Page 9 of Love at First Sight

‘I understand that,’ says Cal. ‘London can chew you up and spit you out, can’t it?’

‘Yeah,’ says Naomi, sadly.

‘Would you like a hug?’ he offers. ‘If I hold out my hand you can climb down, and we can have a hug. I’m not a creep, I promise. You’re not alone, Naomi, do you hear me? Those two friends love you, and there’ll be people at your job who care about you too. You’ve had bad dates because they weren’t your person, okay? Your person is looking for you, and they need you to step down off thatwall and be safe so that they can find you. Can you take my hand, Naomi?’

Cal reaches out, and in a blur of motion Naomi grabs hold, gets lifted to the ground, and falls to a heap, crying uncontrollably, with Cal wrapped around her.

‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘You’re okay. I’m here, I’ve got you.’

I don’t know how much time passes. I sit on the path about ten feet from them, waiting. Naomi cries and cries, loudly at first, and then the noise dies down into a soft whimper. It gets dark. Cal doesn’t rush her, doesn’t push her, just lets Naomi sink into his lap so he can soothe her. I could almost fall asleep myself, until eventually, after about forty-five minutes, he motions to me and I perk up. Naomi has stopped crying. Cal points to the main road off from the towpath and mouthscab, so I get up and wait for a black taxi with its light on to approach, so I can wave it down.

Cal gently lifts Naomi up and, as the taxi pulls up to the kerb, Cal says to the driver, ‘The nearest A&E, please, mate.’ The hospital. He’s taking her to the hospital. Instinctively, I know I shouldn’t get in the taxi too – it would be too much, too claustrophobic for this poor, poor woman – so I stand there, mute, Cal looking at me and me looking at Cal, hoping he can read my mind. I want him to know he’s a hero. A total hero. I cannot believe a man like him exists. Thank goodness he was here.

He guides Naomi into the car, following close behind. I shut the door and Cal lifts a hand to wave through thewindow. He looks heartbroken, and sad, his skin wan and his eyes surrounded by dark circles, as if this past however long has drained the lifeblood from him. I wave back, watching them go. It’s only when I get home, numbed by worry for Naomi, and climb into bed, that I manage to emerge from my daze and realise: I don’t have Cal’s number, or know what his surname is. Nothing.

I’ve had the best day of my life with the man of my dreams, and now he’s gone without a trace.

Dammit.

3

Did you get any sleep?

India, my best friend of fifteen years, is almost more invested in what happened yesterday than I am. Case in point, she doesn’t wait for me to text her back before adding:Because I didn’t!

I FaceTime her from bed.

‘Honestly,’ she says, instead of saying hello. Her cotton-candy-coloured bangs fall across her doll-like face, and she uses her delicate fingers to push them out of her way. Imagine a sparrow made human: that’s India. ‘I just can’t get over this. My conclusion is this: you deserved a great date. After everything – your dad and Simone, Craig – you deserved that day, with that man.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, getting out of bed and putting on a pot of coffee. I don’t have work until school pick-up, because Henry – the seven-year-old I nanny for five days a week – spent the weekend at his dad’s. ‘But what now? I just … forget it ever happened? Use it as a sign to get back out there because good men and good datesdoexist? Because that doesn’t seem right. Honestly, India, this man. This man! It was justright. We were like peas in a pod. A hand in a glove. It justworked, you know? And to think Inearly didn’t leave the house. Not forgetting we already met at Tough Mudder! I can’t give up on this. I have to find him again. I just really have no idea how.’

I take a breath, my monologue over.

‘We’ll figure it out,’ India says consolingly. ‘We’re going to come up with a plan. I don’t know what plan, but there’s got to be something proactive we can do …’

‘Right?’ I say. ‘But I’ll be damned if I can figure it out.’

‘Leave it with me,’ is all she says.

I spend all day thinking about my Whole Foods man. I think of him as I get off the phone with India. I think of him as I throw open the windows and dust my shelves and change my bed linen. I think of him when I go to get coffee, wondering if the universe could ever be so kind as to have me bump into him again. He said he lives in Lower Clapton. Should I spend some time there to increase my chances? Is that weird? Go back to the restaurant he took me to? If I saw him and he said he’d been roaming the streets of Stoke Newington hoping to see me, would I think that was sweet or deranged? Hmmm. Deranged, probably. But how else can we cross paths?

