Page 31 of Stella is Starting Over

‘What’s that? asks Richard. I blush, realising that I’m being very rude.

‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Just a friend of mine has started watching Pride and Prejudice. The really old BBC one. And I’m always saying it’s sort of filthy.’

‘The period drama? I wouldn’t have thought that would have sex scenes?’

I nod. ‘I mean, not in a literal sense, obviously, but just like, the vibe.’

‘Right,’ says Richard. ‘I’ll give it a watch some time.’

The tablecloths are white linen, there are candles on every table and the waiter places a heavy napkin in my lap. All around us are the clinking of glasses and happy, warm chatter. Everyone here looks expensive and polished. I feel a bit like I’ve won a competition and at the end of the evening I’ll be sent back to where I came from. The waiter (French, snooty, exactly what you want in a place like this) hands me a menu that doesn’t have any prices on it. Jesus.

‘Is this okay?’ Richard asks, possibly misreading my expression for distaste. ‘I wasn’t sure what kind of food you liked so I thought this would be a good choice, as it sort of does a bit of everything.’

The waiter brings a silver basket of baguette to the table, and a slab of butter. I almost have to smack my own hand away, forcing myself to wait politely to crack into it. The bread is warm and if I had one wish in this moment it would be for everyone else in here to go temporarily deaf and blind so I could eat the entire basket, plus ideally several pats of butter. Instead, I settle for taking one piece and delicately nibbling at it while Richard tells me about his work.

‘It’s not very creative, not like you,’ he says apologetically. ‘Honestly, when I left university, I realised that I didn’t have that vocation other people seemed to have, so I thought I might as well go into something lucrative, make as much money as I could and then perhaps retire early.’

‘Good plan,’ I say. ‘Pretty much the opposite of my system, which was to pick a terribly paid job in a dying industry, then really compound that decision by buying a house and then divorcing the person I bought it with.’

Richard looks sympathetic. ‘What did your ex do?’

‘Long story really, I think he sort of checked out when I was pregnant and he realised that it was never going to be properly about him any more. He had a difficult relationship with his dad and I wonder if maybe that was where it started, like he didn’t have a blueprint that he could follow.’

‘I meant for work,’ Richard says, after a brief pause.

‘Ah.’ I laugh. ‘Sorry. Though, that bit is actually equally awful. He used to work in insurance—’

‘That’s not a bad career.’

‘No, it’s not. But then he came home one night when I was pregnant and announced that he was quitting his job to become a full-time stand-up comedian.’

Richard winces like I’ve told him that Gavin lamped me or slept with my sister. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says earnestly.

Our food comes – he has the steak and I have the risotto. We watch as boats sail down the river, lights blinking as the sky gets darker. He tells me about his apartment, which is conveniently located mere minutes away. I tell him about my half-finished house in Dulwich and he asks about the plans for the renovations. He seems unsure whether or not he should ask about Rose, and skirts around the concept of her, which I get. I think I’d prefer that, really. Eventually we have coffee, they bring us macarons and we get the bill. Then we loiter outside the restaurant, standing in a pretty cobbled passage between the river and the city. I look up at him, feeling like I’m in every 1990s romcom I’ve ever watched.

‘Thank you for dinner,’ I say. I made a half-hearted pretence of wanting to pay for half and was then deeply relieved that he turned me down because my half would have blown Rose’s winter clothing budget. ‘I had a lovely time.’

‘I did too.’ He smiles. ‘You’re very different from the other women I’ve dated. In a nice way.’

This strikes me as surprising because I’m, broadly speaking, the same as most other women of my demographic – a Diet Coke and Taylor Swift loving, slightly insecure woman with a mild anxiety disorder and too much screen time.

‘You know, I have the rest of the night free,’ I say, the third glass of wine emboldening me. This is a good story, this is exactly how I want my first time post-Gavin to go. And Richard is a gentleman, so I’m going to need to at least slightly take the lead. ‘I don’t have a change of clothes for the morning but I’m sure we could work something out.’

Richard kisses me lightly on the lips, then pulls away and signals behind me. The same car that dropped us off is waiting.

‘That’s a very tempting suggestion,’ he says. ‘But I don’t like to rush things.’ The car draws up next to him and he opens the door. ‘I’ll be in touch this week. I’d very much like to do this again.’

I get into the car because I’m not sure what else to do, and before I can process what’s happening, the car is moving, Richard is still out on the pavement and I’m blinking at the street lights trying to work out if I just got rejected for sex.

Dominic

I’ve done some pretty experimental things in my time. I dated a girl who liked sex clubs, so spent most weekends dressed up in costumes, trailing her around ‘dungeons’ (usually working men’s clubs with dry ice machines) trying to see if I can spot anyone famous under their mask. I’ve been a very game third person in several different threesomes with both men and women. At university I let a very sweet girl named Alice do a wee on me because, apparently, she’d always dreamed about doing it. And yet somehow, being alone in Stella’s house while she’s out on a date with another man is making me feel like more of a pervert than any of that ever did.

If I’m totally honest, I was excited when I saw that she’d called and, given that it’s Thursday when her turd of an ex has her baby, I sort of assumed she’d say, ‘Hey, I know that attempt at a date went really badly but I’ve had a wine, do you want to come over and rail me?’ So getting here and finding her clearly ready to go out, with someone else, felt a bit. . . humiliating. I’m halfway through tidying up my toolbox (not a euphemism) when my phone rings.

It’s my sister.

‘I’ve messed up,’ she tells me, without any kind of introduction. ‘I left your address logged in on my Amazon Fresh and they’ve delivered you a load of nappies and wipes. Can you let the guy in?’