Page 17 of Stella is Starting Over

She puts on an expression of warm neutrality. ‘Oh, that’s lovely.’

‘It’s really not.’

She laughs. ‘Okay, I mean, it’s not what I’d have chosen.’

‘My mum literally begged her to change it. I think she probably offered money; she’s convinced that he’s going to be bullied senseless at school.’

‘Oh, they’ve all got mad names, though the ones getting bullied will probably be called Harry or Tom.’

‘True, and the kid’s built like a brick shithouse so at least he’ll be able to hold his own.’

‘Yep, and you can make sure to teach him the art of a devastating one-liner and then he’s got it made.’

The garden is warm, warmer than it should be for this early in spring. It smells like trees and grass and optimism, and once again I am reminded that I should start taking a vitamin D supplement because everything in the world feels better on an evening like this. ‘How long have you lived here?’ I ask.

‘Just over a year,’ she replies. ‘We bought it when I was pregnant, did a load of work, then had the baby and sort of stopped. So the downstairs is great, the upstairs is fairly hideous.’

‘I’m sure it isn’t.’

‘Want to see?’

I’m taken aback. She’s looking straight at me, with a half-smile across her lips. She’s wearing a pink-brown lipstick which reminds me of the poster of Rachel Stevens from S Club 7 I had on my bedroom wall as a teenager, and I’m thinking about Rachel Stevens but I really shouldn’t be because, yes, I do want to see. I want to see her bedroom very much. I’d assumed, perhaps slightly sexistly, that she’d be nervous.

‘Yes,’ I say, trying to stop the stream of nonsense inside my head. I would.

I follow her upstairs, internally repeating to myself that of course I’m going to be able to get it up, she’s very attractive and I’ve only had one glass of wine. She closes the door opposite her bedroom, and as she does so I catch a glimpse of pink and floral. Clearly the baby’s room. I avert my gaze because somehow it feels invasive to even look; the baby hasn’t invited me in, after all. I follow Stella into a big bedroom, facing onto the garden. The floorboards have been stripped and painted white, the walls are pale blue and her bed has a sort of four-poster structure, almost like a goalpost.

She stands next to the bed and bites her lip, looking like she’s suddenly very unsure what to do. ‘You all good?’ I ask.

She nods. ‘Yes.’

I run my hands through her hair – it’s really spectacular hair – and down her body and then, for only the second time ever, I kiss her, full on the lips. Her tongue meets mine and I let my hands slide across her waist, gripping her firmly, waiting to see if I encounter anything less than marked enthusiasm. She keeps kissing me, which I take as a good sign, and I go to lift her up. She squeals and makes a pretence of being too heavy, which she absolutely isn’t, and then wraps her legs around my waist while we snog furiously. Eventually I drop her gently onto the bed and pull off my shirt. She looks up at me, her eyes lock into mine and then, to my complete and utter shock, she starts crying.

Not just one little tear sliding down her cheek – I’ve known women who weep like that a little bit when they’ve just come – a proper, heart-hurting, wrenching sob. And she doesn’t stop. For a second, I completely freeze. ‘Did I hurt you?’ I pat the bed to try work out if I’ve dropped her on something sharp or angular but there’s nothing, and she’s crying so intensely that I can’t make out what she’s saying.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask again, standing up and stepping back just in case I’m coming off intimidating or something. ‘I’m so sorry – did I. . .? What did I. . .?’ First Orla, now Stella. How do I keep making women cry?

‘Sorry,’ she says, through her sobs. She pulls herself up into a sitting position. There’s mascara running down her face so I search for a tissue, but there’s nothing. I hand her my shirt and she wipes her face with it, then realises it’s my shirt. ‘Sorry,’ she says again, and the sobbing restarts. ‘It’s not you – genuinely – it’s not you.’

‘Do you want a hug?’

She shakes her head and I take another step back. ‘Shall I wait for you downstairs?’

A nod confirms that this is the best course of action so I go downstairs, very aware of the effluvia on my shirt, and do the New York Times crossword on my phone, while replaying the last ninety minutes and trying to work out if there’s something I’ve missed and if so, how to apologise for it. A while later, I’m not totally sure how long, Stella comes downstairs, wearing the same outfit with a jumper on the top.

‘You’re still here,’ she says, surprised.

‘You said I could wait downstairs?’

‘Yeah, no, of course. I totally did, I just thought after that absolute freak show you’d probably have left.’

‘I wanted to check that you were okay.’

She goes to the fridge and takes out the bottle of wine we’d made a dent in earlier. She fills her own glass and then looks at me. ‘Do you want one?’ Mistaking my hesitation for a lack of enthusiasm, she says, ‘You really don’t have to.’

‘I’d like to, though.’

She fills both of our glasses and then takes a blue-and-white bowl of hummus out and puts it on the table, pulling a box of breadsticks – or rather, ‘grissini’ – from the cupboard and puts them in front of me. I’m starving and don’t wait to be asked.