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That
and his eyes, gorgeous smile, strokeable hair, the way his jacket
followed the contours of his biceps, his long legs that were
obviously very fit… I drained my water glass and asked for more
with lots of ice.
    ‘Can we also order a dozen of the Fine de
Claire oysters, please?’ he asked the waiter when he returned to
the table. ‘Nice way to start the meal, eh?’
    Sure it is, if you don’t mind the sensation
of swallowing large gobs of snot. ‘I’m sure they’re delicious,’ I
said. Not to mention still alive. ‘You go ahead with them.’ Don’t
mind the wriggling. ‘I’ll have a goat’s cheese tart or
something.’
    ‘But I thought you loved them. You smuggled
them into school one day for your mates to try. Don’t you remember?
You nearly got expelled.’
    That’s right. It was big news when Christy
did that. What a pretentious little show-off.
    ‘Oh yes, well. That’s the problem. I ate too
many. Positively gorged myself. I’m sick to death of them now. You
enjoy them though.’
    So that was that. The point of no return. I
was officially Christy sodding Blake. I’d have felt worse about it
if my stomach wasn’t flipping with excitement.
    The conversation galloped along for hours,
until we were the last diners in the restaurant.
    ‘Pudding?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes, cupcake?’
    ‘Would you like pudding?’ He handed me the
menu as the waiter hovered. ‘You must miss speaking French.’
    ‘Mm, hmm,’ I said, studying my options.
    ‘I’m sorry I’m hopeless at languages.
Otherwise we could talk together. But you can at least order in
French.’
    As if.
    But the waiter nodded, poised to take my
order. ‘ Je vous écoute, madamoiselle? ’
    He seemed to be waiting for an answer. If
only I was sure of the question. Jack stared at me. The words were
right there on the menu but I had no idea how to pronounce them. Mille feuilles ? Was that Milly Fuilly, the French cousin to
the 80s lip-synching duo? I had no clue. I never really got along
well with French. There were too many tiny words to keep track of –
oo, ay, la, sa, vous, coup. I knew about three useful words. One
was merde , which probably wasn’t on the menu. ‘Er, où
est… ça ?’
    The waiter looked confused. ‘ Où
est …?’
    I pointed to the menu.
    ‘ C’est dans la cuisine,
mademoiselle ,’ he said.
    That didn’t clear up anything. Frantically I
scanned the list for something I could pronounce. Aha! ‘Sorbet,
civilplay!’
    ‘ Lequel, madamoiselle? Nous avons mangue,
citron, pêche ou la noix de coco .’
    Cocoa sorbet? That sounded like ice cream to
me. ‘Coco, civilplay, danka. What’ll you have, Jack?’
    ‘The lemon tart, please,’ he said, frowning.
‘I guess you lose a bit when you don’t speak a language
regularly.’
    I tried laughing and eventually Jack smiled
along. Phew. ‘Yeah. I didn’t realize how rusty I was. More
wine?’
    I filled our glasses, resolving to avoid all
French people in future.
    When the bill came I pulled out my purse.
‘Please, let’s split it,’ I said, withdrawing my debit card.
    ‘No, please, Christy, it’s my treat.’ He
began peeling bills from the wad in his money clip just as I caught
sight of my name on my card. My name. Not Christy’s. Merde .
My hand froze.
    ‘Well, at least let me pay the tip,’ I said,
digging a ten pound note from my purse. ‘And I insist you let me
pay next time.’
    In cash, of course.

Chapter 5
     
    There was no repeat of The Language Issue, as
I’d dubbed my French faux pas, and Jack and I settled into a lovely
dating routine. I use words like settled and routine ,
but it felt as far from those things as I’d ever imagined.
    Before I knew it, we’d been out nearly every
night for two weeks. Each date drew us deeper into each other’s
lives. He rang every morning. We didn’t go to sleep without saying
goodnight. I didn’t ask where things were heading in the broader
sense and neither did he. But it was coming, I could tell.
    It’s