He laughs. “Do I? Must be the guilt talking. Just glad it’s not me, to be honest. I mean, my life would not fare well with babies in it.”
“No, it would not,” I agree, his perfect white living room coming to mind.
Immediately, I realize my error. I’m not supposed to know anything about his life. And that now sounds like an insult. He is frowning at me.
“I mean, I feel the same aboutmylife, right? No babies for me,” I clarify.
His frown eases into a smile. “Ah, okay. I thought I might be throwing out terrible-parent vibes.”
“No, actually,” I reassure him, “aside from the bringing a baby to a bar, I think you’ve been doing great.”
He laughs.
“Ha, hilarious. You know it’s still onlyseven p.m.,right? And it’s hardly Berghain in here. Anyway, regardless of good uncle-ing or no, I’m very much hanging on by a thread. I take Isla on and off a day or two a week,” he says, sipping his wine, “so that my sister can sleep, wash, feel like a human person. God, it sounds like I’m equating having a baby to being held hostage…Sorry—I’m really tired,” he says, rubbing his face. “I don’t sleep when she stays over.”
“The baby stays over with you?” I ask, a little too surprised. “She doesn’t live nearby and pick her up, then? Your sister?”
He stares at me.
“Sorry, that sounded—” I begin, but he waves away the apology.
“She’s in Walthamstow. Bit of a trek at night, and she deserves a sleep. We’re all just making it up as we go along, right? Grace has started seeing a therapist. I don’t think that’s necessary. I think she just needs some more sleep and a divorce. But hey, I’m no professional.”
“Well, I think you’rebothdoing a great job. I mean, bloody hell, I don’t know many uncles who would put in the hours you are.”
He frowns. “Someone has to. It seems like a pretty common, pretty unbalanced thing. Now I see it firsthand, it all falling on the woman. And now that woman is my sister. It’s so incredible to me that we don’t know this happens until it happens to us, isn’t it?” He perks up suddenly. “Good God, I’m being utterly depressing. Let’s get some snacks,” he says, standing with a smile.
I watch him head off to the counter, the twenty-year-old behind the till brightening as he talks to her, her eyes flickering across his perfect features, his smile, his warm brown eyes, as she talks him through the menu card.
Watching the female bartender interact with him, I know he could pretty much have anyone. But he’s having wine with me.
My postdivorce low self-esteem yawns. He’s basically admitted he can’t help but rescue women in need. Is that a male-savior complex, is he a misogynist, or is that admirable? I’ve been out of the loop for way too long.
I watch his back as he jokes with the bartender, her eyes sparkling with a smile. The thought of him near me, touching me, is suddenly almost too much to bear. I feel my cheeks flush.
My thoughts return to Blue, out there somewhere. The way the black eye of the lens swings around his neck.
Matt returns with two small dishes: one of olives and one of cut cheese cubes in oil, with curls of lemon zest scattered on top and places them on the table. “The server’s recommendation:cicchetti. Italian tapas,” he says with confidence as he sits down.
He gives me an inquiring look. “So, why has this meeting been called?”
I have almost forgotten why I texted him. I weigh up how much to disclose.
“I wanted to ask…It’s a bit weird, I know, but the couple at Number Fifteen? Do you know anything about them?”
Matt scrunches up his face. “Er, Number Fifteen? Remind me?” He pops an olive in his mouth.
“She’s early thirties, slim, brunette, very well dressed, works in the City, I think, quite standoffish,” I say.
“Emily inDevil Wears Pradavibes?” he fires back.
“Oof, good reference.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you know much about her, or them?”
To my surprise, he nods enthusiastically, popping another olive. “Yeah, met them when they moved in, about…” He pauses, trying to remember. “Maybe five years ago now. Wow. I’m old.”
