Damo grinned at me.
‘Move on?’
‘Stop repeating everything I say,’ I said, remembering how infuriating he could be.
‘I need a good art editor, you need a job and you’re a good art editor. We can help each other.’
Damo didn’t look very convinced.
‘I’ve got a job,’ he said. ‘So why would I come and work for you?’
‘You’ve got some freelance shifts,’ I pointed out, offering him my broken poppadom. I wasn’t very hungry and I definitely didn’t fancy curry at lunchtime – I’d only agreed to come to Damo’s favourite restaurant as part of my campaign to butter him up.
‘Yeah, but I like being flexible,’ he said. ‘And you’re really bossy.’
I glowered at him.
‘I’m not bossy, I’m the boss,’ I said. I was beginning to recall why we’d split up. Damo was so laid back he was virtually horizontal. He wouldn’t commit to anything, he had the itchiest feet of anyone I’d ever met, and he really didn’t like being tied down. When we’d first met – when I moved to Sydney to work for a year on a mag out there – his spontaneity had thrilled me. He’d moved into my tiny apartment within about three weeks of us getting together and we’d spent weekends exploring the city and our holidays travelling all over Australia. Then, when he’d decided it was time to move on, I’d agreed. Except, I was putting down roots in Sydney. I had a lot of misgivings and doubts about his plans – and I’d never quite got round to telling him about those doubts.
As Damo gave away the few possessions he’d accumulated during his time in Sydney, and planned a route round South East Asia, he’d tell me stories about amazing things we’d see in Thailand and Laos and Cambodia.
But I had my eye on another prize – the next step on the career ladder. The deputy editor on the magazine I worked for had told me she was leaving and I wanted her job. I wanted it so badly it was like a physical pain. I knew I could do it, and do it really well. I knew I’d work brilliantly with the editor and I knew she wanted me to apply. It was perfect – but I’d not mentioned to Damo that I wanted to stay in Australia.
‘Tell him,’ Jen emailed me. ‘Tell him that you’re not going.’
‘I can’t,’ I typed back. ‘There’s never a good time.’
‘Better now than at the airport,’ she’d written.
But in the end, I’d chosen the worst possible time. We’d gone out one Saturday, into the city centre. Damo was fidgety with excitement because he’d hit his savings target, he’d shed his belongings and he’d decided today was the day we were going to buy our tickets to Bangkok.
‘And after the full moon party, we’ll head over to some of the smaller islands…’ Damo was saying.
I stopped walking.
‘Fearne?’ Damo said. ‘What’s up?’
I looked at him, standing in the clean Sydney street, his shaggy hair blowing in the wind and his brown eyes scrunched up against the sun, and I couldn’t believe what I was going to say.
‘Fearne?’ he said again.
‘I’m not going,’ I said.
Damo looked confused.
‘I thought you said you were free all morning,’ he said. ‘We can go to the travel agent later, if you’ve got something else on…’
I shook my head.
‘I’m not going to Asia,’ I said. ‘I’m staying here.’
Damian got it straight away.
‘Patti’s job?’ he said.
I nodded, biting my lip.
‘I really want it, Damo,’ I said. ‘I need that job.’
‘There will be other jobs.’
I shook my head.
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Maybe not.’
Damo took my hand.
‘You can spend your whole life trying to make your parents proud of you,’ he said. ‘And who knows, maybe one day it’ll work.’
I looked at my feet, tanned in my flip flops – thongs they called them here, though I’d never get used to that. I couldn’t meet Damo’s eyes.
‘But maybe,’ Damo carried on. ‘Maybe nothing you do will ever be good enough, and maybe you should live a little. There are more important things than work, you know.’
I gave a small smile.
‘Like what?’ I said.
‘Like me.’
For a moment we stared at each other, both of us knowing it was one of those Sliding Doors moments. And then, slowly, I shook my head.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m not going.’
Damo let go of my hand.
‘I’ll see you around,’ he said.
And then he walked away. He’d taken all his stuff out of my apartment by the time I got home that evening and he booked his flight to Asia for a few days later. I was heartbroken, of course. Despite everything, I’d fallen really hard for him, and he’d hit a nerve when he’d talked about my parents. But, true to form, I dusted myself off, threw myself into making Patti’s job my own, and returned to London a year later to carry on climbing that career ladder.
I missed Damo of course. I thought about him a lot during my time in Sydney and even when I returned to London. But I didn’t see him again until he showed up in my office.
Now, sitting opposite him, I was amazed he didn’t hold more ill will towards me.
‘Damo,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry about what happened. With us, I mean.’
He shrugged.
‘Long time ago,’ he said.
‘I know.’
My mouth was dry. I hated apologising.
‘I handled it all really badly,’ I said. ‘And I still think about you a lot. I’m sorry if I hurt you.’
Damian looked up at me. He had odd greeny-brown eyes, which looked bright in his brown face – he was still tanned, even though the London weather had made him paler than I’d ever seen him before.
‘I’ve not been moping for five years,’ he said, bluntly. ‘We had a great thing, but it ended and we moved on. We’re over it. I’m over it. Aren’t you?’
I swallowed.
‘Of course,’ I said in a squeaky voice. I couldn’t look at his face so I focused on his arms instead. His buff, brown arms… Nope. His face was better. I was over it. At least, I had been, until he turned up in my office.
I took a deep breath.
‘Give me six months,’ I said. ‘I’ve got some brilliant ideas to turn the magazine around, but I need you to help make it work. Six months is all I need.’
Nine months would be better, but somehow that sounded much longer.
‘Six months,’ Damo said. He wiped his plate with a piece of naan.
‘That’s it,’ I said, hoping to appeal to his flighty nature. ‘Six months.’
‘Is Jen in?’
‘She’s in.’
‘All right,’ Damo said. ‘I’ll do it.’