Wedding Night

sirree. No, I am not.
    Even though I’ve been thinking about it all day. Even though I’ve been gently fizzing just at the memory. Him. How it was. How we were. I feel surreal and a bit light-headed. I can’t believe I’m going to see him. After all this time. Ben. I mean,
Ben
.
    Hearing his voice was like some sort of time-travel trigger. At once I was sitting opposite him at that rickety little table we used to commandeer in the evening. Olive trees all around. My bare feet resting in his lap. A can of ice-cold Sprite. I’d forgotten about my Sprite addiction till that very instant.
    Since then, memories and images have been resurfacing all day, some vague and some fully composed. His eyes. His scent. He was always so
intense
. That’s what I remember most. His intensity. He made me feel as though we were starring in our own movie, as though nothing mattered except him and me and now. It was all about
sensation
. The sensationof him. Of sun and sweat. Sea and sand. Skin and skin. Everything was hot and heightened and … incredible.
    And this, fifteen years later, this is—well. Bizarre. I glance at my watch and feel a little shiver of anticipation. Enough loitering in shop entrances. Time to go.
    We’re meeting at a new fish restaurant in Clerkenwell which has had good reviews. Apparently Ben works nearby, doing something or other—I didn’t ask, which was stupid, so I had to resort to a hasty Google when I finally got back to the office. I couldn’t track him down on Facebook, but there was some website about a paper company, which apparently he’s a director of. I’m kind of surprised—he wanted to be an actor when we were together, but I guess it didn’t work out. Or maybe he changed his mind. We didn’t talk too much about careers or jobs back then. We were pretty much just interested in sex and how we were going to change the world.
    I
do
remember lots of late-night discussions on Brecht, who he was reading, and Chekhov, who I was reading. And global warming. And philanthropy. And politics. And euthanasia. We were a bit sixth-form debate-y, now that I look back. A bit earnest. But, then, fair enough. We’d only just left the sixth form.
    I approach the restaurant, teetering a bit on my new high heels, feeling my hair bounce around my shoulders and admiring my immaculate manicure. As soon as Jo and her friends heard I was going on a date with an ex-boyfriend, they launched into a whole new level of activity. They did my nails. They dyed my brows. They even offered me a bikini wax.
    Of course, I didn’t need that. I’d already been to the salon three days ago, to get prepared for hot, joyous, post-proposal sex with Richard, much good it did me.
Total
waste of money.
    I feel a painful, humiliated pang. I should invoice him for the salon bill. I should send it to him in San Francisco, together with a dignified letter saying simply,
Dear Richard. When you get this letter—
    No. Stop, Lottie. Do
not
think about Richard. Do
not
compose a dignified letter. Move on. Move on, move on.
    I grip my clutch bag more tightly, willing strength into myself. Everything is meant. It all has a pattern. One minute I’m at my lowest ebb—the next, Ben is contacting me. It’s kismet. It’s fate.
    Although I am
not
going to sleep with him.
    No. I’m not.
    As I reach the entrance to the restaurant, I whip out my handbag mirror and check my reflection one last time. Bloody hell. I keep forgetting how amazing I look. My skin looks radiant. I have stunning new cheekbones, which Jo somehow invented with blusher and highlighter. My lips look fresh and luscious. To sum up: I’m gorgeous.
    It’s the opposite of that nightmare scenario where you bump into your ex-boyfriend, wearing only pajamas and a hangover. It’s the dream scenario. I’ve never looked better in my life, and I’m fairly sure I never will again, not unless I hire ten makeup artists. This is my pinnacle, looks-wise.
    With a sudden little burst of confidence, I push open the restaurant door, to be greeted by a warm, inviting smell of garlic and seafood. There are leather booths and a massive chandelier and the right kind of hubbub. Not show-offy and obnoxious but civilized and friendly. A mixologist is shaking a cocktail at the bar and I have an instant, Pavlovian desire for a mojito.
    I’m not going to get drunk, I hastily resolve. I’m not going to sleep with him
and
I’m not going to get drunk.
    The maître d’ is approaching me. Here