You Had Me At Hello, How We Met: 2 Bestselling Romantic Comedies in 1. Katy Regan

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СКАЧАТЬ your vows?’ Ben asks.

      ‘Hey!’ Olivia play-slaps his arm.

      ‘Of course I’m not saying I did, I’m saying theoretically here your motives matter less than your intentions.’

      ‘All relationships depend on timing,’ I say, careful to look only at Simon.

      ‘Suppose so,’ he says.

      ‘Let me get this straight,’ Matt says, springing into consultant mode, as if he’s been charged too much by a wholesaler for photocopier ink and is hunting for the flaw in the sums. ‘What’s wrong with settling down without making the effort to “see what else is out there”? How do you know anything better is out there?’

      Simon shrugs. ‘You don’t, if you don’t look. I want the life I choose, instead of letting a life choose me. That’s all I’m saying. Don’t do the “right thing” to reward someone for long service, if you’ve grown out of them. Aim high.’

      Matt’s eyes all but disappear as he squints. ‘Even if you want kids, clock ticking, you throw a stable relationship away …?’

      ‘Stable? Stable is for shelving!’ Simon says, revelling in his role as agent provocateur. Lucy and Matt look horrified.

      ‘But this means you believe in The One?’ Lucy asks, grasping at straws.

      ‘No, dear, I don’t. I’m a hardliner. Or as I like to call it, a grown up.’

      ‘Who’s this lady you’re pursuing if not The One?’ Lucy persists.

      ‘You appear to be confusing a marketing concept for romantic comedies with proven scientific phenomena,’ Simon says, and I start laughing, despite myself.

      ‘What are you sniggering at, Woodford?’ Ben calls, from the other end of the table, forcing me to look at him fully for the first time since ‘nondescript’.

      ‘It’s Simon – he’s so laser-sighted, lawyer snarky.’ I wave my hand: ‘Don’t stop. Sorry. You were saying, “The One”.’

      ‘She doesn’t exist?’ Lucy prompts.

      Simon sighs. ‘There’s a percentage of people on the planet you can be reasonably happy with. The One is in fact one of around six thousand. Then it’s down to who you cross paths with, and when. The period in the middle where you’re in control of your bladder and bowels. Being a member of the point zero zero zero zero whatever per cent club in six billion is still an accolade. Any woman who doesn’t understand that has a poor grasp of mathematics.’

      ‘Or a poor grasp of how lucky she is to be in your six thousand club,’ I say.

      I’m trying to bait Simon. He takes it as collusion.

      ‘Naturally,’ he agrees, and winks.

      I catch Lucy looking revolted, interpreting the exchange as a betrayal of womankind. I get the feeling that quite a lot of things have been flying over her head at a distance that wouldn’t disturb her hairstyle.

      ‘Let’s call time of death on your popularity here, shall we, Simon?’ Ben says.

      ‘You’re a bunch of cynics,’ Simon says. ‘This is actually a rallying cry for romance.’

      ‘I don’t think what you’re describing is romantic,’ Ben says, tartly. ‘Everyone loses their novelty sooner or later. You have a better chance of happiness with someone you know well than an unattainable alternative you’ve put on a pedestal and pursued. Love at first sight and all that stuff is crap. It’s just the thrill of your imagination working on insufficient information. It’s that moment when someone can be anyone. Soon passes. And it’s all the worse because you’ve made disappointment absolutely inevitable.’

      My eyes are inexorably drawn to Ben’s and he feels it, looking away, quickly.

      ‘Having high standards doesn’t mean you’re never pleased, it means you’re rarely pleased, Benji.’ Simon’s voice has become slightly brittle. Now Lucy isn’t the only one with a vague sense of things whizzing over her head.

      I feel pressure to break the ensuing silence.

      ‘Here’s what I don’t get. A marriage where you’re madly in love for as long as it lasts and then go your separate ways is a failed marriage. Yet you can be together for decades and be miserable and it’s officially successful, by virtue of staying put. No one would say someone who was widowed had a failed marriage.’

      ‘Because marriage is supposed to be until death do you part. By definition you’ve failed if you’re apart and both still alive,’ Ben says, looking at me levelly. ‘Or one has killed the other.’

      ‘OK, well … the criteria still shouldn’t be so crude. “Successful for a limited period” instead of failed. And maybe “enduring” would be more appropriate than successful for the ones who are together but aren’t happy.’

      ‘Oh lord,’ Simon says. ‘You’re one of those people who thinks competitive sports should be banned from sports days, aren’t you?’

      ‘I’m one of those people who thinks sports days should be banned altogether.’

      ‘Sure you aren’t down on marriage because you’re not getting married any more?’ Lucy says, artlessly revealing ‘nondescript’ wasn’t the only information about me that got bandied.

      This renders me speechless. It’s far too much, even for my blood alcohol level.

      ‘I’m not down on marriage,’ I say, in a small voice.

      ‘Who’s for coffee?’ Ben interrupts, brightly.

       30

      The next day, I have an important and considerably less nerve-shredding social occasion: I’m cooking a roast lunch for my three closest friends. Ordinarily I might regret peeling carrots when I could be getting nicely oiled in a gastropub, yet the dinner party has reminded me how glad I am to have friends who are neither a) Matt or b) Lucy.

      Rupa’s palace appears well equipped at first, largely due to her pristine range cooker. On investigation it turns out this flat is the equivalent of those ultra-sleek modern hotels with nailed-shut cupboards and nowhere to put your sponge bag. Even my ingredients haul from Tesco Metro on the narrow counter makes the place look like a school’s harvest festival. As I sweat over the pans and flap the oven door open and shut and wish the chicken was less my skin tone and more Olivia’s, I reflect on how Ben’s wife floats around on a velvet cloud, rolling on castors. She didn’t break a sweat serving dinner for six last night, and it was all done with such confident élan. When I cook for people, I nervously watch them start chewing, preparing to apologise. And I can’t possibly accomplish it without stress. (‘Just chuck a rustic bowl of pasta in the middle of the table and invite everyone to dig in, what could be easier?’ THE PUB.) I catch sight of the ghost of my hassled face in Rupa’s glass splash backs and think how Olivia and I are more like different species than members of the same gender.

      Confusingly, Rupa has an extravagant dinner service – white, square, edged СКАЧАТЬ