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Callum shrugs. “Maybe I'm a masochist. Indulge me.”
The waiter slides menus into our hands without trying, while I attempt to form the words to explain my life.
“I met Luke when we were fifteen,” I say. “We were in the same science classes and ended up sitting next to each other. I was pretty low at that point. I'd just been diagnosed with scoliosis and told I'd have to wear a back brace, and I was pretty sure that nobody would want me. But Luke was...” I search for the right way to put it. “He was understanding and sweet and made me feel good about myself.”
The waiter comes over to take our order and Callum murmurs to him quietly, not taking his eyes from mine. He makes me feel safe and on edge at the same time.
“You were grateful?” Callum asks.
“Looking back he made me think that way, too. As if I should be pleased he was paying me attention, regardless of my problems. I think he played on my insecurities.”
In fact I know he did. He'd pay me backhanded compliments, telling me I had a good body in spite of my spine, that I was pretty for a girl with a disability. But I didn't see it at the time. I was too grateful for his attention, too desperate to feel normal. He was an expert at making me feel indebted.
“The first time he was unfaithful I knew it was my fault.?
? My voice breaks. I thought I was over this, but saying it out loud dredges up painful memories.
“He's an arsehole,” he says. “You know that, right?”
“I know that now. But back then I really thought it was my fault. If I was prettier, if I was normal, maybe I'd be able to keep him.”
“You are normal. As normal as any of us are. And what the hell is normal anyway?” Callum asks.
“It's what I always wanted to be. When I was a kid and everybody's dad came to their school plays and I only had my mum. When I was a teenager and everybody could wear tight clothes and I had to wear baggy dresses.” My eyes glisten with unshed tears. “Even now I feel out of place. I've got too much ambition for my friends at home, but I don't belong at Richards and Morgan either.”
“Of course you do.”
“I'm the only intern who isn't from Oxford or Cambridge,” I tell him. “They only took me on as a token gesture. Trying to show how liberal they are.”
“You're better than the rest of them put together.” He slides his hands up mine, grabbing hold of my wrist. The movement sends shoots of pleasure down to the tips of my toes. “You're not a token gesture.”
The waiter brings our starters—two steaming bowls of soup. Callum releases my arm and I immediately feel the loss.
“You said you didn't have a dad. Are your parents divorced?” he asks.
I spoon some soup between my lips, the broth burning the tip of my tongue. “He's dead. Was killed in the first Gulf war when I was a baby.”
“He was a soldier?”
“Yes.” I feel the need to wipe away any sheen of romanticism. “He hooked up with my mum a few times then walked out of our lives. Don't feel sorry for me, I never knew him.”
“I know what it's like to lose somebody.” Callum pushes his half-eaten bowl of soup away. “So I'll feel the way I want to.”
I look up at him through my lashes. The air between us is laden with something intangible, drawing us together whether I want it to or not. “You've lost somebody?”
“My wife. She died two years ago.”
The soup in my stomach feels thick and viscous, curdling inside me. I remember that photograph, the way he looked so happy standing next to that beautiful blonde. His wife. His dead wife.
“I'm sorry.” I play idly with my spoon, twisting and turning it inside my soup bowl. It's clear neither of us has much of an appetite. “That must have been awful.”
He catches my gaze with his beautiful eyes. “It was.” He blinks, lashes thick. Then he steals my words. “Don't feel sorry for me.”
He pours us both another glass of wine, and I'm surprised at how fast the first glass has disappeared. I can feel the alcohol working its magic, making my muscles loose and fluid. “Should we drink this much at lunchtime?”
“Probably not,” he admits. “But I think we need it, don't you?”
As if to underline his point I swallow another mouthful. “How did she die?”
