Page 14 of Stella is Starting Over

‘Yeah. Largely my own making. But not an easy time. I kind of realised towards the end of it that I wasn’t ready to be anyone’s husband, so I’ve tried to avoid it since.’

‘I get that. The idea of my clothes in the same washing machine as someone else’s, or my books on the same shelf, makes me feel like I’m going to throw up.’

He laughs, and I sense that I’ve said the right thing.

‘Yeah,’ Dom says. ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like the idea, for one day. I’d love to use my DIY skills to play house with someone but I just don’t seem to be there yet, on any other front, apart from putting curtain rails up. Is this your first date since you became single?’

I decide that I’m in for a penny, in for a pound at this point. ‘This is technically the first first date I’ve ever been on,’ I reply.

‘This? Me?’ He looks genuinely aghast. ‘It’s your first ever first date and I’ve brought you to the outside of a TikTok-trendy wine bar? Shame on me. Absolutely dreadful.’

‘Well, maybe if there’s a second you can do something more impressive,’ I suggest. There’s a flash of something across his face, something like concern. ‘Don’t worry,’ I add. ‘I meant what I said before. I’m not looking for anything serious.’

‘It’s not that,’ he replies, refilling both of our glasses. ‘I was just internally panicking about what I could do to impress you on a second date.’

I smile. ‘I’d be happy with something really simple, just like jaunt over to Paris, a quick browse around Harry Winston, a night at the Plaza Athénnée, that kind of thing.’

‘Phew.’ Dom smiles. ‘I was worried you’d want to fly long haul.’

We both laugh at this only medium-funny exchange, I think at the relief of having diffused a moment of tension.

‘The “not looking for anything serious” thing is also helpful,’ he adds. ‘Because I know how this sounds, but I just—’ He breaks off. ‘I know my own limitations, you know. I’m really over accidentally hurting people.’

‘Ready to hurt people on purpose?’ I quip.

‘Yep, yeah, just really hoping to do some deliberate emotional damage going forward.’ He smiles.

‘It says that on your profile though, right? That you’re not looking for anything serious or long term?’ I say, frowning. Have I mixed him up with someone else?

‘Sure,’ he says. ‘But sometimes people think that might change, or it’s just a temporary thing, or—’

‘I’m inclined to believe people when they say they’re not in a position to get into a relationship,’ I say. ‘Possibly because I’m not in a position to offer anything meaningful. My life is an absolute shitshow.’

He laughs. ‘At least you’re self-aware.’

‘Yeah, well, I think about myself almost non-stop,’ I say. I’m surprised by how much I like him. In the last half-hour he’s taken me to an overfilled bar where we don’t have a reservation and then told me that he cheated on his wife, and that he doesn’t ever want to commit to anyone, and yet somehow – maybe it’s just how totally honest he’s been – it’s endearing.

He leans down, brushes my fringe away from my face and then very gently presses his lips to mine. I freeze for a moment, trying to remember how you do this. I kiss him back and he takes my enthusiasm as an invitation, meeting my tongue with his. I feel it as much between my legs as I do between my lips, and, for a second, I worry that my knees might actually unlock and leave me lying on the cold, grey pavement.

I pull back, grinning. ‘First first kiss in a decade,’ I say.

‘You’re welcome,’ he replies.

Dominic

I cycle into the office on a Lime bike because it’s warm outside and I’m fully committed to the spring vibes. Then, halfway through the cycle, I realise that I’m seeing Stella tonight and curse myself. Why would I cycle when I have a date? Specifically, why would I cycle when I have a date with Stella who is a) brilliant and b) has been very clear that we’re going to have sex. I can’t turn up at her house with bike crotch.

It might sound unromantic but I find her approach deliciously refreshing. We’ve been sending each other filthy messages since our date last week, and a couple of days ago she told me she had the house to herself on Thursday night and she wondered if I wanted to come over. And then, when I said that sounded nice, she launched into a long stream of conversation about how she’d like to have sex but it was totally fine if I didn’t and there was no pressure or expectation, a stream of consciousness that only ended when I told her that I’ve thought of basically nothing else since we first met and that, yes, I would really like to fuck. So now I’ve got all the excitement at the prospect of going there, and none of the lingering dread I usually get that I’ve misread the situation and I’m set to massively embarrass myself.

At the office I make a cafetière of coffee for everyone – or rather, three cafetières, while regretting offering to make everyone coffee. We have a meeting about a building where the client wants to put bathrooms on every other floor to save money (illegal, as well as mean) and at lunchtime I nip into Boots to buy some condoms and a packet of baby wipes in case I’ve got a sweaty sack from cycling, and the nice wine shop down the road from Boots for a tasteful bottle of ‘thanks for having me over’ wine. The afternoon passes painfully slowly; I spend most of it looking out of the window at Clerkenwell Green and the bright late-winter sunshine casting shadows on the tombstones. But eventually it’s six, and I can leave.

This is not my first rodeo, as Georgie would say. It’s not even my hundredth rodeo, I don’t think. But I’m nervous. I’m always nervous. I want this to go well, I want us both to enjoy it. I want us to have mutually gratifying sex (ideally far better than what she was having with her ex-husband because I’m nothing if not competitive) and then enjoy a peaceful night’s sleep before agreeing that this was fun and we should do it again in a month or so. I get on the train at Farringdon, headed towards Dulwich, and then follow Google Maps from the station.

When I arrive at the address she’s given me, I stop, stand and look at the building, trying to work out how I could have got the address wrong because there’s no way this could be her house. It’s an old Victorian house with an SUV on the drive. I go to WhatsApp and check, but yes. This is it. This is the address she gave me. Then I look on Google Maps to be completely sure that there aren’t two Murphy Streets in Dulwich, but there aren’t. This is it. Maybe it’s her parents’ place and she’s house-sitting? Or inherited it? I’m just psyching myself up to press her high-tech doorbell when the door opens.

‘The neighbours will ring the police if you stand there long enough,’ says Stella, smiling at me. She’s wearing a white top, low cut and pretty, with jeans and bare feet. Her toenails are pale pink.

‘I thought I had the wrong place,’ I say. ‘This is insanely. . . grown-up.’