He takes a large sip of wine and it’s clear there’s more to his story. He doesn’t meet my eyes, telling the glass of Beaujolais instead, “We tried for a year to get pregnant, but when it finally happened, we miscarried at eight weeks. It put us off trying again for a while.” His eyes flick to mine. “Then Juliet was made redundant and struggled to find another job.” There isn’t much wine left in his glass, but he swirls the remnants round the bottom. “A whole lifetime of bad shit condensed into just three short years. We stayed together another three. The resentment grew. I think we both wanted out, but didn’t know how to say it. Eventually it all boiled over and our final argument was like an inferno.” He puts down the glass and sits up a little straighter. “She moved back up north, and I’ve been concentrating on my career.” His solemn expression cracks and his face transforms into that glorious smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Then a friend convinced me to at least try internet dating. I just didn’t expect to meet someone on my first foray.”

Someone what? I want to ask. But it’s there in his eyes. Someone special. I feel like I’m falling; falling with no fear of crashing to the earth, knowing he will swoop in to catch me at any second.

He asks me about Megan as the main course is served.

“We’re not close.”

“I’m sorry.” He flashes me a small smile, concern on his face. “It must be tough.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, to grow up with someone who is so like you in so many ways. To invest all that time and effort and for the relationship to still not work.”

“She’s my sister, not my spouse.” I hope I sound like I’m joking.

“Same thing in a way though.” He shrugs.

I guess he’s right. Because even if you spend every hour of every day of your life with someone, you still don’t really know them. And you certainly don’t have to like them.

I could say the same thing about Chris.

Instead I mumble something that sounds like a vague agreement and turn the conversation toward more neutral ground: TV we like; favorite books; that incredible Sam Mendes film everyone is talking about, the one that appears to be a single continuous shot.

Dessert is a simple crème brûlée with a perfect crust of burnt sugar. “The color my hair goes in the winter,” he points at the sugar, “it bleaches in the sun and darkens when the weather turns foul.”

Perhaps it is the wine—I probably should stop drinking so much until I have truly nailed this new “Leah” character—but when he starts talking about his family again, I find myself telling him that Megan and I have drifted apart only since Megan’s marriage.

“Megan’s husband is a bit…” My hand gropes the air.

“Of a douche?”

“That’s not quite—”

“A dick? An idiot? Controlling misogynist?”