Then I Met You Read online

  PRAISE FOR MATT DUNN

  ‘Funny, warm, honest . . .’

  —Jenny Colgan

  ‘Matt Dunn is officially funny.’

  —Jojo Moyes

  ‘Matt Dunn’s writing makes you laugh out loud.’

  —Sophie Kinsella

  ‘Wonderful . . . Will make every lunch break feel like a mini-break with your favourite friends.’

  —Chrissie Manby

  ‘This is Matt Dunn at the top of his game. Funny, poignant, and big-hearted . . .’

  —Mike Gayle

  ‘Sharp and witty . . . I loved it.’

  —Milly Johnson

  ALSO BY MATT DUNN

  Best Man

  The Ex-Boyfriend’s Handbook

  From Here to Paternity

  Ex-Girlfriends United

  The Good Bride Guide

  The Accidental Proposal

  A Day at the Office

  What Might Have Been

  Home

  A Christmas Day at the Office

  13 Dates

  At the Wedding

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Matt Dunn

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477823453

  ISBN-10: 147782345X

  Cover design by Ghost Design

  To Sanj.

  Too Soon.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chapter 1

  Simon Martin stood in the middle of Primark and frowned at his phone. ‘What do you mean, “what are you wearing”?’ he said, exasperated. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Just, you know . . .’ On the other end of the line, Will hesitated, and Simon rolled his eyes. Will was his best friend, but sometimes he could be a little . . . well, ‘superficial’ often summed him up. Though, right now, ‘weird’ was perhaps a bit more appropriate. ‘Your clothes?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Because the restaurant’s quite cool.’

  ‘Cool,’ Simon said, tensing up a little at the mention of the c-word, though mainly because it didn’t apply to him. He’d been to a few ‘cool’ places with Will before, back when they’d shared a flat in London – typically dimly lit establishments that made you sit on uncomfortable wooden benches while you squinted at menus that never seemed to feature the pound sign or more than one figure after the decimal point, as if you were supposed to regard ‘16.5’ for a burger as some sort of secret code for quality, rather than being pretentious . . . not to mention ridiculously expensive. ‘It’s a street food restaurant. And in Margate. How “cool” can it be?’

  ‘Even so, it’s street food, not roadkill. So make a bit of an effort.’

  Simon checked his watch. He had half an hour before he was due to meet Will for lunch – not quite long enough to go home and change . . . Then again, he was in Primark. He could probably buy ‘cool’ and still have change from a twenty-pound note. Though given how busy it was, being half past twelve on a Saturday, and with the queue for the changing rooms stretching almost to the door, perhaps going home was the better option.

  ‘I’m sure it’s hardly The Ritz.’

  ‘Maybe not. But I’m reviewing it for the Gazette. Which means I can’t turn up with someone who looks like . . .’

  Will’s voice trailed off, and Simon found himself bristling a little. ‘Someone who looks like what, exactly?’

  ‘Like they don’t care,’ Will said, and Simon sighed. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. It was quite the opposite, actually. Why did Will find that so hard to understand?

  ‘Will, I . . . I just . . .’ Simon stopped talking. He knew precisely why Will found it so hard to understand. Because Simon found it so hard to tell him.

  ‘Si, I just want you to be happy. After all, it’s been, what . . . ?’

  ‘Two years,’ said Simon, quietly.

  ‘Exactly!’ said Will.

  ‘Well, not exactly two years . . .’

  ‘That’s not what I meant, and you know it.’

  Simon stood to one side to let a shop assistant carrying a huge armful of jumpers past, then moved back sharply as her equally laden colleague came at him from the opposite direction. ‘Will, I appreciate you tiptoeing around this, but can’t we just have a nice lunch without the constant undertone of me needing to – what was it – “get back in the saddle”?’

  ‘Of course we can,’ said Will, sounding sympathetic. ‘No worries. I won’t even mention it.’

  ‘Good. Thanks.’

  ‘Although . . .’

  ‘Although?’

  ‘You kind of do need to.’

  Simon could hear the italics, and he sighed even louder. ‘And I will, Will. When I’m ready.’

  ‘Great. And, um, when is that going to be?’

  ‘Soon. I promise.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ Will hesitated, then took a deep breath, and Simon braced himself for what he suspected was imminent. ‘Because Alice isn’t coming back, you know?’

  At the sound of his ex-girlfriend’s name, Simon winced. ‘I know, Will. I just . . .’

  ‘So you need to move on, buddy.’

  ‘I have moved on.’

  ‘You’ve moved house. That’s not the same thing.’

  ‘It’s . . . a start.’

  ‘And you’re not getting any younger.’

  ‘I’m thirty-one. That’s hardly old.’

  ‘You want kids, right?’

  Will sounded like he was in danger of getting on a roll, and while Simon appreciated where it was coming from, this wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have right now. Or any time, for that matter. But especially not in the middle of Primark.

