Page 45 of The Good Part
‘Sensible,’ I say, feeling myself smile. ‘And did I uncover any?’
‘A few orange ones. I smoked at the time and you hated that. You didn’t like that I was a musician either.’
‘Oh? Why not?’
‘You’d dated a drummer and sworn off us for good.’
‘But you won me over.’
‘I won you over.’
His mouth is so expressive, I can’t help watching it as he talks. He’s got this broad smile, that shows in flashes. When he grins, it’s like a chain reaction spreading out across his face as the smile ripples into dimples in his cheeks, then creases around his eyes. He rubs his stubbled cheek with a hand, as though conscious of my gaze.
“Tell me more about your family, where you grew up in Scotland,’ I ask him.
‘Well, we lived on a farm, four miles from the nearest village. My dad was a farmer, my mum was the local postie. My best friend was a mangy sheep called Patrick.’
‘Who’s your best friend now?’ I ask.
‘You. Luckily you smell better than Patrick.’
‘I should hope so,’ I say, feeling myself grin as I twist a piece of hair around one finger.
‘I only ever told you about Patrick because you told me about Lisa.’
‘I told you about Lisa?’ I swivel my bar stool around towards him. Lisa was my imaginary friend, who lingered far longer than imaginary friends are supposed to. ‘I must really like you. I’ve never told anyone about Lisa.’
‘You really like me,’ Sam says. He catches my eye and now it feels as though he is flirting with me. I force myself to sit on my hands to stop myself from fiddling with my hair.
‘Apart from my obvious sheep-like qualities, what did you like about me then, when you first saw me in that karaoke bar?’
‘Well, I thought you were gorgeous, that goes without saying. But there was the way you held yourself, how you were with your friends, the way you sang my song. You sang it the way I always wanted it to sound.’ We bump knees, and when he looks at me, I feel a warm pull, like an invisible elastic band drawing me in. The woman he’s describing doesn’t sound like me. Shifting on my seat, I realise I’m fiddling with my hair again, so I reach for my drink instead. This French martini really is delicious, and I congratulate Future Me on her taste in both men and cocktails.
‘And what did I like about you?’ I ask, looking up at him from beneath lowered lashes.
He leans in slowly, then says, ‘I don’t know. Maybe when you remember, you’ll tell me.’ As he gets closer, I sense his warm, oaky smell, the hint of minty shower gel and freshly pressed linen.
‘Okay, some quick-fire questions, then, for old times’ sake,’ I say, clasping the bar to stop myself from leaning into his neck. ‘Favourite place?’
‘Our garden.’
‘Favourite song.’
‘“Giuseppe” by Grange.’
‘That means nothing to me. Did we sleep together on our first date?’
Sam clears his throat, and I realise how attractive I find him when he gets slightly embarrassed. ‘That depends on what you define as our first date. Plus, I don’t think it would be gentlemanly of me to say.’ I look up at him now and catch the flush of pink skin rising up his neck.
‘I’ll take that as a yes. Why don’t you write songs any more?’
While I was wallowing in bed, I googled Sam. I listened to all the songs he’s ever been credited with writing and discovered he hasn’t written anything with lyrics in over five years. He shifts in his seat. ‘That’s not a quick-fire answer. Can I pass on that one?’
‘Fine, you get one pass. What’s your favourite memory?’
‘With you, or from life in general?’ Our knees are touching again, and his forearm skims my hand on the bar.
‘Either,’ I say and he ponders this for a moment.
