‘How many times?’ Nick says, grinning at me across the table.
I shush him. ‘I lost count,’ I say. ‘Proud of yourself.’
He grins. ‘Little bit, yeah.’
I poke at my pancake and maple syrup. ‘You slowed down after the wine.’
He laughs. ‘And you sped up.’
I spear a bit of pancake and put it in my mouth.
‘You always did get frisky after wine,’ he says. ‘Remember when I collected you from that party?’
I laugh a bit shortly, to mean I don’t want to talk about it rather than I don’t remember it, but he says, ‘God, you were so sexy. I barely got you in the car.’
‘People are trying to eat,’ I say. ‘I’m trying to eat.’
‘It’s one of my favourite memories,’ he says.
I stare at him. ‘You’ve got a lot. Of favourite memories. Of us.’
He bites his toast and nods. ‘Haven’t you?’
‘I did have,’ I say. ‘But most of them got wiped out when you, you know, shagged Rebecca.’
He jerks back in his chair as if I’ve slapped him. ‘Jesus, Cass.’
‘Did you think I wasn’t going to mention it?’
‘Yeah. I mean, I thought we’d probably talk about it at some point. But I don’t know if now is –’
‘A minute ago, you were talking about us fucking in the front of your car, so I don’t know –’
‘Yeah, OK. Sorry. I get it. We can talk about it. I mean … I want to talk about it. I think. But not now? Tonight?’
I nod. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t know if we need to talk about it. I could do with you telling me what the deal was, but it doesn’t need to be a big thing.’
He looks doubtful, unsurprisingly.
‘I’m serious,’ I say. ‘Honest. What time’s your meeting?’
He looks at his watch. I always liked that he still wears a watch.
‘Shit. Soon. I’d better go.’ He takes another bite of toast. ‘Will you be OK on your own?’
‘I was meant to be on my own for this whole weekend, remember?’
‘Yeah, course. Sorry.’
He stands up and pulls on his coat, scarf, beanie hat and leather messenger bag. For a second I think he’s just going to leave. I’ve obviously rattled him and I’m glad, but my body absolutely does not want him to go without a proper goodbye.
He puts his hand on the back of my chair and leans down as I tilt my face up towards him. His bag swings forward and hits me in the thigh just as his mouth meets mine. His kiss is soft and slow and sexy and he’s said goodbye and gone before I’ve even really got my senses back.
‘Whoo-wee,’ says a woman on the table next to me.
‘I know,’ I say.
‘You want to watch that one,’ she says.
I nod. ‘Oh, I know.’
I finish my pancakes, pile on my own layers of clothes and step out into New York. I haven’t planned anything, I just want to wander around and, like I told Nick, pretend I live here, so I start by stepping up to the kerb, waving down a taxi and asking the driver to take me to Washington Square Park. He takes me through Chinatown and Little Italy and then turns onto a wide road where I spend the whole time with my face pressed up to the window taking in the other yellow cabs, school buses, traffic lights hanging over the road and enormous billboards pasted on the side of industrial buildings. We turn off onto a much more leafy side street and I feel a bit more relaxed – I can hang out here today, no problem. At the end of the street the driver says, ‘Washington Square,’ over his shoulder and starts to pull over.
I can see the square, but it’s not where I want to be. ‘Can you drop me at the arch?’ I call through the plexiglass.
He sighs and pulls out into the traffic again as other cabs honk in our wake and we turn two more corners, passing the purple-branded buildings of NYU and then a gorgeous row of townhouses and then I see the arch. And the cab stops and I fumble for my purse to pay him.
‘When Harry Met Sally fan, huh?’ he says.
‘Keep the change,’ I tell him.