  ‘You’ll have to at least buy me lunch first,’ he said, trying to deflect his friend with a joke, and Will laughed.

  ‘Good one!’ he said, then his voice took on a serious tone again. ‘All I’m saying is, if you do want them, first of all you’ve
got to meet someone, then after a while you move in together, after that you get married . . . These things all take time. And if you aren’t doing anything about the first one, simply because you’re holding on to something that . . .’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Simon anxiously ran his free hand through his hair. ‘Jeans and a sweatshirt, to answer your original question,’ he said, in an attempt to change the subject.

  ‘Smart ones?’

  Simon looked down at his outfit, suspecting Will might look down on it. Not exactly dad jeans, but not quite Will’s turned-up-at-the-ankle, skinny-fit selvedge denim either, and an old, dark grey sweatshirt that had possibly begun life as a black one – Simon couldn’t remember.

  ‘Smart-ish.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Will, though the tone of his voice suggested it wasn’t. ‘And don’t be late.’

  ‘I never am!’

  ‘Because the restaurant gets busy. What with it being new, and Saturday lunchtime.’

  ‘Haven’t you booked?’

  ‘You can’t. But I’ll meet you on the long table in front of the food truck.’

  ‘There’s a food truck?’

  ‘At the opposite end to the entrance. You can’t miss it, on account of it being, you know, a truck. And if you’re there first, grab the seat in the middle.’

  Simon let out a short laugh. ‘Yes, sir!’ he said. Will had asked him to lunch a week ago, and for some reason had been calling him almost every day since then to confirm. ‘Is Jess coming?’

  ‘Jess?’

  ‘Your new girlfriend? The one you met at work? The one you keep telling me is “the one”?’

  He could almost hear the cogs turning in Will’s head. ‘Why would she be coming?’

  ‘Just a wild stab in the dark, but because she’s your girlfriend?’ said Simon. ‘Not to mention the “the one” bit.’

  ‘Oh. Of course. Ha ha. No – no women allowed! Just you and me, matey. Simon and Will. Will and Simon. Buds. Amigos.’

  ‘You’re scaring me now.’

  ‘Plus, I never said she was “the one”.’

  ‘Oh no. Sorry. What was it? “The current one”?’

  ‘Something like that,’ said Will. ‘Besides, she’s working.’

  ‘On a Saturday?’

  ‘The Gazette won’t write itself,’ said Will, evasively. ‘So – one p.m.?’

  ‘Fine, for the millionth time. Did you want me to pick you up?’

  ‘No!’ said Will, quickly. ‘You’re all right.’

  If only, thought Simon, as he said goodbye and ended the call.

  The worst thing about it all was that Simon knew his friend was right. Alice was gone. He did need to move on. The trouble was, he didn’t want to. Certainly not yet, anyway. And besides, he didn’t have the faintest idea how.

  He checked his watch again, then resumed his search for a coat – though so far everything he’d tried on had been too similar to the ones the hip young men who frequented the coffee shop he worked at wore: either so tight-fitting it was surprising they could even breathe, or parkas so thick and with so much fur round the hood they were more suited for a polar expedition than for the Margate seafront. On Simon, quite frankly, they looked ridiculous.

  On the other hand, he couldn’t quite bring himself to cross the retail park and look for something perhaps more appropriate in Marks & Spencer, fearing it was a short step from there to wearing shoes that fastened with Velcro or trousers with an elasticated waistband. But that was the trouble with being thirty-one, in that awkward ‘middle’ age before you were actually middle-aged. You didn’t quite know where you belonged. A feeling Simon had had for a long time. And especially since Alice.

  Disheartened, he began making his way towards the exit, then hesitated. Hanging on the end of a rail of yellow Hawaiian shirts so brightly coloured he was sure the positioning of a rack of sunglasses next to them was no accident was exactly the kind of coat he was looking for: a puffer jacket, like the black Superdry one Will owned but in navy blue, and not so puffy that he’d look like the Michelin Man. And it looked suspiciously like it might be his size. It appeared to be the last one left too, unless some other shopper had found it somewhere else in the store, brought it over to try on in front of the mirror, then – too lazy to take it back to wherever its hanger was – had simply dumped it here.

  Congratulating himself on his good luck, he squeezed past a couple trying on sunglasses in front of the mirror, retrieved the coat from the end of the rail and slipped it on, pleased to find it an almost perfect fit. Between them, the couple were blocking the mirror, so he fought his way across the store until he found another one, then admired his reflection, turning one way and then the other, more than happy with his opportune find. This would do, and what was more – though even thinking the word left a slightly unpleasant taste in his mouth – it was almost cool. Simon could turn up at the restaurant in this, and Will would have no complaints. And although it might be a little warm to wear during the meal, it was all about first impressions, wasn’t it? As long as it wasn’t too expensive . . .

