Page 46 of Am I Allergic to Men?
I shrug. ‘I’d have been none the wiser. I’d probably have thought I was hallucinating you.’
Tony laughs. He’s immediately likeable, there’s just something behind his blue eyes too that’s immensely calming.
‘So, you want me to bring it all back for you?’ he asks.
‘If you could. And I’ll get this out the way too. Did we sleep together?’
Tony puts his head down on the table, almost in sadness.
‘Well, that tells me all I need to know about the quality of the sex if you’ve wiped that from your memory.’
It’s my turn to laugh now, glad he’s been able to turn that into a joke and not be offended.
‘We did, Lucy. Many times. I think we were almost dating for a while but you know what university relationships can be like. We promised not to put labels on it. It was like friends with benefits when we were drunk and in the same room.’
Oh. I look down at my beer bottle, now slightly panicked. That is not what the intention of today is at all. This is an avenue I’ve not explored. I’ve not had sex since the accident. Maybe good sex would help? An orgasm and a sudden rush of blood to the head would fix everything. But suddenly I feel quite unprepared. I’ve forgotten everything so have no skill set, only those I’ve acquired from having slept with a handful of people at sixth form. I also have not paid much attention to my personal grooming. When you’re hit by a bus then your bush doesn’t become the priority. I didn’t care much when I was in the pool either, the whole world was welcome to gawp if they wanted. Tony senses my panic and puts a hand in mine.
‘It’s OK. I wasn’t going to suggest we do it in the back seat of your dad’s car.’
My eyes widen.
‘I saw him on the way in. We had a chat. I invited him in but he was mid-sudoku so turned me down,’ he says, chuckling.
‘So you’ve met my family? That’s pretty serious?’ I ask.
‘I spent Christmas with you guys. The story starts that we met at university at a club. We both worked there – you were a dancer and I worked the bar and did the odd DJ gig. We used to have dance-offs to entertain the punters. You should see me work a pole.’
I knock my head back in laughter.
‘It was a posh club. That job paid off our loans. But what we had was just a meeting of minds of two people who got along and had a laugh. We flirted for weeks then eventually got together and had some fun.’
He shifts his eyes around, trying to lighten the mood. He picks up on the old disco tune in the background and circles his shoulders around. OK, he has some moves. I join in tentatively with this table dance as he uses his hand to beckon me to get more involved. I can sense why there may have been an attraction there, he’s charming, cheeky. Old Lucy would have danced and got drunk with that man, for sure. You can picture it. The dancing would not have been subtle but oh my days, the joy, the laughter.
‘I was there when you had your first tattoo done. You screamed at me the whole way through and called me a load of swear words then went back and got your next one two weeks later…’ he recalls. ‘And after that, we just hung out. I liked that you didn’t want to label what he had, we were young and just working things out, but, for ages, you were a ride or die. I adored you. Scrap that, I adore you.’
‘A ride or die is a good thing?’
‘It is. Someone you would show up for, whatever. I met your family after we did a Christmas club gig. For that one, I had to dress up as an elf… don’t judge, I’m ashamed I went there myself but the money was off the scale… You were sexy Mrs Claus. We did the Eve shift which meant we got, like, triple pay but it saw us end work at four a.m. so we crawled to your mum and dad’s for lunch…’
‘My mum likes you…’
‘I’m good with mums. I beat her at Scrabble that night, which apparently never happens but that’s because I kept topping up her sherry glass. She was wasted by the end. Your dad and Danny had to carry her upstairs… they dropped her and that’s why the light fitting at the bottom of your stairs doesn’t work any more…’
He speaks about all these people in my life so casually like he knows them all, like he’s invested in my life, and, for a moment, I feel guilty not to be able to return that friendship, unable to ask him about his life and family.
‘And so Rome? What’s the deal?’
‘I studied Italian and philosophy at uni. I then went on to do my doctorate and now I live in Rome, I lecture, I drink a lot of very very good wine.’
‘Are you married? Kids?’
‘No. There are women but I continue to not put a label on things. Life is good, Luce.’
He reaches for his phone on the table and opens up some photos. ‘You visited me about a year ago for a weekend. We went to a gig and hung out.’ He clicks on a photo of me on a sun-drenched terrace, wearing a wide-brimmed hat with a pizza as big as the moon in front of me. All these pictures show me someone who is so perfectly happy, so relaxed and carefree. I just wish I could remember where it all came from. I wish I could remember why I didn’t want to stay with this lovely man here who’s obviously smart, sweet and who I clearly had some form of connection with.
‘And did we do the thing?’
‘Last year? The sex? I believe we did. Again, slightly offended that’s not etched into memory… we did it on a balcony, we gave the neighbours’ grandmother a nervous breakdown when she caught sight of us… I had to move.’
