy.’
He looks surprised. ‘Oh. Sorry. I thought you liked that.’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Is there something bothering you, Cat?’
‘I need to apologize to you, Tom,’ I say, sliding on to the couch beside him. ‘I’ve been trying to be someone I’m not, and you deserve better than that.’
‘I don’t understand.’ He looks completely baffled and I don’t blame him.
‘I use swear words, Tom. All the time, well, except around Grace, of course – whom, by the way, I frequently discuss with people I’m close to because she’s the most important person in my life. I write about sex and dating and romance and I think my ex is a massive bastard and I also think you talk about your ex way too much, which is odd . . . and what I really want to know more than anything is, have you ever fucked anyone in your dentist chair?’
‘My chair? No. Cat, have you taken something?’
‘Oh, and I lie!’ I exclaim happily. ‘Not usually, but with you I have lied about loads of stuff. Like my neighbour, Dylan – he isn’t really my neighbour; he’s the man who made the meal I pretended to cook and also a man I slept with a while ago because I DO have sex before the fifth date – that was bullshit too, but I wanted you to stay interested in me and – Jesus, Tom – you’ve gone as white as a sheet.’
I realize I’m being a bit unkind, but now that I’ve told him I feel a rush of relief. I reach over and drink the rest of my champagne while Tom tries to process what he’s just heard.
‘Is there anything else?’
