Page 13 of Stella is Starting Over

I ladder the first pair of super-sheer ones that I ordered during a 3 a.m. scroll while feeding Rose because I’d read that super-sheer was what the cool girls were doing – as if I was either cool or a girl at this point. I’m on my second pair of tights and have now emotionally committed to wearing a skirt when I realise that I’m about to be really bloody late. I pull on a black skirt, knee boots, a white T-shirt and a jumper, and decide that while this isn’t a great outfit, I don’t look insane. I look like a human woman who is going out for a drink, and that’s just going to have to do. I dash some more lipstick on because the original application is now all over the inside of the clothes I’d tried on, and call an Uber because I’ve left it too late to take the Tube.

Dom has told me to meet him at a wine-shop-cum-bar a ten-minute drive away. I googled it to make sure that it wasn’t some kind of crack den or human trafficking location and it showed a very pretty French place calling itself a ‘cave’, on the corner of a tree-lined street. It must have opened while I was pregnant with Rose and therefore actively avoiding places serving the wine I really wanted to drink but couldn’t. It apparently does French wines and small plates, and has delighted reviews from dozens of people. Only when I arrive, it looks like they’re hosting a premiere because there are crowds and crowds of people standing outside. I pause, trying to work out what the hell is going on, when Dom comes up behind me.

‘Jesus,’ he says. ‘What the fuck?’

‘Hi,’ I say, looking up at him through my eyelashes because I read once in a teen magazine that it’s sexy. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ he says, clearly slightly distracted. ‘Sorry – I just can’t work out what’s going on – why is every single person in London here? Can I get you a drink? You look great, by the way.’ He kisses me on each cheek, still looking slightly dazed. We battle our way towards the door and he holds it open for me.

He catches the attention of the very pretty waitress with a septum piercing. ‘Hi,’ he says, leaning in so she can hear him. We have a table for 7 p.m.?’

The waitress looks guilty. ‘I’m so sorry but we’ve gone viral so we’ve stopped doing reservations.’

We both look blankly at her. ‘Someone made a TikTok about us,’ she explains slowly, realising that we’re out of the loop. ‘So now we’ve got too many people trying to get in and we’re doing first-come, first-served. You can take a drink outside if you want?’

Dom and I exchange glances. I’m very ready for a drink, and clearly so is he. Eventually the waitress gets us a bottle of Mâcon-Villages (we’re not risking having to come back in here again) and we go outside. He holds the glasses between his legs while he rebalances all our stuff, and arranges it on the little table attached to the side of the building. ‘Are you sure it’s not too cold?’ he asks.

‘No, no, I’m fine,’ I say.

‘I can ask them to turn that heater on,’ he offers. ‘Though I’ll probably be there for about three hours.’

‘Don’t,’ I say. ‘I like being outside. I stood outside with my husband on our first date and that was January.’ Why the fuck have I said that? Why is, like, the fifth thing I’ve said to this man in our entire experience of each other the words ‘my husband’. What is wrong with me? This is why I wasn’t supposed to go on a real-life date.

Dom looks surprised. ‘Husband?’

I’d given a lot of thought to how I was going to raise the concept of being a mother. Some terrifying article I read at four in the morning last week told me that predatory men will target single parents.

But while I’d spent all the time deciding how I would broach the topic of Rose, it had totally escaped me that I might need to mention that I’m still legally married and in the process of getting divorced.

‘Yeah,’ I say, focusing on the rim of my wine glass. ‘I was married. I mean, technically, on paper, legally I’m still married. I’m getting divorced but it’s this, like, insanely time-consuming process so it’ll be literally ages until I’m technically single.’

‘I’m not feeding you a line,’ Dom responds. ‘But you seem pretty young to be divorced.’

‘Well, again, not divorced, getting divorced, and also thank you, and also, yeah. I got married at twenty-five.’

‘Fuck me.’ Dom whistles. ‘Well, that’ll do it.’ He looks at me for a minute, like he’s considering whether to say something or not. ‘This is a nightmare. I was, too.’

‘You were what?’

‘Married.’

This is a genuine shock. I look down at his left hand which doesn’t have a ring, or the indent of a ring. My finger is still narrower at the base than anywhere else, where my wedding and engagement ring trained it to be smaller. His isn’t.

He sees where I’m looking. ‘It wasn’t very long. We got married really young, like you. We met at school, got married out of uni, everyone said we were mental and it turned out they were right because it was a disaster.’

‘How old were you?’ I ask.

‘Twenty-three,’ he replies.

‘Oh, fuck you.’ I laugh. ‘I was twenty-five and people are usually like, so impressed with me being a child bride.’

‘I won’t lie,’ he smiles, ‘I do automatically dislike anyone who beats me on the getting-married-young front.’

‘So what happened?’ I ask. ‘Apart from the fact that you were too young to rent a car, let alone get married?’

He looks up at the sky, then takes a deep breath. ‘I cheated on her. And then she cheated back, which I guess she had every right to do, and then we cheated on each other, until eventually she’d shagged my best friend and I’d slept with a load of women I didn’t even like, and we took a look at each other and realised we were ruining our lives.’ He takes another sip of wine. ‘Sorry, that’s a lot. I don’t usually tell people that. Actually, I never tell anyone that. Have you put something in my drink?’

I laugh. ‘No. I’m sorry though, that sounds really hard.’