Page 95 of (Not) The One
‘I suppose it was a heat of the moment thing.’ I shrug, a sort of helpless motion. ‘AnI’m already pregnantthing. Awhat does it matterthing.’ Or anI’m totally lyingthing.
‘So it meant nothing to you.’ His voice is even, his gaze sharp. ‘Then why would it stop you from joining me for dinner?’
‘I worry about blurring the lines.’ Blurring my lines. Someone needs to managemyexpectations because I like him more than I ought to.
‘Miranda, this will be one of many dinners I hope we’ll eat together, you and I and this.’ I physically start as his palm grazes my stomach. ‘I promise I’ll be perfectly civilised.’
Would that be a first? James has a perfect veneer of civility, but I know what’s going on underneath those pristine suits. But in the end, it occurs to me I could treat a meal with him as exposure therapy. The more time we spend together, the easier it will become to be around him. Or, in other words, the less I’ll want to jump his bones.
Maybe? Hopefully?
And maybe exposure therapy is the exact reason I allow him to take my hand as we leave our cars in the parking lot and walk to a nearby Italian restaurant. The kind of establishment with red chequered tablecloths and candles sticking out of ancient wax-encrusted chianti bottles. We follow the waiter as he weaves through the clusters of tables until we’re shown to a table for two beside a window half covered by café curtains of yellowing lace. I decide it’s entirely the kind of place I’m at home in with its two-for-one Tuesdays and early bird specials and carafes of cheap house red.And probably why the place is so busy. Meanwhile, James looks as at home here as a Hermès scarf tucked into the back of a pair of dirty overalls. Not that you’d know from his demeanour. He looks as happy as a pig in the proverbial as he fights the elderly looking waiter to see who’ll pull out my chair.Wooden bistro style to match the aging décor, of course.
James loosens the single button on his jacket before taking the seat opposite me, and the waiter then lights the candle sitting on the clichéd straw-covered bottle sitting in the table between us. With a flourish, he then produces a couple of laminated menus complete with photographs. You know, for those unsure what a plate of spaghetti carbonara looks like. As James peruses the menu, I save my gaze for him. Sitting there, he is the picture of urbane ease and supreme confidence. He wears a steel grey three-piece-suit and looks like all kinds of deliciousness as the candlelight gilds the scruff on his cheek. My instinct is to sigh—ah, me, like Juliet on her bloody balcony, gazing down at her Romeo—so I change it to a clearing of my throat instead.
I certainly can pick a good-looking baby daddy. It’s just a pity I’m not in the position to say so.
‘What looks good, do you think?’
Apart from you, you mean?
‘Carbs. These kinds of places are always good for carbs.’
And as though to prove my point, the same waiter appears with a basket of bread and a little dish of oil and balsamic. He places both on the table between us before brushing the long strands of his combover back in place.
‘I take-a da drink order,’ he announces in possibly the worst Italian accent I’ve ever heard.
‘A Peroni, please,’ James answers equably. ‘Miranda?’
‘Just a sparkling water.’ My answer isn’t so calm, not as I roll my lips inwards to contain a giggle intent on escape.
‘Tuscany by way of Putney, do you think?’ My giggle rains free as the waiter retreats, quietening only as James reaches out to cover my hand with his. ‘That’s better. I hate to see you looking sad, particularly when I’m the reason.’
‘You don’t make me sad.’ My answer is immediate because it’s true. He doesn’t make me sad; the situation does. James has been nothing but accepting, honourable even, once he’d gotten over the initial shock. I realise it could’ve gone very differently.
Me: I’m pregnant.
The James I saw in my head: So when is the termination booked?
‘I don’t want to make things difficult between us, but I like you, Miranda. I like you an awful lot.’
In lieu of an answer, I sigh properly this time. I feel the phantom touch of his hand as he pulls it away. ‘I like you, too. But this isn’t about us anymore.’
And there lies the crux of this thing. The fulcrum of my dilemma, if you will.
‘Isn’t it? The way I see it, we owe it to more than ourselves to see what can become of this.’
Before he’s even finished speaking, I’m already shaking my head.
‘There’s too much at stake. You like me, and I like you, and I think that’s probably the second best way two people can bring a child into the world.’ Even if like is a poor second to love. ‘If we take a chance onseeing where this goes,’ I reiterate, making those annoying little air quotes, ‘there’s every chance it could go the opposite way. We’ll both love this child so much—I can already tell—so let’s not take a chance on turning our like to hate.’
‘That’s a very fatalistic view you have there.’
‘Do you think so? Really?’ I goad. ‘I kind of think it’s pragmatic.’ Protective, even.
‘Next thing you’ll tell me you don’t believe in love.’
‘I believe in—I do believe in love.’ All of a sudden, I’m the Cowardly lion of love.I do believe in love. I do believe in love. I do, I do, I do believe in love.Sort of. ‘I love my parents, and they love me, even if they hate each other. And I love Heather and my cousins, and that sort of thing.’
