Straight Talking by Jane Green Page B

hundred. I was there with the gang, and we all hated it, and after about an hour we decided to leave. And as we were walking out, past the huge line that had formed outside the door, praying that they would be amongst the chosen few that the huge black bouncers would let in, I saw Jeremy, an old friend, someone I hadn’t seen for years.
    He was with “the boys,” and of course they didn’t mind the fact that everyone was sixteen, because men don’t care how old their prey is, as long as she’s pretty.
    And while I was talking to Jeremy, I could feel one of his friends staring at me, couldn’t take his eyes off me. I kept glancing toward him and catching his eye and although I liked what I saw, he was obviously very, very young.
    He was twenty-seven, which isn’t that young, I know, but I’m not into boys, and this guy somehow looked incredibly boyish. He was incredibly pretty, with big brown eyes and a trendy short crop. He looked like he should have been in
Take That
. But he was, in fact, a solicitor.
    Which isn’t a bad thing in itself, but I’ve never been able to see myself with someone who works in law or accountancy. Great jobs, I know, but so boring. Please. I don’t even mind if they’re bastards from the beginning, but at least make it exciting.
    But he
was
very cute, and he obviously liked me, so when Jeremy invited me to join them to go to another party, how could I resist?
    “You can come in my car,” offered Guy, as I was about to climb into Jeremy’s Golf. I swiftly climbed out and into Guy’s Range Rover.
    We didn’t talk much on the way, but I assessed his choice of music—REM, not the greatest, but compromises are always possible. I assessed his driving—fast and confident, just the kind of driving I like, and I assessed the back of his neck—clean, fresh, waiting to be kissed.
    And at the party he leaned against the door frame, and he was tall and big, and he towered above me and despite the fact that he was ever so slightly boring, I started to fancy him. Surprise, surprise.
    “So you live in Bayswater? Which road?”
    I told him grudgingly because the road is a bit of a dump but his face lit up. “That’s amazing, I drive past there every day on my way home from work. I’m going to come for dinner. What day shall I come?”
    “Don’t come during the week because we’ll both have to have early nights. Why don’t you come on the weekend?”
    “Deal. I’ll see you on Friday.” And he dropped me home and outside my flat he didn’t try to kiss me, he just said, “I’ll bring the food, you supply the wine.”
    I got out of the car grinning. And I grinned all through the next day. No one at work could figure out why I was suddenly so happy, but of course you know, don’t you, I thought I’d stumbled upon love again.
    He turned up for dinner empty-handed, carrying nothing but an aura of confidence, weighed down by good looks and charm. I, trying to be stunning but not trying too hard, greeted him at the door wearing jeans, a sloppy sweatshirt and thick socks. He walked straight past me and into the kitchen to open the bottle of wine I’d bought. He was taking control, taking my breath away. I really had forgotten how cute this guy was.
    I carried the wine and glasses into the living room and we sat there and talked, chatting about everything, while I, in my socks and sloppy sweater, pretended to be as cute as cute can be. Gone was the tough Anastasia, here was the gentle, sweet Tasha, the Tasha that could fall in love, the Tasha men could adore.
    “I changed my mind,” he said. “I’m taking you out for dinner.” And so he did, to a smart new restaurant in Hampstead. We feasted on bruschetta, rubbed with garlic, olive oil, and covered with juicy tomatoes and fresh basil. We laughed over fresh pasta, stuffed with ricotta and spinach, and we fed one another spoonfuls of sticky toffee pudding.
    “What are you doing for the rest of the weekend?” he asked, and, conveniently