Page 25 of The Woman Who Said Yes

‘Not much,’ Eva teases. ‘He’s had me running around, stocking up on ingredients⁠—’

‘And aren’t you glad, darling?’ Dom nods towards her glass. She grins and ribs him some more – about being an ‘adolescent’ at a mere fifty-three, seven years her junior. He definitely seems looser tonight in a casual light-blue shirt and jeans, and he has that jovial air of someone who has already knocked back a couple of strong drinks.

‘How d’you know how to do all this?’ I ask, indicating the gleaming table display.

‘Ah, now that would be telling.’ His blue eyes sparkle and he winks at Eva, who slides an arm around his trim waist.

‘Dom made big friends with one of the ship’s bartenders,’ she explains. ‘Wangled some of his recipes out of him⁠—’

‘Eva!’ He groans in mock-outrage, as if she has divulged the secret of a magician’s trick. Then, as if forced to spill, he picks up a small, blue ring-bound notebook and waves it at me. ‘I did make a few notes,’ he concedes. ‘Filip was amazing, wasn’t he, Eva?’

‘He was,’ she agrees. Then to Sam and me, ‘They formed quite a bond, the two of them. I hardly got a look in whenever they were together.’ So Dom does have at least one friend after all, I reflect. A bartender on a cruise ship, who’s probably thousands of miles away by now – but still.

Dom opens his notebook and flips through the first few pages of what look like cocktail recipes. ‘So, we can do a Whiskey Sour, a Singapore sling or a spicy margarita… or how about a cheeky little gimlet?’

‘Is that your handwriting?’ I ask, peering over at it. ‘It’s lovely!’ All loops and curls and curiously old-fashioned, it could have been formed by the hand of a Victorian child.

‘Why, thank you.’ Looking bashful, he shrinks back a little. ‘Yes, it’s mine. I hate to boast but it did win me school prizes…’

‘And rightly so.’ I choose a gimlet and, as Dom sets about mixing it, Sam and I help Eva to set out more substantial snacks. There are posh crackers and fancy, oozing cheeses and nuts, all darkly toasted and salt-speckled. It’s quite the step up from our usual Doritos and Kettle Chips.

Dom hands me my drink and I sip it, the intensely citrus concoction sliding pleasantly through my veins. We toast Dom’s birthday and, with an apologetic smile, he dings his glass with a teaspoon. ‘I just wanted to say thank you,’ he starts, looking around at the three of us. ‘To Eva, of course.’ His eyes gloss instantly. ‘Since I met you, darling, I’ve felt…’ He pauses, seemingly grasping for the right words. ‘Young, I suppose. And kind of revitalised⁠—’

‘Oh, I have that effect.’ She chuckles.

‘But also to Andie and Sam,’ he continues, ‘for welcoming me into your little group.’

‘Of course!’ I say, ashamed now of our amateur snoopings. What does it matter that Dom doesn’t have much of a profile online? Or that he was involved in some company that went bust, and goes by different surnames? It’s not as if his commercial interests are any concern of ours.

‘You really needn’t thank us,’ Sam insists, looking a tad uncomfortable as Dom plonks a hand on his shoulder.

‘Yes,’ he says, ‘but I do understand how it is when someone new comes along and, well…’ He pauses, shrugging. ‘Changes things, I suppose. You and Andie needn’t have been so accepting.’

‘Oh, Dom, for goodness’ sake,’ Eva scolds him, laughing. ‘These are my friends. Did you think they were going to interrogate you? Make sure you’re suitable marriage material?’

Dom smiles awkwardly and sips his amber drink, as if he’s not sure where to put himself. But as Eva pulls him in for a hug his face relaxes, and those blue eyes literally sparkle. He obviously adores her, and it strikes me that I can’t remember Phil ever being visibly besotted with me like this. Certainly, he never made an effort to get to know Sam and Eva, although they had ground him down over the years. He could hardly shun my friends when they bought him birthday and Christmas presents (exotic booze, in Eva’s case, and thoughtfully chosen thrillers and spy novels – never to be read – from Sam).

In contrast, it’s clearly important to Dom to get to know me and Sam. After our awkward start at Niko’s, I suspect that that’s what this evening is about. And admittedly it’s fun, the four of us drinking more cocktails than is advisable on a weeknight. Eva has cranked up her playlists: seventies and soul and disco, plus Bowie, whom she has always claimed would have been her perfect boyfriend if only he’d realised. She and I even have a little dance before the talk turns to the wedding, and how no venue has been booked yet because Eva can’t decide.

‘We really need to get it sorted, darling,’ Dom reminds her. ‘People book a year in advance for these things.’

‘We’ll be fine,’ she announces, then disappears to the kitchen and reappears with a cake smothered in dark chocolate shavings and dotted with tiny flickering candles. Shop-bought, of course – although I tease her that she must have been up half the night, making that. Our lack of baking prowess is another of the million things that bond us.

As she sets it on the table Dom’s expression switches. He seems genuinely moved, to the point of blinking back tears, and my heart softens towards him. Maybe he has never been made a fuss of like this on a birthday, or met anyone as wonderful as Eva? Who’s to say that love can’t happen at any age? As the three of us sing ‘Happy Birthday’, I figure that maybe she’s right to be doing this; to be changing her life dramatically and throwing herself into this thing. She has always loved an adventure, Interrailing by herself in her fifties and bombarding an iconic but famously reclusive elderly photographer with messages, knowing she could coax him into shooting with her. Naturally, he agreed.

I perch next to Sam on the squashy chair as Eva coaxes Dom to dance with her. As Dom laughs at his own ineptitude, something seems to snag at my heart. Imagine meeting someone who looks at you like that. And I glance at Sam, wondering if he’s thinking that too. If he’d love to be with someone who adores him like this.

We’re sitting so close I can feel the warmth of him. Over the years, especially since Bibi left, I’ve wondered if he’s ever thought about that time he asked me out, way back in the days when Kylie duetted with Jason, and Bros wanted to know when they’d be famous. Of course he hasn’t, I’ve told myself. Or, if he has, it’s one of those things he’s preferred to push out of his mind, like the time Eva invented a fiercely alcoholic vodka-infused sorbet and we all guzzled too much and Sam ended up hurling into her toilet. Not that the thought of being with me would make him vomit exactly. At least, I hope not. More that any notion of being attracted to me is no longer there. It’s long gone, like his Frankie Goes to Hollywood T-shirt. However, sometimes I still think of that night, and about how differently life might have turned out if I’d simply said yes.

Sam’s bare forearm shifts against mine and my skin tingles. ‘Dance, you two!’ Eva commands. Laughing, we wave her off.

‘There’s not enough space for our wild moves,’ Sam announces.

‘God, when did you two get so boring?’ She cajoles us some more, but something else has snagged my attention. A sudden flash of gold encircling her wrist. I sit up straighter, hoping for another glimpse of it. Although Eva’s jewellery collection is extensive, her favourite pieces are as familiar to me as my own. Of course the engagement ring is new. Seemingly, the bangle too – and Eva doesn’t usually wear anything around her wrists. It annoys her, she’s said. Something about cheap bracelets giving her allergies back in her teenage years.

I can tell, even from a distance, that the simple band isn’t cheap metal, and when she pauses from dancing I beckon her over and touch her wrist. ‘This is lovely. Another present?’

She looks over at Dom and laughs. ‘Yeah. He’s ridiculous, right?’