Then I Met You

by Dunn, Matt

  He took another large gulp of wine and stared at the same spot on the table that Lisa had found so fascinating, then became conscious she’d moved round to sit next to him.

  ‘Oh, Simon,’ she said again, before tentatively putting an arm round his shoulders and hugging him, her act of compassion making him well up inside.

  ‘And there’s something else,’ he said, wiping away the solitary tear that was rolling down his cheek.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Because we didn’t split up, or finish with each other, or anything like that, any time I might absentmindedly look at another woman, or Will tells me I should seriously think about going out with someone – or even just sleeping with them – I feel like I’m being unfaithful.’

  ‘But that’s . . .’

  ‘Stupid? I know! And I don’t believe in heaven or hell or anything like that, but I do feel like Alice is watching me sometimes. And yes, before you say anything, everyone tells me that she’d be happy for me to meet someone else. Want me to be happy. But I was happy with her. I didn’t want to meet anyone else. Never ever thought I’d have to. And when you’ve had that ripped forcibly away from you, you just can’t help feeling that way.’ Simon eyed the jug of wine again. Finishing it was becoming more and more tempting by the minute. ‘And then I meet someone like you, and you’re beautiful, and smart, and sexy, and funny, and caring and with so much going for you, but for some reason you’ve been picking the wrong men – maybe because you think you’re not worth what you so obviously are, or that you’re damaged . . . and you are, but we all are, so it’s nothing to be ashamed of, and we’ve had such a rollercoaster of a day – no pun intended – but by some miracle we still ended up in a position where we were about to . . .’ He nodded awkwardly in the direction of the bedroom. ‘And instead of being able to go with it, to enjoy the moment like I wanted to – and believe me, I wanted to – I’m still suffering from a . . . hangover from Alice, too full of what might have been with her to respond like I should.’

  Lisa removed her arm from his shoulders, and swivelled round to face him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’

  ‘Because I don’t tell anyone,’ he said, doing his best to keep it together.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I don’t want it to define me. You know . . . there goes Simon, the poor bloke whose girlfriend died.’ He’d put on a funny voice, for some reason, but, perhaps not surprisingly, Lisa wasn’t smiling. ‘And I know this might sound crazy,’ he continued, ‘and this is proof it wasn’t about you’ – he looked up at her, his eyes red-rimmed – ‘but I haven’t had sex for two years, and the last time was with Alice. So I was petrified that either I wouldn’t have been able to, you know’ – he cleared his throat awkwardly – ‘do it. Or I’d have done it too quickly. And I worried you’d have thought even more badly of me if either of those things were the case.’

  ‘I’m sure it wouldn’t have been like that.’

  ‘I’m not. Will keeps telling me it’s just like riding a bike, but I haven’t ridden one for so long that I . . .’ He smiled grimly. ‘Well, I’m not sure I’ve got enough air in my tyres to get me to the end of the road. And I know that’s something I’m going to have to face the first time, but the longer I leave it, the more I worry about it, the more pressure I’m going to feel . . .’

  His voice trailed off, and he stared miserably back at the table. Then, to his surprise, he felt Lisa taking his hand, and heard the scrape of her chair on the kitchen floor as she stood up.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, helping him from his seat.

  ‘I know, I know. You want me to leave.’

  ‘Quite the opposite, actually.’

  ‘What? I don’t . . . ?’

  ‘All that stuff you said.’ Lisa smiled. ‘I understand. Really, I do. And thank you for saying it, and for choosing me to be the one you said it to. I know it must have been hard. But . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Something else I learned in Cancún is that you’ve got to confront your fears. Head on.’

  Simon wiped his eyes on his sleeve. ‘And how on earth do I do that?’

  Lisa stood up on tiptoe, planted a brief kiss on his cheek, then took his hand. ‘I have an idea,’ she said, leading him back towards the bedroom.

  Chapter 32

  Lisa was staring at her bedroom ceiling, squinting against the rays of dawn sunshine forcing their way in past the edges of the blinds, wondering what on earth had happened last night. She knew what had happened, of course, and understood how it had happened. She just wasn’t sure why it had happened – and she was even more unsure of what was going to happen next.

  She carefully angled her head to one side, checking Simon was still asleep. By the deep, regular sound of his breathing, he was dead to the world. And why shouldn’t he be? Especially after last night’s exertions.

  In the end, he needn’t have worried. He’d been fine. More than fine, in fact. Mindful of his fears, Lisa had taken things slowly – which, to her surprise, had made things better for her. And the end, when it eventually came, when they eventually came, had been . . . well, she’d almost felt like crying herself. She hadn’t had sex like that since . . . Lisa thought for a moment, then wondered who she was trying to kid. She hadn’t had sex like that full stop. And then, as if keen to prove it hadn’t been a fluke, and once they’d both got their breath back, they’d gone in for a repeat performance, which had been just as good as the first time.

  She fought to keep the smile from her face as she recalled the previous night. She’d been a little nervous too. Worried that she wouldn’t be able to live up to the memory of Simon’s perfect ex. Scared that she’d overreact if he cried Alice’s name out – but he hadn’t, so she hadn’t. And then, afterwards, they’d held each other until they drifted off, and Lisa had got the best night’s sleep she’d had in a long, long time, involving a dream about going fishing – which she knew probably meant something, but right now she couldn’t be bothered to try to work out what that was.

