Three Amazing Things About You(12)

OK, action. He headed towards the exit at the same time she did, two arrows set to converge at the revolving door. When he reached her, he knocked his foot against the wheels of her suitcase and said – completely convincingly – ‘Oh, sorry . . . hey, hello!’

She turned, her mouth falling open as she recognised him. ‘Wow. It’s you! Hi!’

‘I don’t believe it. Talk about a coincidence.’ Rory shook his head in disbelief. ‘This is amazing. Have you just got back from your holiday in . . . where did you say you were off to? Was it Paris?’

See? Super-casual, super-cool.

‘Saint-Tropez.’ She was smiling, similarly astounded by the coincidence. ‘This is so weird! And what are you doing here?’

‘Just dropped a friend off. He’s catching a flight to Frankfurt.’

‘Well, isn’t that nice of you? Especially on New Year’s Eve!’

‘What can I say?’ Rory gave a modest shrug. ‘I’m a kind and thoughtful person.’

‘I already knew that. Always happy to help others.’

‘How’s the credit card? Been looking after it?’ They’d moved to the right of the revolving doors now, to avoid getting in other people’s way.

‘I’ve been taking very good care of it.’ Her blue eyes sparkled. ‘No more bins, you’ll be glad to hear.’

‘Excellent. And how was your Christmas?’

‘We had a great time, thanks. You?’

See how she was keeping the conversation going? Asking a question in return? This was progressing well, really well. He nodded, encouraged by how brilliantly he was doing. ‘Yes, fantastic. I didn’t introduce myself last time, by the way. Rory. Rory McAndrew.’

‘And I’m Natasha. Tasha. Tash.’ She shrugged generously. ‘Whichever. Take your pick.’

‘I like any of those. All good names.’ Just the sound of her voice was mesmerising.

‘Well, fancy bumping into you again like this. I still can’t get over it.’

‘I know. Maybe it’s fate.’ He’d practised saying this in his head so many times. ‘Look, how about we—’

‘Oh that’s lovely, she turned up at last! I’m so pleased for you.’ The garrulous woman from WHSmith was right in front of them, now wearing a thick coat and carrying a handbag. Beaming at Natasha, she said, ‘He was here when I started my shift first thing this morning and he’s been waiting for you all day. Must be love!’

And with a cheery wave, the woman disappeared through the revolving glass doors, leaving Rory to drown in a sea of his own mortification.

He couldn’t look at Tasha, but was burningly aware that she was looking at him.

‘All day? Really?’

He nodded. Oh God.

‘Are you like Tom Hanks in that film, Terminal? Do you live here at the airport?’

He forced himself to meet her gaze. She was trying not to smile.

‘That bloody woman. OK, here’s the thing. I’m not a stalker and I’m not weird. My name’s Rory McAndrew, I live in Hampstead and I’m a financial investment adviser. I’m normal, I promise.’ The words weren’t flowing quite as easily now that he was having to improvise. ‘I’ve never done anything like this before, but after last week . . . with you and the bin . . . well, after you’d left, I just couldn’t stop thinking about you. And I was kicking myself because I hadn’t taken your number. There was no way of getting in touch with you again . . . and it just kind of felt like it could be the biggest mistake of my life.’

‘Wow,’ said Tasha.

‘But you’d said you were going away for a week, so I thought if I came here today, with a bit of luck I might see you again. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than nothing at all.’ Rory shrugged. ‘So I went for it; I took the chance.’

‘And it worked. I’m here.’ She pulled a face. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

‘That’s OK. Are you seeing anyone?’ He held his breath; this was the other possible stumbling block. Just because she hadn’t mentioned a boyfriend didn’t mean she didn’t have one.

‘Um, I’m not sure,’ said Tasha. ‘I think so.’

‘Oh.’ Oh.

Fuck.

‘How about you?’

Rory shook his head. ‘No. No one.’

‘Who was it who called you last week? Made you go and pick her up?’

‘That was my Aunt Mel. She broke her leg in November and we have to keep giving her lifts all the time. She’s pretty bossy.’

‘Right. So would you like my phone number?’

‘Yes.’ But what about the possible bastard boyfriend?