You Had Me At Hello, How We Met: 2 Bestselling Romantic Comedies in 1. Katy Regan
grin.
‘How are you?’ I ask.
‘I’ve spoken to Natalie and she’s definitely up for the interview,’ he says, and I’m grateful to have a topic in common.
‘Great.’
‘I’ll get back to you with a date. OK to do it at her house?’
‘Ideal.’
‘All right if I come along?’
‘If it’s OK, I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’m not being rude—’
‘Oh really? Where does this rank on your scale?’
He deadpans and I laugh despite myself.
‘If you sit in,’ I say, ‘she’ll be on edge and looking to you for approval all the time and the whole thing will be stilted. I know it’s a big story but she’s not Barbra Streisand. It’ll be fine.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Simon says, smiling.
‘Those are my terms,’ I say, smiling back, hoping this isn’t too much sass. ‘Good luck taking your terms to the nationals.’
Actually the nationals would bite Simon’s hand off to the elbow. I feel reasonably sure from what Ben said that Simon’s going to keep his sense of humour, and stick with me.
‘What do you do for a living?’ Matt interrupts.
‘I’m a court reporter for the local paper. You?’
‘Management consultancy. Mainly blue chip firms.’
I can’t think of any follow-up question, so Matt interjects:
‘Er. Naughtier than serial killing?’
‘No, bizarre stuff. Funnies.’
‘You lawyers probably see more of them than me?’ I say to Lucy.
‘I’m in litigation, like Liv,’ Lucy offers. ‘So no. Leylandii and partition walls.’
‘Sit in, everyone,’ Olivia says, and we all take our seats, Lucy and Matt making a beeline for the middle, Simon and I left with no choice but to flank them, facing each other. Why didn’t Ben warn me? It isn’t like him. You don’t know what ‘like him’ is any more, I remind myself.
Wine flows, I gulp to finish my cocktail, and salads are put in front of us. I try to remember what polite small talk involves and try to make sense of the ‘Ben Plus Olivia Equals Lucy and Matt as Friends’ equation. Part of the wonder of mine and Ben’s previous life was our radar for who our sort of person was and who wasn’t. It was as if we arrived at the friendship with a shared phrasebook and moral compass and map, even if the literal one of the university lay-out was less comprehensible. This turn of events tells me either, as Caroline put it, his thing has changed, or he’s being a good host and a good husband. I know which I’m hoping for.
‘How are you coping up here?’ Matt asks Olivia. ‘Do you like Man-chest-ah?’
Matt says this in a mock Burnage scally voice that sets me slightly on edge.
‘I like Harvey Nicks,’ Olivia says, to a titter from Lucy. ‘I do. It’s much more like a little London than I thought it would be.’
This doesn’t sound like a ringing commendation to me. Is it positive to praise something as a miniature version of what you’re used to? Unless it’s a bum, I suppose.
‘You know Ben’s always gone on about how amazing it was to go to university here …’ she continues. Good for Ben.
‘Didsbury is so fab,’ Lucy says.
‘It seems to have everything, yeah. We’re going to need to look into schools,’ Olivia adds, coyly.
‘Oh, do you have some news?’ Lucy trills, grabbing Olivia’s arm.
I chew so hard I bite the insides of my cheeks.
‘No, just planning ahead,’ Olivia says, casting a look at Ben.
‘Awww …’ Lucy coos.
I feel infinitely sad and already slightly tipsy, a combination that foreshadows disaster. However, I notice Ben also looks like he needs the Heimlich manoeuvre.
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ he says to Olivia. ‘A dog will do for now. We’re concentrating on settling in right now, that’s all,’ Ben says, to the table.
‘Don’t put it off when you don’t know how long it will take,’ Lucy says. ‘We were trying for how long, with Miles?’
‘Eighteen months,’ Matt supplies.
‘And that was going at it pretty much every night,’ Lucy adds. I suddenly find the issue of whether this is indeed chicory in my salad absolutely engrossing.
‘I read an article in the Mail the other day by some fertility specialist,’ Lucy continues. ‘He said you should have your family completed by thirty-three. How many do you want, Liv?’
‘Three. Two girls and a boy.’
Ben exhales, heavily. ‘You don’t order them from Grattans …’
‘And you’re what, thirty-one? You have to get started this instant, right now!’ Lucy says, banging the table and giggling.
‘Not right now, one hopes,’ Simon says drily, and I laugh.
‘Stop winding her up, Lucy,’ Ben says, with tension in his voice that apparently goes completely unnoticed by Lucy.
‘Come on, Ben!’ Lucy wheedles. ‘If the lady wants it, the lady should get it. Titchies are the best fun!’
I have to look round the room at this for confirmation. She did say ‘titchies’, right?
‘Unless you think you’re firing blanks?’ Matt adds, quite seriously, to a this-isn’t-happening face from Ben.
Wow. Any Matt and Lucy child, I think, must be quite a formula. Matt and Lucy squared.
‘He’ll come round,’ Olivia says, patting Ben’s arm.
Ben looks hunted and takes a swig of his drink.
‘What about you, Rachel?’ Olivia says, and all eyes swivel towards me. ‘Do you want kids some day?’
‘Uh.’ I have a forkful of green leafy matter stalled halfway to my mouth and I plonk it back down on the edge of my plate, so I don’t look like one of the gorillas in the mist with the vegetation being observed by five Dian Fosseys. ‘It’s not top of my agenda. But, yes. Why not? If I find someone to have them with.’
There’s an uncomfortable silence: uncomfortable largely due to their matchmaking. I rattle on: ‘And I say, don’t worry about fertility specialists. That’s their job, to tell you to get on and have babies. I’m sure a liver specialist would tell us never to binge drink and heart consultants would say don’t cook with butter.’
Another clanging silence, even louder than the first. Ben smiles encouragingly. No wonder: I’ve taken his place in the shit.
‘You binge drink?’ Matt says, flatly, chasing some rocket round his plate.
‘Not – uh. I don’t down bottles of apple Corky’s and urinate on war memorials. I don’t regularly stick to two units at one sitting though. That’s normal, isn’t it?’
‘Not if you have children,’ Lucy says.
‘Of course, sleepless night … and so on,’ I offer.
‘And Miles is nearly four now, I don’t want him to be around us, drunk.’
‘Well,