Page 86 of Never Gonna Happen

Mark was waiting in the bistro when Emily arrived, a bottle of red wine and two glasses already on the table. It was hard not to be annoyed by his assumption that she would happily drink his choice of wine, and Emily was tempted to order an umbrella-festooned cocktail just to remind him that she was her own woman. But she pushed the irritation aside; she was here to solicit Mark’s help, not start a fight over something that really didn’t matter.

She’d chosen a place in Soho, mostly because it was within walking distance of Mr Hunter’s house in Mayfair, and she really couldn’t be arsed to slog across town to Mark’s usual haunts in the City. It was dark, cosy and French, but not to the extent it had those odd half-curtains in the window and Edith Piaf on a loop. It had good online reviews, and most importantly it wasn’t crazy expensive, because it was her intention to pick up the bill this evening. She’d invited Mark to dinner, so the least she could do was pay. Mr Hunter would obviously reimburse her, but Mark didn’t need to know that. She wanted it to feel like an Emily kind of place; cosy and not too stuffy. The kind of place where friends might meet for a relaxed dinner and offer to help each other out.

He stood up as she arrived and kissed her on both cheeks, his aftershave achingly familiar in a way that she felt in every fibre of her body. Two years of horizontal encounters flashed through her mind like a near-death experience, but she brushed them aside. It was history, and she needed to focus.

‘You look amazing,’ said Mark, holding her at arm’s length so he could look at her. It reminded her of the way her grandparents had admired her when she was twelve and had grown four inches since they’d last met. ‘Have you been away?’

‘No,’ lied Emily, not wanting to get waylaid by lots of questions about her travels. ‘It’s all out of a bottle.’ She put her coat on the back of the chair and sat down. She’d chosen her outfit carefully – jeans, her favourite jumper over a shirt, almost no make-up, hair in a tidy bun. Nothing sexy or provocative that might distract Mark from the reason she was there.

‘Well, you look great.’

‘Thanks, so do you.’ This wasn’t strictly true, actually; Mark looked pale and tired, and next to Jamie, he looked old. Emily knew it wasn’t fair to compare them – Mark was forty-five, compared to Jamie’s thirty. There was no question that Mark was an attractive older man, still with all his hair and a smattering of silver around the ears, but for the first time she realised that he was closer in age to her dad than he was to her. That said, he’d clearly made an effort this evening – a just-showered scent, a clean shirt, product in his hair. She wondered where he’d told his wife he was going.

Mark poured wine into Emily’s glass, and then topped up his own. The waiter hurried over and laid two menus in front of them, then rattled off some specials in a French accent so heavy Emily wondered if he was actually a struggling actor from Croydon. Mark waited for him to leave, then steepled his hands under his chin and gave Emily his best twinkly smile. ‘So was there a reason for summoning me to dinner, or were you just missing me?’

‘There was a reason.’

Mark laughed and clutched his chest. ‘Ouch. That hurt.’

‘Sorry, we’ll talk about it later. How are things at the office?’

‘Fine,’ said Mark with a shrug. ‘I actually really miss working with you. Your replacement is very efficient but not nearly as easy on the eye.’

Emily smiled. ‘I still think it was the right thing to do. I like my new job, it was a good move for me.’

Mark sipped his drink and regarded her for a while, clearly trying to work out why he was there and what Emily was thinking. ‘I’ve been trying to find out where you’re working,’ he said casually, ‘but I’m not having much luck. LinkedIn says nothing, and you’ve been very quiet on Instagram lately.’

Emily rolled her eyes. ‘I’m taking a break from social media. I know it’s weird for someone my age not to slap their entire life online, but I thought I’d brave the wilderness.’

Mark ignored the ‘someone my age’ dig and continued with his interrogation. ‘So where ARE you working?’ he persisted. ‘I’m pretty sure it’s not for one of our competitors, I’d know by now.’

Emily shook her head and laughed. ‘Can you stop stalking me? Fine, I’ve had a change of direction. I don’t work for a firm; I work for a private individual.’

Mark’s eyes widened. ‘How fascinating. Anybody interesting?’

‘I’ll tell you later, when we get to the reason why I invited you to dinner. Let’s just hang out for a bit.’

Mark nodded as they browsed the menu, then ordered the same steak frites as Emily. They sat in companionable silence and sipped their wine for a few minutes, checking out the other diners and admiring the copper light fittings and the black-and-white arty photos on the walls. Mostly vintage shots of stick-thin French models, which made Emily want to call the waiter back and cancel her order in favour of a black coffee and a pack of Gauloises. It was quiet on a Wednesday, but the place still had a nice buzz about it. Emily recalled how easy Mark was to spend time with, and she realised with a jolt of surprise how genuinely glad she was to see him.

‘How are your family?’ he asked.

‘Fine,’ said Emily. ‘How’s your wife?’

Mark roared with laughter. ‘My God, I’ve missed you.’

‘What?’ she said innocently. ‘That isn’t a reasonable question?’

Mark sighed. ‘She’s fine, we’re fine, kids are great, blah blah blah.’

Emily watched him carefully. ‘I mean, you don’t sound very happy.’

‘I’m not,’ said Mark matter-of-factly. ‘The reasons Kay and I split up first time round are still there, but I made my choice to be a proper dad to the kids. That decision hasn’t changed, I just have to find a way to live with it.’

Emily nodded and sipped her wine. ‘Fair enough.’

‘What about you?’

‘What about me?’ she asked. She’d known the inevitable question was coming and was prepared for it. There was no reason to lie, and for the first time in a while she had nothing to hide. Kind of.