I tell him about my star turn today over the Pensions Bulletin research, and he laughs, but I don’t mention my lunch with Mike. If things are tough at work, he’s hardly going to be in the mood to hear about his girlfriend going out to lunch with her ex. And anyway, I’m not going to see Mike again, I think to myself as I nestle into David’s shoulder.

I don’t think about it again until later that night as we’re falling asleep. “You haven’t heard from Mike, have you?” David murmurs. Suddenly I’m wide awake.

“No,” I lie, trying to work out why David would think that I had. “Why would I?”

“Oh, nothing,” David says, rolling over. “It’s just . . . I don’t know. You will tell me if he tries to get in touch with you, won’t you?”

Does he know about the lunch? Why would he ask that?

“You’re not jealous are you?” I ask hesitantly.

“Jealous? Why on earth would I be jealous?” David says incredulously. I start to sulk slightly, but then figure that he’s hardly going to admit that he’s jealous. I know I should be feeling bad but instead I feel like a femme fatale.

But before I can sink into dreams of men fighting over me, David turns on the light and looks at me intently. “Look, I just don’t trust Mike,” he says seriously. “So tell me if he calls you, okay?”

I don’t ask him if e-mails count.

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I don’t hear from Mike until Friday. All week I have been telling myself that I am relieved that he hasn’t tried to get back in touch. But my stomach has been lurching every time I get an external e-mail, just in case it’s him.

I’m on the phone to Candy, arranging a shopping and gossip session for the following afternoon when I hear the familiar“ping .”

Candy and I are discussing the relative merits of Kensington High Street and Oxford Street. (I favor Ken High Street. Oxford Street is too busy, and anyway, my favorite shop on Oxford Street is Top Shop, and I’d never be able to go in there with Candy. She buys things featured inVogue instead of searching the high street for rip-offs like the rest of us.) I absentmindedly go to my email inbox, and there it is.

MIKE MARSHALL: So, I went away. Now it’s Friday afternoon and you can’t tell me you’re still busy. I feel like getting drunk tonight, fancy joining me?

My heart starts beating. I’m meant to be going round to David’s tonight. Iam going round to David’s tonight. At least I think I am. I mean, of course that’s what I want to do, but it could be a good idea to meet Mike, just to, you know, reinforce the fact that he wants me and can’t have me. If you think about it, that would actually be really good for David, too, because it would show Mike that David is way better than him. And if I don’t go, he might think I’m too scared to go, that I don’t trust myself around him, which is obviously ridiculous because I don’t find him attractive anymore. Really. And David won’t mind, I’m sure.

“George? Are you still there?” Candy has always called me George rather than Georgie. I think it started at school—though we lived near each other during my Kensington Church Street phase, we went to different schools, and Candy liked being able to tell her friends at school about her friend George, without mentioning that I was actually a girl. I’ve had a couple of odd meetings with people who went to school with Candy who looked really astonished to find out I was

“George.”

I realize I haven’t been listening to Candy for five minutes. “Sorry, something’s just come up,” I say. “So, tomorrow at twelve?”

Candy is not happy. She was at the beginning of some story or other and is obviously annoyed to have lost my attention. “Fine,” she says casually, as we agree on a meeting place (Oxford Street—arguing with Candy, I remember in time, is hopeless).

I stare at my computer screen and read Mike’s message again and again, searching for the meaning behind it. Could it be that he is actually interested in me again? Why now? Having made no effort to contact me in years, why is Mike now so keen to see me? Of course, it’s possible that he saw me with David and realized how much he missed me, but somehow that doesn’t entirely ring true. I mean, he could have anyone, why would he come back for me?

Perhaps he has some ulterior motive? In the past I’d have assumed he wanted to borrow money, but now he seems to have enough of his own, so it must be something else. But what?

Only one way to find out, I reason, and hit the Reply button.

GEORGIE BEAUCHAMP: I suppose I could meet you for a couple of drinks. The Atlantic Bar at 7?

As I hit the Send button I feel a pang of guilt. The Atlantic Bar is where Mike and I always used to go. It was too expensive for us to actually drink there, but we would hang out anyway, and he would steal drinks from the bar for us. I wish I had suggested somewhere more neutral, but reason that changing the venue now would be worse. I don’t want to acknowledge to myself or anyone else that what I’m doing is of any consequence.

Not wanting to talk to David directly about it, I send him an e-mail, blushing at my lie as I send it.

GEORGIE BEAUCHAMP: Hi gorgeous, do you mind if I don’t come round tonight? Going for drinks after work for someone’s birthday. I’ll see you tomorrow evening? Seeing Candy in the afternoon, so wish me luck! xx

About thirty seconds later, the phone rings.

“You’re seeing Candy? I didn’t know you two were still friends.” It’s David.

“Hello to you, too. Just because I haven’t seen her for a while doesn’t mean we’re not friends anymore. Why should you care anyway?”

“Nothing. I don’t care. I just thought it was a bit odd, that’s all, suddenly seeing her again.”

“David, is everything all right?”

“Of course it is. You have a great time tomorrow. I’ll come round afterward, shall I?”

“Yes, come round about six. And give me loads of compliments because I’ll be feeling dreadful after spending time in changing rooms with Candy.”

“Gorgeous girl. You’re much prettier than that skinny creature. See you then.”

Gorgeous girl. When David says that, I know he actually means it. So why am I getting so excited about meeting Mike tonight?

