‘Everything,’ I say, hearing a flirtatious note in my voice that I didn’t plan on being there.
‘Everything might take a while.’
‘The headlines, then.’
‘On our first date you asked me a series of quick-fire questions. You said it was the most efficient way of uncovering any red flags.’
‘Sensible,’ I say, feeling myself smile. ‘And did I uncover any?’
‘A few orange ones. I smoked at the time and you hated that. You didn’t like that I was a musician either.’
‘Oh? Why not?’
‘You’d dated a drummer and sworn off us for good.’
‘But you won me over.’
‘I won you over.’
His mouth is so expressive, I can’t help watching it as he talks. He’s got this broad smile, that shows in flashes. When he grins, it’s like a chain reaction spreading out across his face as the smile ripples into dimples in his cheeks, then creases around his eyes. He rubs his stubbled cheek with a hand, as though conscious of my gaze.
“Tell me more about your family, where you grew up in Scotland,’ I ask him.
‘Well, we lived on a farm, four miles from the nearest village. My dad was a farmer, my mum was the local postie. My best friend was a mangy sheep called Patrick.’
‘Who’s your best friend now?’ I ask.
‘You. Luckily you smell better than Patrick.’
‘I should hope so,’ I say, feeling myself grin as I twist a piece of hair around one finger.
‘I only ever told you about Patrick because you told me about Lisa.’
‘I told you about Lisa?’ I swivel my bar stool around towards him. Lisa was my imaginary friend, who lingered far longer than imaginary friends are supposed to. ‘I must really like you. I’ve never told anyone about Lisa.’
‘You really like me,’ Sam says. He catches my eye and now it feels as though he is flirting with me. I force myself to sit on my hands to stop myself from fiddling with my hair.
‘Apart from my obvious sheep-like qualities, what did you like about me then, when you first saw me in that karaoke bar?’
‘Well, I thought you were gorgeous, that goes without saying. But there was the way you held yourself, how you were with your friends, the way you sang my song. You sang it the way I always wanted it to sound.’ We bump knees, and when he looks at me, I feel a warm pull, like an invisible elastic band drawing me in. The woman he’s describing doesn’t sound like me. Shifting on my seat, I realise I’m fiddling with my hair again, so I reach for my drink instead. This French martini really is delicious, and I congratulate Future Me on her taste in both men and cocktails.
‘And what did I like about you?’ I ask, looking up at him from beneath lowered lashes.
He leans in slowly, then says, ‘I don’t know. Maybe when you remember, you’ll tell me.’ As he gets closer, I sense his warm, oaky smell, the hint of minty shower gel and freshly pressed linen.
‘Okay, some quick-fire questions, then, for old times’ sake,’ I say, clasping the bar to stop myself from leaning into his neck. ‘Favourite place?’
‘Our garden.’
‘Favourite song.’
‘ “Giuseppe” by Grange.’
‘That means nothing to me. Did we sleep together on our first date?’
Sam clears his throat, and I realise how attractive I find him when he gets slightly embarrassed. ‘That depends on what you define as our first date. Plus, I don’t think it would be gentlemanly of me to say.’ I look up at him now and catch the flush of pink skin rising up his neck.
‘I’ll take that as a yes. Why don’t you write songs any more?’
While I was wallowing in bed, I googled Sam. I listened to all the songs he’s ever been credited with writing and discovered he hasn’t written anything with lyrics in over five years. He shifts in his seat. ‘That’s not a quick-fire answer. Can I pass on that one?’
‘Fine, you get one pass. What’s your favourite memory?’
‘With you, or from life in general?’ Our knees are touching again, and his forearm skims my hand on the bar.
‘Either,’ I say and he ponders this for a moment.
‘Do you want one of my favourite childhood memories?’ he asks, and I nod. ‘It’s not a quick one.’
I press an imaginary button in the air between us. ‘Pausing quick-fire round.’
He takes my hand and moves my finger to another point in mid-air.
‘Here’s the fast-forward button if I’m boring you.’ My cheeks begin to ache, and I realise I’ve been grinning since we sat down. ‘Okay, so I’m four years younger than Maeve, so for most of my childhood my sisters just saw me as the little kid they didn’t want tagging along. Most of the time when they went out to play, I was left behind, but the summer I was six, there was this brief window of time where they let me be in their gang. They built me a den in the woods. Sam’s Shack, they called it. Leda made a wooden sign with a soldering iron. Maeve hung a tyre swing and cooked corn fritters on the camping stove. We played out there every day of the holidays. Then Maeve went to secondary school and neither of them wanted to play in the woods after that. But I had that one perfect summer.’
Picturing Sam as a little boy, playing with his sisters in the woods, being so happy to be included, makes my heart swell for him.
‘Are you still close with them, your sisters?’ I ask.
‘Leda more so – we speak on the phone most weeks.’ He shifts in his chair, then takes a sip of his pint. ‘What’s your favourite childhood memory? You know, I don’t think we’ve ever had this conversation.’
‘Me?’ I try to think. I’m an only child, so I don’t have any sibling memories to call upon. ‘I don’t remember a lot of details about my childhood, but I remember it being happy. Summers sitting on the grass making daisy chains, watching my dad endlessly tend to his vegetables.’ I pause, remembering Dad’s blank face when I told him our joke. ‘Do you think my dad’s okay? Mum’s worried he’s forgetting things.’
Sam reaches out to squeeze my knee. There is something so reassuring in the gesture, beyond anything he might be able to say.
‘Okay, I have one,’ I say, keen to steer us back to lighter conversation. ‘It was coming up to my tenth birthday. Every day on the way to school, Mum and I would walk past this fancy bakery. There was this cake in the window, and I would stop and point it out every time we passed – it was the cake I wanted for my party. It was a rich mocha gateau with liqueur icing, totally inappropriate, but I just loved the look of it. I wanted it so much. It looked like a cake from a picture book, something you might draw. Mum said, “No, that’s not a cake for children.” I kept asking, saying I’d forgo all other presents if I could only have this cake, but still she said no. Then, on the day of my party she walked out of the kitchen with it, this cake from the bakery. None of my friends would eat it – they thought it was disgusting, she actually served this alcoholic cake to all these ten year olds.’ I laugh. ‘But I loved it. It was the best birthday cake I’ve ever had.’