  Gently, she lifted Simon’s arm from where it was draped across her chest (on top of the duvet, though – even asleep, Simon was still a gentleman), wriggled to her left and cautiously hauled herself upright. She could feel the beginnings of a hangover – not a surprise, she knew, given how much she’d ended up drinking yesterday – though that wasn’t the only reason her head was spinning.

  She still didn’t know what had led to this. His reappearance had hardly been a ‘you had me at hello’ moment, although his apology had tugged at her heartstrings (unlike Chris’s earlier, somewhat cruder attempt). But as to why she’d taken him to bed – was it simply that she’d felt sorry for him? Lisa doubted it. And as for helping him over his ‘hump’ (if you excused the word) – well, Lisa wasn’t a charity worker. And Simon wasn’t a charity case.

  No, she decided, they had a genuine connection. Last night had proved that. And she had to admit that fate seemed to be doing a good job of keeping them together – as it had over the whole date, now she thought about it: from their first, dramatic meeting on the pelican crossing, to Will and Jess ensuring they gave each other a second chance by insisting they stuck it out until the photographer arrived, to the freak wave that meant she’d ended up in his arms, then back at her place, then them not having sex, him leaving under a cloud and feeling guilty and coming back to apologise. . .

  She swung her feet down to the floor and gingerly stood up, then she padded out through the bedroom door and into the kitchen to get herself a glass of water. The jug of wine was still sitting on the table, so she thought about pouring it down the sink, but the lurch in her stomach as she neared it meant she thought she’d better leave it for later.

  Surely she hadn’t had that much to drink yesterday? Lisa knew she hadn’t taken Simon to bed because she’d been drunk. It had been because she’d wanted to. And, she suspected, given how Simon had come back last night, he’d wanted to too.

  A set of car keys was sitting o
n the kitchen work surface above the tumble dryer – not hers, obviously, and given the lack of anyone else in her house right now, probably Simon’s. He must have removed them before he’d put his jeans in there last night . . . The thought of him parading round the house in her sarong – along with the memory of the events leading up to it – made Lisa smile as she crept back into the bedroom and slipped them back into his jeans pocket.

  She peered at the bed. Simon still hadn’t moved, so she tiptoed into the hall, retrieved her phone from where she’d plugged it in to charge last night, quietly made her way into the bathroom and shut the door softly behind her.

  She studied her reflection in the mirror above the sink, doing her best to ignore the odd grey hair, pulling her skin taut and watching it move back into place with a little less ‘snap’ than it used to, and wondering whether the bags under her eyes were going to be a permanent fixture or simply a result of her hangover. She’d seen better days, she knew. But, then again, she hadn’t had that many better nights.

  She sat down to pee, wondering what her and Simon’s next steps might be. Worst-case scenario, they had a slightly awkward breakfast, he pecked her on the cheek in a chaste ‘goodbye and thanks’ kind of way, and they never saw each other again. Best-case? They made plans to do it all – well, maybe not all – again another night. And another. And another . . .

  Lisa smiled at the prospect as she flushed the toilet, then she sniffed her left armpit, wrinkled her nose in disgust, and padded across to the bathtub. A shower was definitely required. She listened out, half wondering whether Simon might like to join her, but when she heard no signs of movement from the bedroom, she quietly locked the bathroom door, ran the water as hot as she could stand and climbed under the purifying jets.

  Chapter 33

  Simon waited until he heard the shower running; then – as if reacting to a starting pistol – he leapt out of bed. He’d been awake for hours, ever since Lisa’s contented snoring had woken him, though he’d considered it rude to just get up and leave. Besides, lying there, pretending to be asleep as Lisa snuggled contentedly against him, had given him valuable thinking time. Not that he’d come to any conclusions yet.

  He tiptoed along the hallway, crept into the kitchen and made his way across to the tumble dryer, surprised not to see his keys on the surface where he’d remembered leaving them. Confused, he pulled open the dryer door and rooted around in there, checking the filter in case they’d somehow found their way into the system – but no joy.

  Simon scratched his head, then he checked the rest of the kitchen surfaces, then the tea cupboard, even pulling open a couple of drawers for good measure. Where could they be? Unless Chris had taken them by mistake yesterday, or Lisa had thrown them away in a fit of anger after he’d left the first time . . .

  He checked the bin, then the fridge, then headed back the way he’d come and began hunting frantically around Lisa’s bedroom, but there was no sign of them on the floor, or on the bedside table, or on the dresser, or even under the bed (though he didn’t want to think about what was). Panicking, he pulled the duvet and pillows off the bed, shaking them out in case his keyring had somehow wound up inside the covers during last night’s exertions, but without any luck.

  Desperately, he mentally ran through the events of the previous evening, remembering how he’d been careful not to put them in the tumble dryer, how he’d purposefully put them on the wooden surface so he wouldn’t forget them – ha ha! – but if that was the case, where were they now?

