Time To Reconnect

A book signing, champagne, an old flame… what will happen as I mix business and pleasure?

craves more booze – not because you are worried about that job interview, or whether or not your husband is cheating.

But I understand the need. I find the bubbles festive, cheery. My one regret is that I didn’t try drinking sooner; maybe then I’d have had the courage to seduce Freddie, or at least talk to him.

My interviewer this evening, a brittle blonde who has a late-night radio show on BBC London – ie, a nobody – motions for me to join her onstage.

I settle myself on a low chair, adjust my scarlet power jacket, pull my pencil skirt to cover my knees. My once long hair is now in a fashionable, messy bob – my one concession to passing fifty – and I tuck it behind both ears.

in the room. Just the sound of women breathing. We wait. Someone brings me another glass of champagne. I sip carefully, my eyes still on my phone.

And then, Ping!

Everyone gasps, and jumps, and oohs, and cranes. I open it. A huge grin opens on my face.

“What does it say?” a few women call. I clear my throat. Milk the moment.

“It says, “Cool.Idon’tknowit,butI willlookitup.I’mabitofareclusethese days.IhaveaclassattheQueen ElizabethcentreinVauxhallat2pm [my audience groans] butforyou,Iwillmake aneggception[sic].Laters…”

I click my phone shut, and everyone applauds. I don’t let on that I can’t stand people over the age of twelve who use the word “cool’; it literally makes my skin crawl.

But the queue for the signing is raucous and long. Turns out he is good for my PR: a story of unrequited love, of how we find each other after decades apart, how we were really meant to be together. Hmm, not exactly what I have in mind, but it will do for now.

Iam just signing and appearing in selfies with the last dozen or so readers some forty minutes later, when my phone beeps again. I open it.

It’s another message. From Him.

Not a peep since I moved away, and now two missives in one night. TakealookatmyFacebookpage. Oh, for God’s sake. Talk about self-promotion. Why should I?

While I’m thinking all this, it turns out a fan, who has just bought five copies, has also been reading his text upside down in my hand, because she now says, “Go on! What’s it say?”

“I’m not that interested, I have to get home. I have an early clinic tomorrow.” I yawn, to let it be known I’m not lying. “No, go on!” Her friend nudges her. And so, I do as they say. The Facebook page appears, and there, at the top of the messages, is the following:

AtfantastictalkgivenbyAnneL –andshetoldusshe’sgoingtohave lunchwithamanshe’slustedafterfor thirtyyears!He’stheloveofherlife andhernewboyfriend!’

I’m mortified. Why would anyone in God’s name do that? Do these women not have lives of their own? Is nothing private? They have no idea what he put me through. How cavalier he was with my affections. He knew I loved him, yet he would still bring women back to his