“Never really saw the two of you together. Thought you could do better than an accountant. But if it works for you . . .”

How does he do that? Make an insult sound like a compliment, so that when you get angry it looks like you’re overreacting. The thing is, he’s got a point. I never saw myself ending up with an accountant either. It doesn’t really sit with my image of myself as a girl-about-town. But there’s no way I’m going to let Mike think he’s hit a sore point.

“Look,” I say defensively, noticing that the restaurant is getting very hot. “You have no right to say anything about David, or to ask about us being together. You left, remember, and you didn’t even have the guts to tell me to my face. You are a pig and an idiot, and I don’t know why I’m even here.” My voice has taken on a slightly squeaky tone, so I stop talking and give him one of my best “I am really far too busy for this conversation” looks.

But Mike grins again like he’s pleased with himself for getting a rise out of me, and before I can stop myself my lips start curling upward. God, he’s sexy. I mean, obviously he’s a total bastard, but the two aren’t mutually exclusive, are they? I make myself look cross with him. The last thing I want is for him to realize that I still think he’s utterly gorgeous.

The food arrives and I gratefully start to eat. Actually it’s delicious. I love restaurant food. I would eat out every day and every night if I could. And when I couldn’t be bothered to go out, I’d order in. I have friends who are great cooks, but all that chopping and marinating is just so boring, especially as nothing I cook ever turns out like it should. I’m only interested in the Jamie Oliver–style chuck-it-in-a-pan-and-hope-for-the-best cooking, but whenever I’ve tried chucking it all in, I end up with some sort of hideous, tasteless muck. I blame my mother, of course. She doesn’t cook either, except for souffle. I think she figured that as no one else can do a good souffle, it was something worth working at. Everything else she leaves to Marks & Spencer’s or Harrod’s Food Hall.

I look up to see Mike watching me closely. He picks up his glass.

“To old friends?”

I hesitate. Am I really ready to forgive and forget?

“Look Georgie, I’m sorry, okay? You’re right. I was a total prick. Can’t we be friends again?”

Put like that I can’t really say no, can I? I mean, he’s admitted that he’s wrong and he’s even apologized. I pick up my glass, and as I take a sip Mike winks at me.

“You seem really happy. Life with an accountant obviously agrees with you. Do you think David will mind us being friends?”

“Of course David won’t mind,” I say, maybe a bit too quickly. Mike drains his glass.

“Well, I think we’ll be needing some more champagne then!”

I consider pointing out that I’ve barely started my first glass, but I don’t want to appear churlish.

And anyway, if Mike wants to spend money on champagne, who am I to stop him?

I empty my glass as quickly as I can and Mike pours me a second glass. By the time the main course arrives with another bottle of bubbly I’m pretty drunk, and am happy to sit and listen to Mike tell me about his grand plans for world domination. Or London domination at any rate.

“I’m going to have my bands playing at every venue. Record shops are going to be full of their albums. I’m going to be on the cover ofMixmag ,Mojo ,NME . . .”

It’s impressive, it really is. I mean, he is so enthusiastic about what he’s doing. I’m just about to tell him how pleased I am that he’s doing so well when his hand swoops down and grabs mine.

“Georgie, I’ve missed talking to you, y’know?”

I look at his hand. I wish someone was here to witness this. Like his bitch girlfriend or someone who will tell her. I’m not a horrible person, but having Mike put his hand on mine like that in public is quite satisfying. I notice the girl a few tables away looking at us and I shoot her a triumphant look.

“Really? Don’t you talk to your girlfriend?”

Mike pauses. “I don’t have a girlfriend,” he says, looking at me intensely. “No one else has ever been like you.”

Not like me how, I want to ask. Not like me because they are all stupid and ugly and crap in bed, or not like me because they aren’t total suckers who need two glasses of champagne to forget just how callous you can be?

“I’d like to see you more.” He’s stroking my hand now. I shouldn’t have got drunk. I’m enjoying this and I came here to remind Mike just what he’s missing out on, not to let him think he can get it back whenever he wants. Think of David, I tell myself. Think of the note Mike left on the table. Think how he never even called.

“Well, I’m sure that can be arranged.” I didn’t mean to say that.

