Spare

Friends. Business.

Oh? Business?

Acting was her main job, she said, the thing she was known for, but she had several careers. Lifestyle writer, travel writer, corporate spokesperson, entrepreneur, activist, model. She’d been all over the world, lived in various countries, worked for the US embassy in Argentina—her CV was dizzying.

All part of the plan, she said.

Plan?

Help people, do some good, be free.

The waitress reappeared. She told us her name. Mischa. East European accent, shy smile, many tattoos. We asked about them; Mischa was more than happy to explain. She provided a needed buffer, a tapping of the brakes, a moment to take a breath, and I think she knew she was filling this role, and embraced it. I loved her for it.

Mischa left us and the conversation started to really flow. The initial awkwardness was gone, the warmth from our texting returned. We’d each had first dates on which there was nothing to talk about, and now we both felt that special thrill when there’s too much to talk about, when there isn’t enough time to say all that needs to be said.

But speaking of time…ours was up. She gathered her stuff.

Sorry, I have to go.

Go? So soon?

I have dinner plans.

If I hadn’t been late, we’d have had more time. I cursed myself, got to my feet.

A brief goodbye hug.

I said I’d take care of the bill and she said in that case she’d foot the bill for thank-you flowers to Violet.

Peonies, she said.

I laughed. OK. Bye.

Goodbye.

Poof, she was gone.

Compared to her, Cinderella was the queen of long goodbyes.

4.

I’d made plans to meet my mate after. Now I phoned him, told him I was on my way, and half an hour later I was barging into his house off the King’s Road.

He took one look at my face and said: What’s happened?

I didn’t want to tell him. I kept thinking: Do not tell him. Do not tell him. Do not tell him.

I told him.

I recounted the entire date, then pleaded: Shit, mate, what am I going to do?

Out came the tequila. Out came the weed. We drank and smoked and watched…Inside Out.

An animated movie…about emotions. Perfect. I was thoroughly inside out.

Then I was peacefully numb. Good weed, dude.

My phone rang. Oh, shit. I held it up to my mate. It’s her.

Who?

HER.

She wasn’t just calling. She was FaceTiming.

Hello?

Hello.

What are you up to?

Uh, I’m with my mate.

What’s that in the background?

Oh, er—

Are you watching cartoons?

No. I mean, yeah. Kinda. It’s…Inside Out?

I moved to a quiet corner of the flat. She was back at her hotel. She’d washed her face. I said: God, I love your freckles.

She took a quick breath. Every time she was photographed, she said, they airbrushed out her freckles.

That’s insane. They’re beautiful.

She said she was sorry she’d had to run. She didn’t want me to think she hadn’t enjoyed meeting me.

I asked when I could see her again. Tuesday?

I leave Tuesday.

Oh. Tomorrow?

Pause.

OK.

Fourth of July.

We set another date. Back at Soho House.

5.

She spent that whole day at Wimbledon, cheering on her friend Serena Williams, from Serena’s box. She texted me after the final set as she raced back to her hotel, then texted again while she changed, then texted me as she was rushing to Soho House.

This time I was already there—waiting. Smiling. Proud of myself.

She walked in, wearing a pretty blue sundress with white pinstripes. She was aglow.

I stood and said: I bear gifts.

A pink box. I held it forward.

She shook it. What’s this?

No, no, don’t shake it! We both laughed.

She opened the box. Cupcakes. Red, white and blue cupcakes, to be exact. In honor of Independence Day. I said something about the Brits having a very different view of Independence Day from the Yanks, but, oh, well.

She said they looked amazing.

Our waitress from Date One appeared. Mischa. She seemed genuinely happy to see us, to discover that there was a Date Two. She could tell what was happening, she got that she was an eyewitness, that she’d forever be part of our personal mythology. After bringing us a round of drinks she went away and didn’t return for a long time.

When she did, we were deep in the middle of a kiss.

Not our first.

Meghan, holding my shirt collar, was pulling me towards her, holding me close. When she saw Mischa she released me immediately and we all laughed.

Excuse us.

No problem. Another round?