You Had Me at Hello by Mhairi McFarlane Page B

university, then I got a more businesslike on-shoulders ’do after a few occasions in court when I was mistaken for the girlfriend of a defendant.
    I tuck a strand behind my ear, self-consciously: ‘Oh, yeah.’
    â€˜Suits you,’ he says, lightly.
    â€˜Thank you. You look well, too.’ I take a sharp breath. ‘So, tell me all about your life. Married, two point four kids, belter of a pension plan?’
    â€˜Married, yes,’ Ben says.
    â€˜Fantastic!’ I make sure every last syllable sounds robustly delighted. ‘Congratulations.’
    â€˜Thank you. Olivia and I celebrated our two-year anniversary last month.’
    The name gives me a twinge. All the Sloaney-I’ve-got-a-pony girls on our course were called things like Olivia and Tabitha and Veronica and we used to take arms against them in our non-posh gang of two. And he traitorously married one of them. I momentarily wish I had a Toby to wield in retaliation.
    â€˜Well done,’ I waffle on. ‘Did you have the big white production?’
    â€˜Urgh, no,’ Ben shudders. ‘Registry office at Marylebone. We hired an old Routemaster and had posh shepherd’s pie wedding breakfast in a room above a pub. A nice one, I mean, Liv chose it. All idyllic with kids running round in the garden afterwards, we had great weather.’
    I nod and he suddenly looks self-conscious.
    â€˜Bit cliché, trendified Chas’n’Dave, Beefeater London, I guess, but we liked it.’
    â€˜Sounds great.’ It does sound great. And cool, and romantic. I don’t care what the bride wore or want to see the album though. All right, I do.
    â€˜Yeah, it was. No faceless hotel, DJ with a fake American accent, three million relatives glumly picking at a duff carvery that cost three million quid, none of that rubbish.’
    â€˜That’s only a quid per head budget. Quite tight really.’
    Ben smiles, distractedly, and I see the wheels turning, him remembering things that have nothing to do with this weak joke, things he’s not going to mention.
    For a split second, sensing his discomfort, I marvel at my own masochism. Did I really want to sit here listening to how he promised all his remaining days to someone else? Couldn’t I have taken that as a given? Did I want to discover a broken man? No. I wanted him to be happy and it was also going to be the thing that hurt the most. That’s the reason this was such a bad idea
. One
of the reasons
.
    We sip our coffees. I discreetly wipe my mouth in case of chocolate powder moustache.
    He continues: ‘Kids, not yet. Pension, yes, really cuts into my having-fun fund.’
    â€˜Still able to spend harder than Valley girls?’
    I remember days trailing round clothes shops with Ben, waiting outside changing rooms, enjoying the gender reversal. He even took my advice on what to buy – it was like having my old Ken doll become self-aware. (‘Not that self-aware if he’s behaving like a southern poof,’ Rhys said.)
    â€˜Oh yes,’ Ben says. ‘I have to hide the bags from Liv as principal earner. It’s emasculating. What about you? Married?’ He picks up his spoon and stirs his coffee, although he didn’t add any sugar, and drops his gaze momentarily. ‘To Rhys?’
    If we were hooked up to polygraphs, the line would’ve got squigglier.
    â€˜Engaged for a while. We’ve just split up actually.’
    Ben looks genuinely appalled. Great, we skipped schadenfreude and went straight to abject pity. ‘God, sorry.’
    â€˜Thanks. It’s OK.’
    â€˜You should’ve stopped me going on about weddings.’
    â€˜I asked. It’s fine.’
    â€˜Is that why you’re moving?’
    â€˜Yeah,’ I nod.
    â€˜No kids?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜That’s funny, I was sure you would have, for some reason,’ Ben says, unguardedly. ‘A little girl with her mother’s