All I could think of to say was, ‘How about you? Do you believe in ghosts?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know either. I sort of do. I believe most ghosts manifest through the living. While they’re remembered, they’re still alive in a way. Do you see what I mean?’
I nod. I know exactly what he means. It’s the underlying premise of Embers.
‘Anyway, I think my date must have got spooked because she hasn’t turned up,’ he laughed.
‘Oh, you’re meeting someone,’ I said, swallowing my disappointment.
He smiled as if he knew what I was thinking – as if he couldn’t blame me for thinking it. ‘I don’t think she’s going to show now. We were going to meet at eight. I stayed anyway for the band, but it turns out the lead guitarist is sick, so they’re not going to play. The whole evening has been a washout . . . until now.’
‘Was it a blind date?’ I asked, pointedly ignoring ‘until now’.
‘First time I’ve ever used Tinder,’ he said. ‘I might not use it again. This is her.’ He showed me the photo on his phone – a pretty, dark-haired girl in a red bikini, holding a champagne flute with immaculately manicured nails.
‘Too skinny. She looks horrible,’ I said, and he laughed.
‘Lucky escape, you think?’ he said, not taking his eyes from mine.
‘Maybe,’ I agreed. And I realised that I was flirting and that it felt good. It felt familiar and easy talking to him, and it seemed natural and not at all strange when he joined Gaby and me at our table.
He was soon making us both laugh. He was polite and friendly to Gaby, but made it clear it was me he was interested in, which I couldn’t help but find flattering, and when Gaby announced she was tired and ordered a taxi, he suggested that I stay a bit longer. He said that he could give me a lift home.
Alone with Luke, the conversation didn’t flag, as I thought it might. It seemed to flow naturally. We talked about everything and anything – books, movies, politics, his travels around Europe when he left university and the scrapes he got into. Though now I come to think of it, he didn’t say much at all about his life now. About where he lived or worked.
At the time I didn’t notice. I was too busy thinking this man was so attractive, and had a great personality. Too good to be true. And when he dropped me outside my house, I didn’t think twice about inviting him in for a coffee.
‘You live here alone?’ he asked, standing in my kitchen, watching me in a way that made me fumble with the tap as I filled the kettle. He shifted only a little as I brushed past him to the fridge and I caught a whiff of aftershave and something that made me feel weak with lust.
I backed away, startled by the physicality of my feelings. Gaby was right. It had been too long.
‘No. I live with my son. But he’s not here at the moment. He’s with my ex. He’s five years old.’ I showed him a picture on my phone, glad of the excuse to talk about something safe and about as far from sex as possible.
‘No kidding,’ he beamed. ‘My boy’s five too.’
‘And his mother?’ Warning bells should have been ringing, but they weren’t.
‘Oh, we split up a few months ago.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I imagined I saw a hint of sadness in his eyes. Some idiot broke his heart, I thought.
‘Don’t be,’ he said bravely. ‘It’s a fresh start. A chance to date other women. Play the field. Though I’m quite glad that my date didn’t turn up tonight.’ He gave me a meaningful look and I was suddenly ambushed by another strong wave of lust.
The kiss, when it came, felt inevitable. His lips were soft and tasted of whisky. The kettle hissed and steam poured from the spout, but we carried on kissing, lost in the moment. And when his hand stole up my thigh, I didn’t think about cellulite or about Theo or Dylan. I didn’t really think much at all. And I don’t remember how we ended up there, but somehow we found our way from the kitchen to my bedroom in a tangle of limbs and clothes.
‘Okay?’ he murmured, just before he pushed me down on the bed. I didn’t answer, just pulled him towards me, unbuckling his trousers and running my hands over the smooth, pale skin of his stomach.
I remember him holding me afterwards, and the feeling of skin against skin after so long was so sweet it was close to pain.
‘Thank you,’ I said – or something stupid like that because, in the moment, I did feel absurdly grateful.
‘No . . . thank you,’ he said.
Then I must have drifted off to sleep because the next thing I knew he was shaking me awake and the sunlight was streaming in through the window.
‘You have to go to work on a Saturday?’ I grumbled, still half asleep. What kind of job have you got where they make you work on a Saturday?’
He laughed gently. ‘I’ve got a meeting with some clients about a building I’m designing. I can’t be late. It’s a really important contract, but I’ll call you, okay?’
Of course! Why didn’t I remember that earlier? I turn away from the window, from the rain and root in my pocket for the phone number that Littlewood gave me. Then I pick up the phone and
