Page 6 of Love at First Sight

Cal laughs. ‘Something like that,’ he says. ‘He makes sure I’m well looked after, put it that way.’

It’s a lovely place, sleek black and white floor, big tables with gingham tablecloths and tiny vases of sweet peas. The staff are casually dressed but matching, in Canadian tuxedos of blue jeans and denim shirts, short red aprons tied at the waist. It’s a relaxed vibe, making me feel right at home. A selection of small plates are brought over even though we haven’t ordered.

‘Good, right?’ Cal says, when I make a noise of approval: a sort ofmmmmomgyeswhoagrumble at the whipped goat’s cheese with local honey.

‘Heavenly,’ I say, going in for another bite. Cal looks at our waiter and says to bring whatever the chef’s choice is. I like it – I like that he’ll take the gamble and trust what comes. It bodes well. Not to read too much into it or anything.

Okay, fine, I’m reading into everything. If I could press these moments like flowers to keep forever, I would. I feelit in my bones: what is happening is important, and I will want to remember it all.

‘So then, after six weeks of this, going back and forth that way, it turns out that the fucking thingishis lawnmower, and all this time mine has been at Dave’s house gathering dust!’

We’re an hour in, and Cal is telling me a story about when he moved house and accidentally made an enemy of his eighty-six-year-old neighbour. He has me laughing so hard I am gripping my stomach.

‘Oh my god,’ I say. ‘That’s brilliant. Whoa.’ Cal’s gaze lingers on me as I wipe away a tear of laughter, but when I glance back up he looks away quickly. Then he sneaks another glance, and our eyes lock, making us both turn the colour of aubergines.

‘I can’t believe you’ve literally made me cry with laughter.’ I take a deep breath and fish in my bag for a tissue. ‘Oooooft!’

‘Well, there’s no crying in baseball,’ Cal says, fiddling with his napkin. ‘Or lawn maintenance.’

‘I’ve heard that saying before,’ I say, trying to place it. ‘There’s no crying in baseball. Where’s that from?’

‘A League of Their Own,’ Cal says. ‘Tom Hanks?’ He puts on a movie-announcer voice. ‘During World War Two, Dottie and Kit are drafted into a baseball league with several other women. Jimmy, an alcoholic and a former star, struggles to manage the team as they try to win games …Basically, one of the players gets upset after Tom Hanks criticises herplay, and he pops off. I use it far too much, and often in the wrong context. It’s annoying after a while, trust me. It’s just something my dad always says, and I guess it’s stuck.’

‘There’s no crying in baseball,’ I repeat, and Cal says, ‘Yeah. We use it as like,buck up, get on with things…’

‘Ah!’ I say, suddenly remembering. ‘Tough Mudder! I was doing an obstacle at an event, and the guy helping said it to me when I tried to wuss out.’ Cal cocks his head at me. ‘You know,’ I prompt. ‘Tough Mudder? A bunch of idiots get together to wade through rivers and climb in massive muddy trenches?’ I sigh at the memory – the gym lot persuaded me to do it, and I had bruises for weeks afterwards. It was good, though. Tough, but then the clue was in the name there, I suppose. ‘What was I thinking?’ I add. ‘But I enjoyed it, actually, once it was all over.’

‘It wasn’t at the castle, was it?’ Cal asks, brow furrowed with curiosity. And the way he looks at me, kind blue eyes sparkling with mischief, it hits me.

‘Nooooo!’ I say. ‘You? Are you the guy who helped me?’

‘I think so?’ he says, not quite sure of himself. ‘This is only a few months ago, right? I helped at the ice tank bit.’

‘Itwasyou!’ I search for the pieces of his face I can put together to fit with the image of the kind stranger in my mind. ‘You had on camo make-up …’

‘And you were muddy, even after an ice bath,’ Cal says, genuine marvel in his voice. ‘That’s mad.’

We sit in a startled silence, both shaking our heads and half smiling, half frowning as we try to establish how it’spossible we’ve randomly met for the second time during a Whole Foods fire alarm thirty miles away from a sporting event that happened months ago. Fate really is a determined thing.

A happy warmth spreads through me. They write songs about this kind of stuff – everything changing in a heartbeat and all that.

‘This is weird, right?’ Cal says. ‘What’re the chances?’

‘Like, a trillion to one.’

‘Eight trillion to one.’ He laughs.

‘Well.’ I lift my glass to cheers him. ‘Here’s to the random ways of the universe, and to never crying in baseball.’

We get into it all: Cal’s job at the council, his parents’ perfectly happy and loving marriage, what I do at the gym, and my work, too. Plus, my dream.

‘Basically,’ I explain, as we linger over pudding, ‘I love being a career nanny and it’s all I’ve ever known, but this idea I have, it feels bigger than me. And … oh god, I don’t know. Every few months I think I’ll apply for funding, but then I don’t. I lose my nerve, I suppose.’

We haven’t stopped talking. There hasn’t been a pause in conversation since we realised we’d crossed paths at Tough Mudder. Every time I worry he might be about to say he needs to head off, another topic of conversation comes up and we’re off again. It’s honestly a totally instant, deep connection. All those weddings I’ve been to where the groom proclaims in his self-written vows that when he met his partner he justknew… In this moment, on thisafternoon, I get it. It’s a fairy tale. And you can’t hold back from giving your all to a fairy tale. I know I’mreallyinto him, because Stray Kids is something exactly two other people have ever been told about. I trust India and Dad with my life, obviously, but for some reason I trust Cal, too. I feel like he’ll get it.

‘So it’s … a kids’ club?’ he asks.

‘Kind of, but kind of not. Basically, what I’ve observed in my nannying, and in line with what I studied at uni – childhood development, for those keeping score – I really think it’s vital for kids to have more independence than we give them. My dad talks about how, when he was a kid, he’d be out all day and only come home when it got dark. He’d be in the woods, making dens – making mistakes, come to that. And that’s just it. Millennials as caregivers, we’re so … careful. Understandably, considering we grew up with the bloody Soham murders in the headlines.’

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