Lara hadn’t socialised much with her colleagues by that point, but she was feeling so upbeat that when her friend Janine suggested they go for a drink after work, she said yes at once – not least because of that extra twenty dollars in her purse. Calling Janine a ‘friend’ was pushing it, admittedly – she was a secretary on the magazine, ten years older than Lara and clearly trying to take her under her wing a bit. Lara had only been in the city a few weeks, and was wide-eyed and, in retrospect, pretty gauche; the proverbial goldfish out of its bowl. She was glad to have something to do in the evening for a change, other than slink back to the dismal, cramped room she was renting and write airmail letters home telling everyone what an amazing time she was having.
They walked into Stefano’s, a bar on the Lower East Side, and there he was, sitting near the entrance with a couple of mates. To be strictly honest, Lara noticed one of his friends first who was wearing a Paul Smith shirt, because this was the sort of detail a fashion journalist homed in on. Then she heard their accents – British – and her ears pricked up. As she and Janine passed them, Lara’s eyes met Ben’s – barely for a second – only to feel an unexpected jolt in response; an almost chemical reaction.
Even now, she couldn’t put her finger on how it was possible that one single glance had forged such a connection between them. It had certainly never happened to her before. He was good-looking, sure, with shaggy, dark brown hair, grey eyes and an infectious smile, and wore drainpipe jeans and a faded black shirt with the sleeves rolled up. And yet in response, her pulse was going berserk, her skin tingling, as if her body was priming itself for something significant to take place. Ah – here he is, her heart seemed to be saying. This is the one.
The jukebox was playing ‘The Boys of Summer’, as if the whole scene had been carefully staged, and he and his friends were laughing together, beer bottles in hand. Even now, Lara couldn’t hear the song without flashing back to that moment when, unknown to her, her life forked into two clear paths. With him. Without him.
‘Who is that guy? Do you know him? He keeps looking at you,’ Janine commented as they bought drinks and a bowl of peanuts and sat down in a quiet corner.
A hot blush coursed through Lara as she turned her head towards him and he raised his bottle at her in a kind of salute. ‘I have no idea,’ she said, feeling a surge of gratitude towards whichever angel up there had reminded her to put on extra lipstick and mascara in the ladies’ before leaving work, and for the fact that she was wearing a pencil skirt that flattered her legs, along with a cornflower-blue crepey blouse borrowed from her flatmate Toni. Back then, her thick dark brown hair had been halfway down her back, and as the summer had heated up, she’d taken to wearing it pinned up in a messy chignon, with a few loose tendrils framing her face. Plus she’d recently had a blunt fringe chopped in, and one of the designers at work had told her she reminded him of an art-school Audrey Hepburn, a compliment that continued to thrill her whenever she repeated it to herself.
‘He’s good-looking though, right?’ Janine said, elbowing her. ‘Huh?’
‘Do you think?’ Lara deferred, throwing a peanut up in the air and catching it in her mouth. She and her brother had driven their mum mad doing this as teenagers – ‘This is not a chimps’ tea party!’ she’d cry, trying to slap their hands in frustration. Which, naturally, had only encouraged them further, with Richie becoming particularly obsessed with his technique. Lara remembered him even attempting to eat an entire roast dinner that way, although, unsurprisingly, the gravy proved his downfall. Years later, the knack hadn’t left Lara and she threw another peanut high, feeling the man’s gaze on her across the bar as she neatly caught it. Everything really was going her way today, she congratulated herself, just as—
Oh God—
The nut—
Had stuck—
‘Are you okay, honey?’ she heard Janine say.
And she was—
She was coughing, and—
‘Are you all right? Can I help?’
A different voice now – and oh Christ, the man himself was over at their table, how humiliating could you get? She tried to smile attractively – hey, I’m fine – but she was starting to wheeze and no doubt turning scarlet and—
He banged her on the back once, twice, and just as she was thinking that it would serve her right if she choked to death in a Lower East Side bar because she had been trying to show off in front of a stranger, wouldn’t that be absolutely typical of her luck, then—
Another bang on the back, harder this time, and out it came. A glistening peanut on the table in front of them. Ha ha ha, laughed the universe, clutching its sides with hilarity. Well, that cool move totally backfired, didn’t it, hey?
Feeling hot all over, her back throbbing between the shoulder blades from his thump, Lara caught her breath, grateful that such a thing was possible once more. Then she grabbed a coaster and put it on top of the saliva-coated peanut so that nobody had to look at it for a second longer. ‘Thank you,’ she croaked, mortified that she had utterly wrecked the breezy image she’d attempted to project. What a klutz, honestly. This could only happen to her. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘Have a drink,’ urged Janine, pushing her beer bottle over towards her. ‘Are you okay now?’
‘I’m fine,’ Lara said, turning her eyes on the man. ‘Just embarrassed. Thank you for . . . well, saving me from an untimely peanut-related death. It’s not really the way I thought I would go.’
He smiled at her. ‘You’re welcome. I knew there was a reason I did that first aid course.’
‘You’re a Brit too!’ Janine cried in delight. ‘So’s Lara here. And you are . . . ?’
‘Ben,’ he replied. He had a southern accent, Lara registered, but not posh. ‘Hi Lara.’
‘Hi Ben,’ she said shyly, and automatically put her hand out.
Janine hooted with mirth. ‘You two!’ she cried, slapping her palms against the table as the two of them shook. ‘You’re so British! Shaking hands in a bar! That is the most British thing I ever saw!’
Ben laughed. ‘You can always count on the Brits for an awkward formal interaction.’
‘Yeah, next time you’re saving my life, maybe it would be polite to tell me your name first?’ Lara joked. ‘I’m kidding. Thank you. Can I get you a drink or something?’
‘Allow me,’ said Janine, rising to her feet with the swiftness of a born matchmaker. ‘Was that Budweiser you were drinking? I’ll be right back.’
Now it was just the two of them left at the table. Ben sat down and they smiled at one another rather self-consciously. ‘So . . . is this a hobby of yours?’ Lara said, for want of a better conversation starter. ‘Sprinting to the rescue of choking strangers?’