Two items of post plopped through the letterbox the next morning. One looked official, the other looked like a late Christmas card with a foreign stamp. I ripped the card open and looked for the signature. Michael O’Connor. Hah. Just seeing his signature made me smile; it was still the same, a forward-slanting scrawl. It had been years since I’d heard from him, decades since I’d seen him. His card was cheap-looking with glitter on the front, and inside he’d enclosed a handwritten note.

Dearest Bea,

How the hell are you? I got your address from your brother. He said you’re doing well, quite the entrepreneur these days. I always knew you’d shine. I’ve often wondered what happened to you and this is the thing, I’m going to be in London in February, fancy a catch-up? Here’s my number, 076633322. I’ve got yours from Matthew so I’ll text when I’m in town or maybe before to let you know when I’m arriving. Keep some space for me, Love Michael. X

Michael O’Connor. Interesting that he should pop up at this point in my life. Synchronicity, Marcia would say. Just looking me up on a trip to England, I would reply. Whatever, I couldn’t deny the frisson I felt inside at the thought of seeing him.

I’d met him in the queue in Pete’s café in Manchester when I was at art college and I was on a lunch break from my classes. We both chose the lentil soup.

‘Doesn’t get more romantic than this,’ Michael had said when we found ourselves also sharing a table. ‘When we’re old and our grandchildren ask how we met, we can say, it was over a pan of chickpeas.’

I laughed, flattered. Michael was a stunningly good-looking man, a mane of dark hair swept back from a face with a chiselled jaw line, a trimmed beard, truly beautiful sapphire blue eyes and a wide smiling mouth. ‘Our grandchildren?’

He nodded. ‘Lucy, Ben and Sky.’

‘And our children’s names?’

‘Moonbean and Star.’

I shook my head. ‘Hmm, not sure. I might like to call them something more traditional. Arthur and Alice.’

He put down his spoon and put his head in his hands. ‘Oh god, we haven’t even spent a night together yet and already we’re arguing. Moonbeam and Star. Has to be.’

We haven’t even spent a night together yet? There was a pre-supposition, one that I might have balked at normally but now I felt a rush of anticipation at the words. ‘That’s some chat-up line you’ve got going there – a tad presumptuous, I think. Do you use it on all the girls?’

Michael feigned offence. ‘Only the ones who have the lentil soup.’