  Suddenly conscious he was naked, and fearing Lisa might emerge from the shower at any moment, he hurriedly pulled his clothes back on and – to his surprise – found his keys in his jeans pocket. Confused, he held them up and peered at them, double-checking they were actually his. That was the last place he’d expected them to be.

  Then again, Lisa’s bedroom had been the last place he’d expected to find himself in. Last night had been . . . Unexpected. Amazing. Surprising. Confusing, too – he wasn’t sure whether Lisa had taken him to her bed because she’d felt sorry for him, or had wanted to ‘help’ him get over his fears, or had fancied him, or had just been drunk, or horny, or any combination of the above. But when they’d got there, none of that had seemed to matter. Because the sex had seemed natural. Spontaneous. Not at all awkward. And – Simon felt the heat rush to his face as he thought about it – he’d actually acquitted himself pretty well.

  Twice!

  He thought back to Will’s ‘riding a bike’ comment, and smiled to himself. Will had been right! Though with Lisa, it was as if he’d been on one of those full-suspension, carbon-framed, top-of-the-range bicycles, rather than the rather functional fixie he had sitting in his hallway at home (he made a mental note not to use that analogy if he ever talked to her about it).

  He felt a little guilty too – not because of Alice directly, but because he hadn’t thought of her once during the whole time he and Lisa had been intimate. Being in bed with her had been . . . overwhelming. And it was only early this morning, with the torture of insomnia and the pressure of a full bladder that he hadn’t dared respond to in fear of waking Lisa up and her deciding to do it a third time, that it had occurred to him that maybe he’d not behaved that well. Had perhaps allowed himself to be led into something he wasn’t – shouldn’t be – quite ready for. After all, he didn’t do one-night stands, so as for what came next . . . maybe he should let Lisa take the lead. Much like she had last night.

  He crept along the hall and into the kitchen, his stomach lurching slightly at the sight of Lisa’s unfinished jugful of white wine, wondering whether he should empty it down the sink or attempt to save it – eventually deciding on the latter, though as he poured it back into the bottle and put the cork back in, he suspected doing the same with his and Lisa’s relationship wouldn’t be quite so easy.

  Then again, maybe this was what he’d needed. A ‘kick up the arse’, as Will would no doubt describe it. A reason to start dating again. He’d always promised himself that he wouldn’t sleep with anyone unless he was in a relationship with them, and there was no reason why this couldn’t work the other way round. And, besides, wasn’t that what people did nowadays? Sleep with someone first, and decide to go out with them later? Be ‘exclusive’, as he’d heard Will refer to it – rather than reclusive, as he’d been since Alice.

  Since Alice.

  Simon sat down heavily on the nearest chair, wondering what his ex-girlfriend would make of all this, then did his best to dismiss the thought. He couldn’t – shouldn’t – live the rest of his life desperate for her approval. Besides, she would want him to be happy, surely? To move on, as long as he didn’t forget her – and Simon was pretty sure that would never happen.

  In therapy, he’d learned that bereavement left a hole in your life – a hole you hoped would eventually get smaller, maybe even disappear, but, over time, you realised would always be there. You just had to build a life around it. And if he and Lisa were going to build something together, after last night – after yesterday – he suspected they had good foundations. The sex had been good, and they had already gone through a lot in a short space of time (including a significant number of arguments, and arguments were evidence of strong feelings, weren’t they?). So maybe the two of them could work. At the very least, it was worth a go. If she’d have him.

  Besides, as much as he’d tried to deny it, fate did seem to keep pushing the two of them together. That thing with his keys – he’d been positive he didn’t have them when he reached his car last night, and yet here they were, in his pocket . . . Maybe he’d imagined the whole key-removal-for-the-tumble-dryer incident, so who was he to argue with a higher power? He already knew Lisa probably wouldn’t.

  He filed that thought away as he padded around the kitchen, softly opening and closing a few random cupboards in search of something to eat, intending to make them both breakfast. They could go out, but they’d probably need to talk, and talking was something Simon much preferr
ed to do in private. Besides, he spent most of his life in a café, so the chance of an intimate breakfast, sitting round the kitchen table, just the two of them, was – unlike more of Lisa’s tea – something he was keen to sample.

  He stole back along the hall and put his ear to the bathroom door. The shower had stopped but seemed to have started again – and Simon hoped it wasn’t because Lisa felt dirty after last night. He could wait for her to come out, check how she was feeling, check what she was feeling – but surely it was better if he slipped out now to pick something up from the shops? They’d both feel better after a decent cup of coffee (or perhaps tea, in Lisa’s case. He’d seen a box with ‘PG’ written on it which might suit her this morning – though those two letters hardly applied to what they’d done last night!) and something to eat.

  He stood there for a second or two, his hand poised to knock on the door, wondering whether to tell her what he was up to, then he thought better of it. He’d be back before she knew it, and, even if he wasn’t, Lisa might want a bit of space. A bit of thinking time. God knows he did.

  Quickly, Simon nipped back into the bedroom, straightened out the duvet, plumped up the pillows, and stood back to admire his bed-making skills. Then he took a deep breath, tiptoed back along the hall, and let himself quietly out the front door.