“Totally.” I nod earnestly.

“That was the highest point of my life. Greece. You. The whole deal.” He looks gripped by the memory. “Just the two of us, together. Everything was simple. There was no shit. Is it the same for you? Was that the best time of your life?”

My mind does a hazy rewind over the last fifteen years. OK, there have been a few high points here and there, but in general I have to agree. We were eighteen. We were hot. We could drink all night with no hangover. When has life ever been that good?

I nod slowly. “Best time ever.”

“Why didn’t we stay together, Lottie? Why didn’t we keep in touch?”

“Edinburgh–Bath.” I shrug. “Bath–Edinburgh. Impossible geography.”

“I know. But that was a crap reason.” He looks angry. “We were idiots.”

We had the “impossible geography” conversation many, many times on the island. He was going to Edinburgh University. I was going to Bath. It was only a matter of time before it ended. There was no point trying to keep things going beyond the summer.

The days after the fire were weird, anyway. Everything started to fall apart. We were all billeted in different guest houses, all over the island. People’s parents swooped in. Some actually arrived on the next boat, with money and clothes and replacement passports. I remember seeing Pinky sitting disconsolately at the taverna with two very smart-looking parents. It felt like the party was over.

“Weren’t we planning to meet once in London?” It comes back to me in a flash. “But then you had to go to Normandy with your family.”

“That’s right.” He exhales sharply. “I should have bailed out on them. I should have switched to Bath.” His eyes suddenly focus on me. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Lottie. Sometimes I think, what an idiot I was to let you go. What a fucking stupid idiot.”

My stomach turns an almighty somersault and I almost choke on my wine. At the back of my mind, I was kind of hoping he might say something along these lines. But not so soon. His blue eyes are boring into me expectantly.

“Me too,” I say at last, and take a forkful of halibut.

“Don’t tell me you’ve ever had a relationship better than ours. Because I sure as hell haven’t.” Ben bangs the table with his fist. “Maybe we got our priorities screwed up. Maybe we should have said, Fuck university, we’re staying together. Who knows what might have happened? We were good together, Lottie. Maybe we’ve wasted the last fifteen years not being together. Don’t you ever think that?”

His speed is taking my breath away. I don’t quite know how to react, so I stuff some more halibut into my mouth.

“We might be married by now. We might have kids. My life might make sense.” He’s almost talking to himself, popping with a kind of suppressed emotion I can’t read.

“Do you want kids?” I say before I can stop myself.

I can’t believe I just asked a guy on a first date if he wants kids. I should be struck off. Except … it’s not a first date. If it’s anything, it’s a zillionth date. And he mentioned them first. And, anyway, it’s not a date at all. So.

“Yes, I want kids.” His intent gaze lands on me again. “I’m ready for a family, prams, going to the park, all that shit.”

“Me too.” I feel tears spring to my eyes. “I’m ready for a family too.”

Oh God. Richard has popped into my head yet again. I didn’t want him to, but he has. I’m remembering that fantasy I used to have of Richard and me making a tree house for our twins called Arthur and Edie. Almost savagely, I open my evening bag and reach for a tissue. Crying was not the plan. Thinking about Richard was not the plan.

Thankfully, Ben doesn’t seem to have noticed. He refills my glass, then his own, with wine. We’ve already finished the bottle, I notice with a slight shock. How did we manage that?

“Remember the pact?” His voice takes me by surprise.

No way.

Adrenaline has flooded my body. My lungs are squeezed so tight, I can’t breathe. I didn’t think he’d remember the pact. I wasn’t going to bring it up. It was a teeny, tiny, jokey promise we made once. It was nothing. It was ridiculous.

“Should we exercise it?” He’s looking at me frankly. I think he might be half serious. Or serious. No. He can’t be serious—

“Bit late,” I manage, my throat tight. “We said if we were unmarried at thirty. I’m thirty-three.”

“Better late than never.” I feel a fresh jolt. His foot has found mine under the table and he’s edging off my shoe. “My flat’s nearby,” he murmurs. Now his hand is taking mine. My skin starts tingling all over. It’s like muscle memory. Sex memory. I know where we’re heading.

But … but … is that where I want to head? What’s going on here? Think, Lottie.

“Would you care to see the dessert menu?” The waiter’s voice snaps me out of my trance. My head jerks up and I take the chance to whip my hand away from Ben.