I’m so lost in my own thoughts I’m almost late to pick up Henry. I can’t help but smile when I think of him. He’s so smart, and funny, and curious. I’ve known him since he was born. I work for Ali O’Hara, the newly single TV actress who most people know of but can never quite place, because she’s in a lot of programmes but never as the lead. She’s currently going through a divorce and is, not to puttoo fine a point on it, absolutely bonkers. We’re talking 3 a.m. phone calls, commandeering me as her cleaner, grocery shopper, style consultant, friend-for-hire, et cetera … I’d like to think that in other circumstances I’d put my foot down more, establish some boundaries. But with Ali it’s impossible, not least because she is a tour de force. But also, I owe her so very much. When Dad received his brain tumour diagnosis, she connected us to the best surgeons in the country, and gave me all the time off I needed to support him. When you add that to the fact that I would take a bullet for Henry – truly, I could not love him any more if I tried – I’m basically part of the family. A high-maintenance, dysfunctional family. And it’s not like I have a family of my own, no matter how many affirmations I write. My five-year relationship ended when Dad was sick, because Craig ‘couldn’t handle it’. Lucky for him he had a choice – I had to handle it whether I felt capable or not. He lives in Margate now, and is seeing a twenty-two-year-old. A twenty-two-year-old won’t ask much from him, which is how he likes it.

At thirty-five, I’ve resigned myself to probably never having my own children – not with the romantic trajectory I’ve been on – so I don’t know if it’s pathetic to latch on to Ali’s, or resourceful. But I write my daily positive affirmations, just in case, penning my dream life as if it already exists, because Oprah says that’s how to do it. I want my own family, a loving husband and someone to call me Mummy, and a house that isn’t in a basement. But if it doesn’t show up for me, I’ll be okay. Dad has his health,India is the best friend a girl could ask for, Ali and Henry add colour and unpredictability to my days …

If this is all there is, I think, climbing up to the top deck of the bus to see the front seat is free – well. It’s more than a lot of people get. Isn’t it?

I wait outside Henry’s private school in Finsbury Square, amongst the yummy mummies – and the odd daddy – sporting their caramel highlights and expensive leather, and the fellow nannies weighed down with snacks and rucksacks. There is a dividing line between the two camps, never to be crossed. We nannies nod and smile at one another, and resign ourselves to being ignored by the parents. I once spent a whole sports day afternoon talking with one of the dads, and when he said, ‘So, which one is yours?’ I answered by saying, ‘Henry, over there. I’ve looked after him since he was a baby.’ The bloke’s penny dropped so hard I was surprised his head didn’t crack open. Once he realised I was paid-for help, he suddenly had to go to the loo, and he hasn’t met my eye at the school gate since.

There’s a moment, every single day, when Henry comes out of school and I put my arms in the air to silently cheer at the sight of him. He breaks into a grin so wide and sincere I could bottle the feeling it gives me and sell it for millions as the best legal high going. He’s tall for his age, all legs and arms, and has two ‘grown-up’ teeth at the bottom of his mouth, which stand out because the rest of his teeth are still baby ones. His red hair and green eyesand smattering of freckles remind me of a children’s story with a cheeky lead – a boy who never quite does as he’s told. But Henry does. He’s a dream. He’s my best friend, basically. Just don’t tell India.

‘Jessie!’

He throws himself into my arms and I squeeze him tight. ‘How was your day?’ he asks, which is how I’ve trained him. He used to come out of school and the first words out of his mouth would be ‘Do you have a snack?’ Now he knows he at least has to feign politeness. To be fair, often his first words are ‘How-was-your-day-do-you-have-a-snack?’, so I consider this pause after his enquiry a win.

‘Stupendous,’ I say, brushing down his hair with a hand and holding out a zip-lock bag with a suckable yoghurt and some sliced apple. I see his face search for the treat I normally include: a biscuit or sliver of cake. ‘M&S café?’ I ask him. ‘I’ll give you a pound.’

‘Yes!’ he says, clenching his fist in victory. ‘I’m going to get a gingerbread person!’

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