Page 43 of Stella is Starting Over

‘Do you want to go back?’

This strikes me as a very weird question, so I stop eating. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I can’t wait.’

He nods. ‘That’s good, then.’

‘You seem surprised,’ I say.

‘No, not at all,’ he counters. ‘I had just assumed you’d be at home with your daughter for longer.’

‘I mean, I have to earn a living.’

‘Of course. I misspoke.’ He refills both of our wine glasses.

‘Most women do go back to work, you know,’ I add. I don’t think he meant to say something hurtful but anyone who’s ever had a baby and a job knows how dangerous this territory is, how there are landmines under every inch of this conversation.

‘I know, I know,’ he says. ‘And if you love what you do then, of course, that’s right. I think I had always had it in my head that I’d want to provide enough for any family I had that my partner could work or not work, but have it be a choice. If that makes sense.’

I nod. I’m being overreactive here. That’s a nice thing to say. He is a nice man. ‘That sounds like a great plan,’ I say. ‘Do you want children?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I feel it’s a bit of a failure that I haven’t managed it yet, but I very much would like a family. Ideally a large one.’

‘Large?’ I laugh. ‘How large are we talking? Football team? Rugby team?’

He laughs too. ‘No, I think three would be wonderful. Though I’m aware you can’t really plan for these things entirely.’

‘I always wanted three,’ I agree. ‘My sister and I were always desperate for a brother, but my mum had us within a year of each other and, understandably, she was very much done with the baby thing.’

‘And you?’

‘Me?’

‘Are you done? With the baby thing?’

I look at him, and at his beautiful flat, and I think about creepy Beau trying to put his finger up my crack and my mum crying because of the Calpol, and shunting Rose between two houses. ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m not.’ I take a breath. ‘I think one day I’d like to do it again, and have it work the conventional way. Where you don’t get divorced.’

Richard nods. ‘I think that sounds lovely.’ He takes a breath. ‘To that end, I wondered if we might discuss something. This is rather American of me but I do prefer clarity. And I wanted to say that I very much enjoy your company and I’m not currently seeing anyone else. I’d like to focus my attentions on getting to know you better. To the exclusion of anyone else. And I wondered if you might be interested in doing the same.’

Gosh. My first reaction, which probably isn’t the absolute ideal reaction to a nice, handsome man asking me to be exclusive, is to wonder why he sometimes talks like he’s been written by AI. Oh god, what if he prepped for this conversation by asking ChatGPT what he should say? I try to smack the idea away. He is not using generative AI to ask me to be exclusive. He’s a good person. A good man. A good prospect, if we’re going to be a bit Jane Austen about it, and yes, okay, it’s quicker than I’d planned and it’s not the period of wild exploration I’d claimed to want, but am I really going to turn down something perfect because of the timing? When I left uni, before I moved to London and met Gavin, I got offered a job at a printmakers down the road from my parents’ house, literally the ideal job. But I wanted to go to Ibiza with my mates for a month, so I turned it down, and then a year later I was still temping and applying for jobs even tentatively related to interior design, which taught me a pretty salutary lesson about assuming chances will come back around.

I’ve never had the exclusivity chat before. Gavin and I just spent all our time together so there wasn’t anyone else to shag, and then by the time we lived together it sort of seemed implied. I’ve had friends agonise over how to raise it, when to raise it. I thought in the brave new world of app dating this was supposed to take months and months. And the whole idea was that I wasn’t going to date anyone properly, that I was going to do the mantourage and fill my roster. Only I tried that and it wasn’t exactly a raging success. So maybe. . .

‘I’d like that,’ I hear myself say. ‘Very much.’

Richard smiles. He toasts me, then leans over and kisses me. I’m paranoid that I taste of steak, but I kiss him back, and feel warmth spreading through my body. I look up at him, through my eyelashes, the wine warm in my blood.

‘Do you want to show me the bedroom?’ I smile.

He kisses me again. ‘Eventually,’ he says. ‘But I don’t want to rush you. I know you’re not like that.’

I kiss him back. Like what? I’m not like what?

Two hours later, after a lot of snogging but literally nothing more than snogging (and, eventually, a slice of Basque cheesecake that he’d bought from some very bougie bakery), I call Lou.

‘You will literally never guess what just happened,’ I say, as she picks up the phone.

‘What?’ she asks.

‘I went to see Richard—’