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time. The
couple beside us glances over and starts giggling, and Jeremy’s
cheeks colour up. For a second, I feel bad for embarrassing him,
but I steel myself against it.
    “Well . . .”
Jeremy looks down at the table, then up at me with a mischievous
glint in his eye. “I can’t say anyone has ever complained.”
    I keep the
smile off my face and move straight on to the next question before
I lose my nerve.
    “Is that why
you’re not getting everything done?” The words come out
smoothly but when I attempt to do the meaningful look at his
crotch, I find I can only drop my eyes to belly level. “You’re
confident with what you’ve got?”
    Jeremy follows
my gaze to his midsection. “What? You know I’m getting my stomach
done. What do you mean?”
    I force my eyes
to crotch level. “No, there.” I point for extra emphasis, feeling
ridiculous.
    “Oh!” He shoots
me a look as if he can’t believe I’ve just asked him that. I can
barely believe it either, but in a strange sort of way, I’m proud
of myself. It doesn’t matter that I’ve sucked back half a bottle of
wine in the process.
    “Well, yeah. I
am pretty confident, I guess,” he says finally.
    “Great.” I
glance down at my clipboard, full of scribbles I hope I can
decipher later. Thank God for the recorder. “Those are all my
questions. See, that was painless, right?”
    Jeremy laughs.
“Relatively. I think I like wine therapy! Anyway, if you reckon
this will help me find someone for real, I’ll do whatever it takes.
I’m so bloody tired of getting together with someone, thinking this
is it, then having them take off.” He leans forward. “What do you
think? How do you know if someone is ‘the one’?” His eyes meet mine
and for a second – for just a split second – I feel like he can see
inside me. Like he actually knows me. Sounds dumb, I
know.
    I jerk my mind
back to Peter, sipping the last bit of wine as the question echoes
in my head. How did I know I wanted to be with Peter? Well, he does
have everything I ever dreamed of: handsome, good job, stable –
none of the hippie, live-and-let-live flakiness I grew up with. On
paper, he’s ‘the one’ material, for sure. I’m about to answer when
I remember my advisory role.
    “No, no, no.” I
wag a playful finger at Jeremy. “We’re supposed to be talking about
you, not me. Anyway, we’re done for tonight,” I say to put an end
to any more questions.
    “Great. So when
will we meet up next?” He actually looks excited at the
thought.
    “Um, well, I’ll
let you know. Probably later this week?” If Leza likes my
column, I add in my head. God, I hope she does.
    “Great.” Jeremy
shoots me an easy smile and gets to his feet, seemingly unaffected
by my alcohol-heavy therapeutic methods. When I stand, however, the
restaurant sways before me.
    We say goodbye
and I watch him walk away, the events of the day running through my
mind. Jeremy’s signed up to my little scheme, I asked the tough
questions without flinching (I may have blushed, but I definitely
didn’t flinch), and everything is going according to plan.
    Even a
table-induced knock on the head and the beginnings of a red-wine
headache can’t drag down my spirits as I head for home.

CHAPTER
SIX
     
     
    The clinic is
quiet and deserted this morning, so I have just enough time to put
the finishing touches on my column. It’s due today, and even though
Leza didn’t specify exactly when she needs it, I want to send her
the copy by lunch at the latest. Not only will that show her I can
meet deadlines, I can beat them.
    My mouth
stretches in a giant yawn. I couldn’t start working on my article
until Peter went to bed, so I was up until all hours, reviewing the
sound files and trying to craft a perfect article of around five
hundred words to meet the contributors’ guidelines the online
editor emailed through.
    It’s a solid
piece of writing, if I do say so myself. I tweak a few words here
and there, spell check for