Pictures of Lily

heart pounding so loud I can hear it in my ears. Then I rise woodenly to my feet and return to the living room.
    ‘How is he?’ Dad asks.
    ‘Who? Oh, Richard. Yes, he’s fine,’ I jabber, feeling that guilt prickling at me again.
    ‘Good. He’s back on Monday, right?’
    ‘Yes.’ I nod.
    ‘Maybe we can come to you on Tuesday night?’ Dad suggests. ‘Save him having to come into the city to meet us?’
    ‘Maybe, yes.’ I return to my position on the sofa. Lorraine has put a cup of tea on a coaster in front of me. ‘Thanks for the tea,’ I say, reaching forward and finding the cup surprisingly heavy as I try to sip from it without spilling any.
    ‘You’re welcome,’ she replies. ‘So what are the plans for dinner tonight?’
    ‘Um . . . I don’t know,’ I say. My heart is still thumping so loudly I fear it’s going to burst my eardrums. ‘I’m feeling quite tired,’ I start. ‘Would you guys mind if I bowed out and I’ll see you in the morning?’
    ‘Of course not,’ Lorraine says.
    My head was all over the place earlier and it didn’t even occur to me what I must have looked like when I met Ben, but now I’m kicking myself for wearing such casual attire. Jeans and trainers and a boring black jumper. I’m not even wearing eye-shadow. Whoopie.
    I don’t have time to go home and change so I smooth down my hair in the mirror in the girls’ bathroom and touch up my makeup with what little I do carry in my handbag: lip-gloss, mascara, compact powder. It’ll have to do. It’s sod’s law that I see him on today of all days and not when I’m dressed in my high heels and swishy skirts.
    I decide to set off early and take my time. My dad sees me out.
    ‘Are you alright?’ he asks as I reach for the door handle.
    ‘Sure! Why wouldn’t I be?’
    ‘The girls said you seemed a little distracted today.’
    ‘I wasn’t distracted – I’m just tired,’ I add, and give a little yawn when he doesn’t look convinced. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, okay, Dad?’
    ‘Night, night, sweetheart – and thanks for looking after the girls today.’
    A peck on the cheek and I’m out of there, wondering what exactly I have let myself in for, and feeling a mixture of excitement and sheer, utter terror.

Chapter 22
     
    I arrive at Porters at six-forty – twenty minutes ahead of schedule – and buy a drink at the bar before hunting out a table. I perch uncomfortably on a low square stool, which has been upholstered in dark red velvet, and lean up against the wall. At least the suits aren’t in the city on Saturday nights, but in some ways this is worse. The people here now appear to be mostly tourists or single girls dolled up to the nines, trying to pick up a rich man. The men seem old – like in their forties and fifties.
    Ben’s thirty-eight now. But that’s not old, is it? No.
    What if he doesn’t turn up?
    Nerves are rattling through me, but at least the pounding in my chest has settled down. A waiter comes along and puts a small bowl of marinated green olives on the table. I eye them, but remember the garlic and leave them where they are.
    ‘Excuse me,’ I call after the waiter, who is dressed in black trousers and a waistcoat with a pristine white shirt.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Could I get another of these, please?’
    ‘I’ll need to take your card, madam.’
    ‘That’s fine.’ I get out a credit card from my bag and hand it over so he can start up a tab. The waiter looks pointedly at my drink, then at me. His greasy hair is slicked back and his nose is long and pointed.
    ‘White wine,’ I tell him.
    ‘What sort, madam?’
    ‘Any. I don’t mind,’ I add firmly.
    He looks me up and down, giving my trainers a sniffy little glance, before mincing off. What a condescending twat.
    ‘Do you come here often?’
    I look up to see Ben standing there with a twinkle in his eye. He pulls up a stool.
    ‘Hey!’ I immediately sit up straighter.
    ‘Are you alright?’
    ‘The waiter is being a dickhead.’ I indicate our surroundings. ‘I couldn’t think of anywhere else to suggest.’
    He laughs and looks behind him. ‘I might nip to the bar. You okay?’
    ‘Yes, thanks. He’s bringing me a wine.’
    ‘Cool.’ He gets up and walks off. I watch him go, feeling extremely surreal and disjointed from reality.
    He looks gorgeous in faded grey trousers and a short-sleeved dark-grey T-shirt over a long-sleeved black one. It’s the sort of thing Nathan could wear, and Nathan is twenty-five.