You Had Me at Hello by Mhairi McFarlane

bothering to look appealing, on the final gamble that the law of sod will therefore produce him.
    I shouldn’t have come here. I’m acting out of character and hyper-irrational in the post-traumatic stress of splitting up with Rhys. I don’t know what I’d say to Ben or why I’d want to see him. Actually, that’s not true. I know why I want to see him but the reasons don’t bear examination.
    A clutch of people in fleeces and hats, who appear to be being given a guided tour, block my exit from the library. Like an impatient local, I retreat and double back round them
.
Deep in thought, I smack straight into someone coming the other direction.
    â€˜Sorry,’ I say.
    â€˜Sorry,’ he mutters back, in that reflexive British way where you’re apologetic that someone else has had to make an apology.
    In order to perform the little tango of manoeuvring past each other, we exchange a distracted glance. There’s absolutely no way this man can be Ben. I’d know, I’d sense it if he was this close. I glance at his face anyway. It registers as ‘stranger’ then reforms into something familiar, with that oddly dull thud of revelation.
    Oh Judas Priest!
There he is.
THERE HE IS! Plucked from my memory and here in the real world, in full colour HD. His hair’s slightly longer than the university years’ crop but still short enough to be work-smart, and they’re unmistakeably his features, the sight of them transporting me back a decade in an instant. And, despite the world’s longest ever build-up to a reappearance since Lord Lucan, Caroline’s right – he still takes air out of lungs.
    He’s lost the slightly unformed, baby-fat look we all had back then, sharpening into something even more characterfully handsome. There’s a fan of light lines at the corner of each eye, the set of his mouth a little harder. His frame has filled out a little from the youthful lankiness of before.
    It’s the strangest sensation, looking at someone who I know well and don’t know at all, at the same time. He’s staring too, although it’s the staring Catch-22: he could be staring because I’m staring. For an awful instant, I think either Ben’s not going to recognise me or – worse – pretend not to recognise me. But he doesn’t take flight. He opens his lips and there’s a pause, as if he has to remember how to engage his voice box and soft and hard palates to produce sounds.
    â€˜â€¦ Rachel?’
    â€˜Ben?’ (Like I haven’t given myself an unfair head start in this quiz.)
    His brow stays furrowed in disbelief but he smiles, and a wave of relief and joy crashes over me.
    â€˜Oh my God, I don’t believe it. How are you?’ he says, at a subdued volume, as if our voices are going to carry into the library upstairs.
    â€˜I’m fine,’ I squeak. ‘How are you?’
    â€˜I’m fine too. Mildly stunned right now, but otherwise fine.’
    We laugh, eyes still wide:
this is crazy.
More than he knows.
    â€˜Surreal,’ I agree, feeling my way tentatively back into a familiarity, like stumbling around your bedroom in the pitch dark, trying to remember where everything is. ‘You live in Manchester?’ he asks.
    â€˜Yes. Sale. About to move into the centre. You?’
    â€˜Yeah, Didsbury. Moved up from London last month.’
    He brandishes a briefcase, like the Chancellor with the Budget.
    â€˜I’m a boring arse lawyer now, would you believe.’
    â€˜Really? You did one of those conversion courses?’
    â€˜No. I blag it. Thought there was a saturation point when I’d seen enough TV dramas, I could go from there. Like
Catch Me If You Can
.’
    He’s straight faced and I’m so shell-shocked that it takes me a second to process that this is humour.
    â€˜Ah right,’ I nod. Then hurriedly: ‘I’m a journalist. Of sorts. Court reporter