7
If I Were Your Woman
It was Saturday afternoon and I was due to meet Simon in a few hours. I was walking around my flat, trying to view it with fresh eyes. It’s not that IexpectedSimon to end up here, but on the off-chance that he did, I wanted the place to give the right impression.
In the kitchen was a poster of Elvis in black leather for his 1968 comeback special – kitsch or classic? Were the Diptyque candles on either side of the Victorian fireplace elegant or pretentious?
I threw myself onto my bed and then all I could imagine was him standing in the doorway, undoing his cuffs and slowly walking towards me.
Stop it!
Who the fuck wore cufflinks?
I needed a cold shower.
After spending longer than I normally did getting ready, I got the bus into town so I could avoid sitting in a hot and sweaty tube carriage, and a breezy half hour later I was outside Simon’s hotel.
The restaurant at The Halson was in the same room as the bar, but at night, the lights were dimmed and candles flickered on the tables, giving everything a warm glow. I was wearing indigo jeans and a black sequinned top accessorized with a chunky silver bangle and ballerinas. The drama was upstairs: my hair was blow-dried glossy and my lips wereMACRed.
I was shown to an empty table and I checked my watch as I sat down. Nope, not early. It was coming up to ten past eight. He hadn’t cancelled, had he? I felt a rustle of nerves in my belly. I was about to check my phone when Simon appeared, looking great in a blue shirt and dark jeans.
‘Hope I didn’t keep you waiting, Frixie.’ He kissed me on the cheek and I got another blast of that citrus scent.
‘Just got here, Si.’
We ordered a bottle of wine and the first sip went a long way in settling my nerves.
‘I know it’s been two years, but congratulations on being made editor,’ he said. ‘I think we can safely say you’ve fulfilled all your teenage dreams.’
The top button of his shirt was undone, revealing the hollow of his neck. Plenty of my teenage dreams had involved that very spot of his anatomy. Admittedly a few other spots, too.
‘I’ve still got one or two more things to cross off my list.’ Christ, did I sound like a terrible hussy?
‘Of course, I know all about one particular fantasy.’
My hand was halfway to my glass and I almost knocked it over.
He knew? I tried to sound breezy. ‘What’s that?’
‘You want to interview Marcie Tyler. You’ve worshipped her all your life.’
I smiled, hoping it masked my disappointment. Of course, I’d told him as I was leaving his hotel on Friday about my grand plan.
‘I won’t lie. It would be an amazing career high. But I’m not sure I can pull it off.’ I shook my head. ‘She’s a hard woman to reach.’
He smiled. ‘I have faith in you.’
‘That means a lot. Thanks.’
He held up his glass and chinked mine. ‘To Miss Zoë Frixiepants, the most determined woman I’ve ever met, and the first girl I ever kissed.’
I nearly choked on my Sauvignon.
‘We’ve never kissed,’ I said, with possibly a bit too much feeling. Unless he meant that kiss he placed on my cheek the morning he and his mum got a cab to Heathrow to start their new life in America. I’d wanted to bawl my eyes out, but had courageously held it in, feigning moderate sadness and blathering on about how internet phone calls andMSNMessenger meant everything could carry on just as before. I couldn’t eat for twenty-four hours after he left. Mum was all set to take me to the doctor’s until I finally relented and nibbled a piece of baklava she’d bought especially to tempt me.
‘Maybe you’re confusing me with the previous editor ofRe:Sound. He had slightly less hair, but was quite a fox, if you like sweary Scousers.’
He clutched at his shirt over his heart. ‘Did it mean so little to you?’
