The Show Must Go On

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Slow Pace

Chapter Thirty-Eight Soundtrack: Slow Pace by Casey Lowry

Nas's hands were so much gentler than I'd imagined. And I had imagined, in those hazy spaces between dreams, him touching me. Him saying, in that mocking tone, 'You're so easy to please. I bet I can make you scream.' That smile of defeat between my legs.

But now I know he can be gentle, too.

My white-knuckled grip is bending my spoon. I drop it and it clatters against the table.

Tomas, who's halfway through an adorable story about a baby lemur, stops. 'You okay?' he asks.

'Just really worried about lemurs,' I tell him. His crinkled brow reveals that this wasn't convincing.

'Okay,' he replies slowly. 'Well, I can send you some pictures of them? When I'm out there next? I don't want you to worry too much.'

'That's so nice,' I reply, and I really mean it.

'Ellie,' he says slowly, bringing his fork to his lips. 'I think you're extremely beautiful and probably too funny for me.'

I'm gagged. Who is this man?

'So I'm really enjoying our dinner. But what's going on with you? You've been distracted all evening. Especially for someone who really loves lemurs.'

'I might have exaggerated about the lemurs.'

'Okay.'

He waits for me to respond. There's no judgement in his eyes; there's no impatience tapping his fingers. He asked me a question and he cares about my response.

This simple kindness brings tears to my eyes.

Without speaking, he slides his napkin across the table.

I dab at my eyes as delicately as I can, but I'm absolutely certain that I've smeared my mascara across my face. If so, he's too polite to point it out.

It takes another minute for me to collect myself.

I'm not going to tell him that I'm fantasising about another man—because that would be bitchy—but I can share something else. After all, when was the last time someone asked how I was doing and really meant it?

'This is my first date in a long time. I was engaged and he died a few years ago.'

'I'm so sorry.'

'Thank you. I'm really pleased to be here, but it feels a bit like I'm in a play, you know? Trying to get the lines right.'

'Well, I wouldn't have known.'

'All the rehearsing paid off, I guess.'

'If calling this a date is too much, shall we just chat? There doesn't have to be any pressure. I've wanted to try this restaurant for ages, so I'm just grateful for the excuse.'

'Really?'

'Really, we can just talk.'

'No, I mean, really? This restaurant?'

'It's so charming! Look at the tablecloths! I love paisley.'

We argue until the main courses arrive about whether tapas are good value for money and, when they do, about if we can call these tapas if they all have aubergine in them. I like aubergine, but come on.

Then we talk about our families and what we learned from them: we debate whose nose is bigger and assess who's better at spelling. The candle between us burns lower and lower as we briefly swap travel notes—brief, because he's so well travelled that it's hardly a contest—and I explain the plot of Mad Men while he pretends to be interested. The waiter comes over three times to offer us dessert, and when we finally accept, and I convince Tomas to try an affogato, we end up with ice cream on our chins, laughing until I'm crying again.