“Er … thanks.”

I scan the dessert menu, my cheeks beating with blood, my mind circling furiously. What do I do now? What? What?

A little voice is telling me to rein in. I’m playing this wrong. I’m making a mistake. I have a terrible sense of déjà vu, of things following the same old pattern.

All my long-term relationships have started like this. Hand-holding over a table. Pulses racing all over my body. Nice underwear, and everything waxed, and hot, inventive, fabulous sex. (Or terrible sex, that one time with the doctor bloke. Yikes. You’d think a medic would be a bit more up on the way a body works. But I ditched him fairly swiftly.)

The point is: the beginning is never the problem. It’s afterward.

I’m feeling a strange conviction I’ve never felt before. I need to change everything I’m doing. Break the pattern. But how? What?

Ben has taken my hand again and is kissing the inside of my wrist, but I ignore him. I want to marshal my thoughts.

“What’s wrong?” He looks up, his mouth against my skin. “You’re tense. Lottie, don’t fight it. This is meant to happen. You and me. You know it is.”

His eyes have that languorous, drunken sexy look I remember. I’m already feeling turned on. I could surrender and have a sizzling, delicious night to cheer myself up. I deserve it, after all.

But what if there’s a chance of more than a great night? How should I play this? What do I do?

It would really help if my head wasn’t spinning.

“Ben, you have to understand.” I pull my arm away again. “It’s not like when we were eighteen, OK? I don’t just want a shag. I want … other things. I want marriage. I want commitment. I want to plan a life together with someone. Kids, the whole lot.”

“So do I!” he says impatiently. “Weren’t you listening? It should have been you all along.” His eyes are burning into mine. “Lottie. I never stopped loving you.”

Oh my God, he loves me. I feel a rush of tears again. And, looking at him, it comes to me that I never stopped loving him either. Maybe I just didn’t realize it, because it was a kind of low-level, steady love. Like a background hum. And now it’s swelling back up into full-blown passion.

“Nor did I,” I say, my voice trembling with sudden conviction. “I’ve loved you for fifteen years.”

“Fifteen years.” He’s clinging to my hand. “We were insane to let each other go.”

The romance of it all is overwhelming me. Talk about a story to tell at a wedding reception. Talk about oohs and aahs. We were apart for fifteen years, but then we found each other again.

“We have to make up for lost time.” He crushes my fingers to his mouth. “Darling Lottie. My love.” His words are like balm. The feel of his lips on my skin is almost unbearably delicious. For an instant I close my eyes. But, no. Alarm bells are ringing. I can’t bear this one to go wrong like all the others.

“Stop!” I whip my hand away. “Don’t! Ben, I know how this will play out, and I can’t bear it. Not again.”

“What are you talking about?” He stares at me, baffled. “All I did was kiss your fingers.”

His voice is a bit slurred. Kish your fingersh. But, then, so probably is mine.

I wait until the waiter has brushed away the crumbs from our table, then launch in again, my voice lowered and trembling.

“I’ve been here before. I know what happens. You kiss my fingers. I kiss your fingers. We have sex. It’s great. We have more sex. We’re besotted. We go on a mini-break to the Cotswolds. Maybe we buy a sofa together, or a bookshelf from Ikea. And then suddenly it’s two years later and we should be getting married … but somehow we don’t. We’ve gone off the boil. We argue and we break up. And it’s horrible.”

My throat is tight with misery at our fate. It’s so inevitable and it’s so sad.

Ben looks bewildered by the scenario I’ve painted.

“OK,” he says at last, eyeing me warily. “Well … what if we don’t go off the boil?”

“We do! It’s the law! It always happens!” I gaze at him, my eyes full of tears. “I’ve gone off the boil with too many guys. I know.”

“Even if we don’t buy a bookshelf from Ikea?”

I know he’s trying to be funny, but I’m serious. I’ve spent fifteen years of my life dating, I suddenly realize. Dating is not the solution to anything. Dating gave me Richard. Dating is the problem.

“There’s a good reason you went off the boil with those other guys.” Ben tries again. “They weren’t the right guys. But I am!”

“Who says you’re the right guy?”

“Because … because … Jesus! What will it take?” He thrusts his fingers through his hair, looking exasperated. “OK! You win. We’ll do it the old-fashioned way. Lottie, will you marry me?”