At 7:05P.M. I’m at the Atlantic Bar and Grill. I managed to get home early and had time to change and redo my makeup, and to tell the truth I’m feeling pretty hot to trot. Or is it just that I haven’t been properly dressed up for a while? David and I do go out to nice restaurants, and I’m always going to the pub after work, but there never seems to be a reason to really dress up with full makeup and stuff. David always says I look better without it anyway, so there’s not much point putting on more than a bit of mascara when we go out. Tonight, though, I’ve gone for the full works. I need to—you should see the girls in the Atlantic Bar; I’m sure they’re all models or something.

I walk up to the bar and have a look around for Mike, trying to be as casual as I can. It doesn’t look like he’s here, so I order a gin and tonic. Turning my back on the bar, I survey the room. It isn’t very busy but it’ll be packed later on. There are lots of tall thin girls walking around with amazing tans and high-heeled shoes pointing out from the bottom of their jeans. And not wearing very much on top at all—one girl appears to have wrapped a ball of wool around her breasts and that’s pretty much it. The men are either in suits with gold AmEx cards or arty types with odd haircuts.

I take a sip of my drink and remember why I used to smoke—waiting in a bar is so much easier if you have a cigarette in your hand. It’s something to focus on, something to do. You don’t feel quite so vulnerable. For some reason, when I met David I stopped wanting to smoke. Plus, of course, he happened to mention over dinner that he hated the habit, so I just didn’t mention the packet of Marlboro Lights in my bag and I haven’t smoked since.

The bartender is trying to attract my attention, and I turn round, slightly irritated, to discover that I haven’t actually paid for my drink yet. I get out my purse to find some cash and feel an arm slip round my waist.

“Put it on my tab, will you?” says a familiar voice, and a gold-colored credit card is passed to the barman.

“Mike!” I experience a frisson of excitement as I turn to kiss him hello. He’s slightly unshaven and wearing a black suit and black shirt open at the neck. He has such an air of confidence about him, an insouciance that is so attractive. His hands move round my waist and my instinctive reaction is to turn and kiss him on the lips and move my body into his, but instead I manage a light kiss on the cheek. I am doing, I hope, a pretty good impression of someone who is totally unfazed and unimpressed.

“Georgie, this is Tracey, my PA. And this is Brian, a top DJ—at least he is when he plays our records, eh Brian?”

Brian grins and Tracey titters. Brian, I notice, is more interested in Tracey’s expansive cleavage than anything Mike has to say.

“You known each other long?” Tracey inquires.

“Years and years,” Mike replies before I can speak. He has turned to face Tracey and Brian, but his left arm is still wrapped round my waist. When we were together, Mike’s arm would rarely be anywhere near me if we were out. I told myself then that public demonstrations of affection were really tacky and that I was pleased not to be in a couple that kissed and hugged in bars and clubs. But I had always suspected that Mike didn’t touch me because he liked to give the impression that he was single.

“Have you got any cigarettes?”

Willpower be damned—this is an emergency; I need something to steady my nerves. Tracey offers me a Silk Cut, and I put it in my mouth gratefully. It is lit immediately by a platinum lighter that Mike has whisked out of his pocket. This really is the four-star treatment—I didn’t know Mike had it in him.

“Georgie’s the one who encouraged me to start my own business,” Mike tells Tracey and Brian.

This is news to me. I do remember shouting at Mike and telling him to “go and get a bloody job, or start making some money out of your stupid plans,” but I’m not sure I would class that as encouragement. Then again, maybe that was the kick-start he had needed. Brian and Tracey both give me a sort of “well done” smile and I smile back.

Mike gives me a little squeeze and starts stroking my side. I feel myself stiffen. It isn’t that I’m not enjoying this—to be honest, I have dreamed of this moment for ages. It’s just that now I seem to have Mike all over me, I feel extremely self-conscious and awkward. It’s all wrong, like I’ve missed a couple of steps, that things have been decided while I was out of the room, and no one thought to tell me. Plus, of course, I’m not here to get back together with Mike; just to make him realize what he’s missing. If David knew that I was in the Atlantic Bar with Mike’s arm round my waist, he would be devastated. I decide I need a bit of breathing space.

“Um, just nipping to the loo,” I say hurriedly and prise myself out of Mike’s arms. There is a long queue, which I join, and it’s only after five minutes of not moving that I realize the queue is actually people putting on makeup and doing their hair—there are two empty cubicles. Trying to look nonchalant, like I knew all along there wasn’t a queue, I go into one of them, lock the door, and sit down to gather my thoughts.

I have come for a drink, I tell myself. Mike cannot just waltz in like this and start treating me like his girlfriend. Even though I’m rather enjoying having the best-looking guy in the room all over me. When I go back to the bar I’m not going to let him put his arm round me. I’m going to be friendly but aloof. Absolutely no flirting.

Some girls come in, laughing loudly. I love listening to conversations in the loos at bars and clubs; you learn more than you could from any magazine or therapy session. Frankly, it beats

“Oprah” hands down.

The girls are talking about a guy one of them fancies and is trying to establish whether he fancies her, too. From what they are saying, I’m tempted to conclude that he probably isn’t interested.

I am about to flush the chain when I hear someone talking about a “Mike.” It could be anyone, I know, but I hesitate anyway.

“So, d’you think she’s the one?”

“What, the girl he’s with tonight? Could be. Thought she’d be thinner, but he’s certainly all over her. Don’t know what he sees in her though. And did you see how much makeup she was wearing?”

“You don’t think they’re going to get married, do you?” asks one of the girls.