  Simon almost laughed. This was Primark, and even though his job as a barista wasn’t the highest-paid in the world, nothing in here was expensive. Or perhaps this didn’t even cost anything at all, he thought, as he tried – and failed – to find a price tag.

  Still wearing the coat, he strode across to where the shop assistant who’d passed him earlier was arranging the jumpers into a neat pile – a pointless task, Simon was sure, given how the shop’s clientele seemed to have turned every other display into something resembling a jumble sale – and tapped her on the shoulder.

  ‘Can you tell me how much this is, please?’

  The assistant glanced down at Simon’s empty hands, then frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘I said, can you tell me how much this is?’

  ‘How much what is?’

  ‘This coat.’

  ‘Which coat?’

  ‘This one.’ Simon smoothed down the coat’s front. ‘I can’t seem to find a price tag.’

  ‘Right.’ The assistant reached into her back pocket and produced what looked like a rubber-clad mobile phone. ‘Can I see the label?’

  ‘There isn’t one. That’s why I’m asking.’

  ‘I mean the one inside. There’s a bar code. I can scan it, and—’

  ‘Oi!’

  Simon almost jumped out of his skin. From the other side of the store, a man was storming towards him, his face like thunder, closely followed by an equally angry-looking woman.

  ‘That’s my coat!’ The man was glaring at him, and Simon took a step backwards, nearly impaling himself on the clothes rack behind him.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You thick or something? That coat. It’s mine. Not sure I can make it any clearer.’

  The man was clearly livid, so Simon was careful not to make any sudden movements. They occasionally got bolshy customers in the coffee shop, and he knew a calm response could defuse the situation.

  ‘I didn’t see you trying it on.’

  The man’s eyes were bulging. ‘You’re the one who’s bloody well trying it on, mate!’

  ‘Listen. There’s obviously been some misunderstanding here. And I’m sure they’ve got more of them in stock.’ He turned to the shop assistant, who was looking like she’d rather go back to stacking jumpers. ‘Haven’t you?’

  ‘Um . . .’

  ‘And you’re the one who’s misunderstanding,’ spat the man. ‘That’s actually my coat.’

  ‘Your coat?’

  ‘Took it off when I was trying some sunglasses on, didn’t I?’

  ‘What?’ said Simon, again, though he was tempted to add the word ‘for’.

  The man was making a beckoning gesture with his hand. ‘Give,’ he said, though Simon was reluctant to concede just yet. The coat did fit him extremely well, and was particularly warm. Though that might not have been the only reason he was sweating right now.

  ‘Can you, you kno
w, prove it?’ he asked tentatively, and the man rolled his eyes.

  ‘It’s a bloody Nike,’ he said, pronouncing the make as a rhyme with ‘Mike’ rather than ‘Mikey’, and Simon was tempted to correct him – surely if it were his coat then he’d be able to say the name of the brand correctly. He wondered whether mentioning that he had a degree in linguistics might swing the argument his way, but decided he was more worried about the man’s fist swinging towards his face.

  ‘And?’ said Simon, just as he stuck his hands defiantly into the coat’s pockets, only to find what appeared to be a set of keys in one, and what felt suspiciously like a wallet in the other.

  The shop assistant had raised a hand. ‘We, um, don’t sell Nike,’ she said, and Simon’s face turned a bright shade of red.

  ‘O-kay,’ he said, reluctantly slipping the coat off, and the man snatched it back from him.

  ‘Bloody thief,’ he said, and Simon’s jaw dropped open.

  ‘I’m not . . . I mean, I didn’t . . .’ he stammered, and the man gave him a smug smile.

  ‘Prove it!’ he said.

  ‘Well, because . . .’ He looked anxiously at the man’s female companion, then at the shop assistant, both of whom seemed to be keen to hear his defence. ‘Because I asked how much it was. And last I heard, thieves weren’t interested in paying for things. They’d prefer to, um, steal them. Because that’s what they, you know, do.’

  The man was glaring at the shop assistant now, as if she were Simon’s accomplice. ‘Did he?’

  ‘He did,’ she said. ‘But like I told him, we don’t sell, you know . . .’

  ‘Nike,’ said Simon, taking care to overemphasise the second syllable.

  ‘Right. Well . . .’

  The man had pulled his coat back on – it didn’t fit him quite as well as it had Simon, and he considered pointing that out, then decided there probably wasn’t an upside to that particular conversational route. ‘Sorry?’ he ventured, and the man’s expression softened.

  ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘Easily done, I suppose.’

  As the couple headed off in the opposite direction, Simon breathed a sigh of relief and hurried out of the shop. Things like this had never happened when Alice was around – and even if they had, the two of them would probably have laughed about it. Since she’d gone, he hadn’t had much to laugh about. At all.