I look down at his hand. His tanned, soft hand. I’m just about to start stroking it when I notice his watch. Oh my God, it’s already two-thirty! I meant to be back at work half an hour ago!

“Look, I’ve got to go.” I stand up hurriedly.

“Really? You don’t have to go right away, do you?”

“Yes, yes,” I say irritably, pulling on my coat. Nigel is going to completely freak.

I leave. But not before giving Mike my mobile number. Just in case.

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I get back to the office, aware that I’m just a teeny-weeny bit drunk. I gear myself up for a huge confrontation with Nigel—“You know what hospitals are like . . . I was waiting for two whole hours . . .”—but to my huge relief he isn’t at his desk. According to Denise he’s in a meeting with Guy.

I flick on my computer and go straight to e-mail. I have five new messages.

DAVID BRADLEY: Hi darling. Fancy an Italian tonight? Failing that, what about an Englishman?! See you later? David x

ANDREW KNIGHT: TO ALL AT LEARY: Can the person who keeps using my mugs and not washing them up please refrain from doing so? I believe I am the only Southampton supporter in the company and have two mugs in club colors. One is in the sink, dirty, and the other has disappeared. Please, GET YOUR OWN MUG!

I gaze across my desk and alight upon a red mug hidden under a pile of papers. I guiltily realize that it is indeed a Southampton mug. Next to it is a white mug with what appears to be a picture of a fluffy giraffe on it, under which is a message. I can only pick out the wordsfluffles andlove , but I’m realizing it is probably the prize possession of someone else in the office. Not that I want to know that someone I work with is known as “fluffles” at home, but still. I resolve to be a better person in the future.

CANDIDA CRANLEY-JONES: Georgie, Mike said he bumped into you and you were looking great—I realized we haven’t seen each other for months and months, let’s catch up soon? I’m having the flat redecorated next week and am going to be at a loose end, so do you fancy doing something nice? I hate all my clothes at the moment, so maybe we could go shopping? Call me!

What is it with blasts from the past? First I see Mike, and now Candy, who I haven’t seen for . . . well, it must be around two years if not more. I’m not sure why we lost touch really, although I think it has something to do with the fact that Candy was always telling me that I should dump Mike and I never did. I would continually cry on her shoulder when he failed to come back from some party or left me in a club while he went on somewhere, and I think she just got frustrated with me. I suppose Mike leaving me was just the final straw. I didn’t know she was still in touch with him, but I guess he was her friend first, so it isn’t that surprising. More to the point, this means that Mike’s been talking to her about me. He’s obviously been thinking about me loads. Maybe I’m looking better than I realize at the moment. I take out my compact to check myself out. One spot, deftly covered with a blob of Touch Eclat. Some faint crow’s-feet appearing under my eyes, but only visible when I smile. No, I’m in okay shape. I’ll need to be if I’m seeing Candy next week—Candy works on a smart fashion magazine and believes very strongly in grooming. She thinks nothing of going to the gym for an hour a day and dedicating Sunday afternoons to polishing her shoes. I’m sure she means well, it’s just that after half an hour with her, I usually feel like Waynetta the Slob. I put a note in my diary to get a manicure early next week.

GUY JACKSON: Georgie, have you finished the questionnaire for Pensions Bulletin? Nigel and I are discussing our strategic plans for this business unit and he tells me that your report will be ready by 3pm. We have an exciting new project I want to discuss with you, so look forward to seeing the questionnaire.

Regards.

Shit. Shit and double shit. I haven’t even started the questionnaire, unless you count my ramblings this morning, which I’ve deleted anyway, and I’ve got exactly ten minutes before Guy’s going to be expecting an amazing in-depth report. I dig out the newsletter for inspiration.

Ping!Another e-mail.

MIKE MARSHALL: Hi gorgeous. Thinking about me?

I hit Reply, type “No,” and send it back. After all, I’m not thinking about him. I may have been thinking about his hand resting on mine and his come-to-bed eyes on my way back to the office, and I may even have planned what I will wear next time I see him (heels, definitely; something quite fitted), but right now I’m thinking about pensions. Honest.

I open up a new document, and purposefully write “Pensions Bulletin—your views” along the top, then center and bold the words for good measure.

Ping!

MIKE MARSHALL: What do you mean “no”? You left just as things were getting interesting.

I’ve certainly been thinking about you . . .