Page 8 of The Moment I Met You
He’s looking along the small row of tables, and our eyes meet.
I don’t know why I do it. I don’t know what possesses me – other than the fact that I am still disturbed by the image of myself being pinned to a butterfly board. Perhaps it’s the prospect of being trapped that makes me act on impulse, and I wave to him. Frankly I am sick of sitting here thinking thoughts that are making me feel physically nauseous, and any company other than my own would be welcome – even if he is a serial killer.
‘Please,’ I say, gesturing to the table. ‘Join us. Join me.’
He hesitates, and I immediately regret saying anything. This is a man who has deliberately kept his distance from all of us for the entire trip. A man who sits alone, walks alone, eats alone. Why the heck did I think it was a reasonable idea to invite him to join me? I feel like the world’s biggest idiot.
But then he smiles back and walks over, sliding into the opposite chair that Harry has left vacant.
We stare at each other, and my nervous grin feels stuck to my face. I want to apologise, which is weird – I have nothing to apologise for, apart from perhaps disturbing him.
He seems as taken aback as me, surprised that he is sitting opposite me, both of us vaguely embarrassed.
‘So … how is the wine?’ he asks.
‘It’s surprisingly good,’ I say. ‘Or maybe I’m just hot, and it’s not, so it automatically becomes the best wine in the world. Do you know what I mean? Like when you’ve been on a diet for months and then you eat a jam doughnut and even though you know it’s not, it tastes like the best food ever invented? Well … you probably don’t know. Anyway. Drink some wine so I stop gabbling.Please.’
He does at least look amused now, rather than worried. His eyes are a striking shade of icy blue, but his whole face softens when a smile creeps up on him. He reaches out for the glass, and takes an experimental sip. I can’t help noticing the plain white-gold wedding band on his ring finger, and immediately tell myself off for noticing.
‘Well, I wouldn’t describe it as the best wine in the world,’ he says eventually. ‘But I’ve had worse. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. Did you like the church? I saw you in there.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ he replies, smiling, glancing back at the solid form of the building looming over us.
‘I’m never sure what I really believe, you know, about God and religion,’ I say. ‘But I do believe in the power of human emotion, and maybe churches gather that up somehow. Soak it up into their walls, keep it for future visitors – all of that hope and pain and devotion. All the peaks and troughs of life – the births and marriages and deaths.’
He has lapsed back into silence, though to be fair he may just be thinking. Something I seem to have lost the knack of.
‘That must have sounded totally mad …’ I add.
His eyes meet mine and he shakes his head.
‘No, not at all. I think something similar. I’ve always believed that buildings are more than they seem. That they have their own secret lives, stored in memory cells made of plaster and brick. Sometimes, there’s even too much in them. I went to this church a few hours outside of Stockholm once, early morning when it was completely empty. Tiny place, but ancient, you know? One of those structures that was probably built on a pagan site, been a place of worship for over a thousand years … it was still, and silent, and simple, but almost overwhelming, the way you could close your eyes and imagine all of the life that passed through it.
‘See – you don’t sound so mad now, do you?’
It’s my turn to stop and stare and stay silent. That speech pretty much echoes an experience I had once, that I’ve never even told anybody about because it makes me sound like a fruitcake.
‘The same happened to me once in Salisbury Cathedral,’ I reply. ‘I was on a school trip, and the place was packed, but I could still feel it – like if I hid myself away in a corner, I could probably time travel. Follow the threads back through the decades, like I was part of some huge tapestry. Obviously I didn’t tell anyone I thought that – I was fifteen. It wouldn’t have been cool. Is that where you’re from, then, Stockholm?’
‘It is, yes. You?’
‘Originally from Cornwall, now London. What do you do, in Stockholm?’
‘I’m an architect.’
‘Oh! How wonderful! You create buildings – the future keepers of all that magic!’
‘Not really,’ he says, but looks a teensy bit delighted. ‘Mainly it’s social housing – finding ways to build affordable communities for people to live well in.’
‘Well, that’s just as magical,’ I insist. ‘I’m sure there’s as much power in a communal playground as there is in a cathedral. I work in a school. I love it, but … well. I’m thinking of making a few changes.’
I drift off a little, my eyes searching the plaza to find Harry’s familiar form. I don’t know why. I feel marginally guilty for talking to a stranger, for no good reason. Maybe I actually feel guilty because I’m enjoying it so much.
‘What kind of changes?’ he asks, drawing my attention back.
I stare into my glass, hoping it contains some of the secrets of the universe. Sadly it’s just white wine and it provides me with no new answers.
