He’s still laughing as Sarah and I dash across the road. Outside the bar, I grind to a halt. It’s suddenly struck me that I’m about to meet the guy that I’ve thought about for the last twelve or so years. I’m panic-stricken. I clutch Sarah for reassurance as I enter.
I approach a barman who looks like the car hire guy’s younger brother. Have they lowered the legal age to sell alcohol to twelve? I feel like my gran.
I try to speak, but the saliva in my mouth has turned to glue and my tongue can’t move.
Sarah steps in. ‘Excuse me. Does Nick Russo work here?’
‘Naw, he disnae work here,’ he replies.
My hopes plummet.
But the barman isn’t finished. ‘He owns the place.’
‘Is he here?’ Holy crap, have I actually found him? I can’t believe it. Thank God Sarah is with me because I’d still be stumbling over my words.
The barman shakes his head. ‘He won’t be in till t’night.’
I finally regain the power of speech. ‘Tell me, does his wife work here too?’
Sarah looks at me, proud of my astuteness.
‘His wife? Naw, Nick’s nae married, love.’
I exhale loudly. I hadn’t even realised that I was holding my breath.
We thank him and leave. As soon as we’re out of sight, we look at each other and shriek. Passers-by stop and stare as we hug, jumping up and down.
‘Half an hour, Sarah, that’s all it took. You’re a genius. I love you, love you, love you.’
An old woman shakes her head and mutters, ‘Oooh, there’s two of those gay people, Martha. What do you call them? Has-beens?’
‘Lesbians, Ethel, lesbians.’
We collapse in a heap. This beats normal life any day of the week.
At eight o’clock, we enter Russo’s and ask for a table. I should be feeling calmer now that I’ve had all day to prepare, but the passing hours have had the opposite effect. My insides are churning and I’m smoking. Lots.
I’m wearing a white T-shirt, black boots and black leather trousers. Kate looked so good in the same outfit at the party that I’ve decided to copy her. It’s a big mistake – from the back, I look like a two seater sofa and I’m sweating so much that it’ll take a week to get them off. And my hair has rebelled against the product I’d used to flatten it down and now looks like I’ve travelled here on a motorbike – kind of Meg Ryan after electric shock treatment.
I scan the room, but there’s nobody that even resembles Nick. What am I thinking? It’s been a million years. I could win him in a raffle and I wouldn’t recognise him.
We order two wines. Bottles, that is.
‘Will you be eating, madam?’ the waitress asks.
Sarah takes charge. ‘We’ll just have an Americano pizza to share, please.’
I say another prayer of thanks that Sarah is with me. I couldn’t have done this without her. We check out every man in the room. Not one of them could be him.
The waitress returns with the pizza and I take my chance.
‘I wonder if you could possibly get the owner for us. Tell him that we have a complaint.’
‘But you haven’t even tried your pizza yet,’ she looks puzzled. ‘Did it take too long?’
‘No, it’s nothing to do with the food or the service. I’d rather discuss it with the owner.’
She shrugs her shoulders and leaves, obviously thinking that we’re neurotic tourists.
‘What are you doing?’ Sarah hisses.
‘I can’t wait any longer. My trousers are going to melt or shrink if I don’t get this over with.’
Three minutes later (I count the seconds), a door opens behind the bar and the waitress points in our direction. She stands to one side and there he is. Nick Russo is walking towards us.
Please God, don’t let me have a heart attack now – not until I’ve at least spoken to him.
I study him as he approaches. His hair is now flecked with grey, his face a little haggard. He’s broader than he was back then, and dressed top to toe in black. He’s still attractive, but no longer drop-dead gorgeous. He used to be David Ginola. Now he’s more like a bloke that occasionally plays Sunday league.
He frowns as he stops at the table.
‘Ladies, I’m Nick Russo, the owner here. I believe you have a complaint?’
That voice. I melt, before summoning all my strength to formulate words. English, Cooper, English.
‘Yes, we do. We just think it’s ridiculous that old friends aren’t welcomed with a personal greeting.’
‘Old friends? I’m sorry, do I…?’ He stops, confused.
Please recognise me. If you don’t, I’m going to go outside and crawl under a stone.
‘Benidorm,’ Sarah helps him.
He swings his head back round and stares at me.
‘Carly? Fuck, Carly Cooper.’ Well, at least he remembers that bit.
He sits down next to me and crushes me in a bear hug.
‘Carly Cooper. What are you doing here?’
I disentangle myself.
‘Well, I waited ten years for you to come for me and you didn’t. Then I decided to give you the benefit of the doubt and waited another two, in case you had trouble tracking me down. Finally, I gave up and thought I’d come here and make it easy for you.’
‘You’re kidding.’ He looks shocked and confused. And so do the entire staff of the establishment as they stare incredulously.
I laugh. ‘Yes, of course I’m kidding. Sarah and I are up here for a break and we saw the bar and figured it must be you.’
I’ll never pass a lie detector test.
He leans over and gives Sarah a kiss. He keeps shaking his head. ‘I can’t believe this – it’s brilliant. Can you stay? Have dinner with me. Where are you staying? How long for?’
‘Yes, okay. The Old Course Hotel and a couple of days.’
He orders a bottle of champagne and more food and we start to swap stories. Benidorm is first. Then we move on to fill in the gaps of the last twelve years.
Nick tells us that he married his childhood sweetheart
