'Oh, um, nothing, just doodling,' I say nonchalantly.

'I thought you wanted to watch this movie,' she frowns.

'Oh, you know me, I like to doodle when I watch movies.' I pretend to do a squiggle on my notebook.

'You do?' Fiona peers at me for a moment, as if not quite sure what to make of me, then turns back to the TV.

I start to relax. I feel a bit guilty. I don't like pretending to Fiona, but I can't tell her the truth now, can I? Where on earth would I start?

Settling back against my pillows, I look at the screen. It's totally black and a bit of text appears about it being in some faraway galaxy; then the unmistakable theme music starts.

'Wait a moment this is Star Wars,' gasps Fiona in astonishment.

'It's actually called Episode IV: A New Hope,' I correct, authoritatively.

She looks aghast. 'Tess, have you rented this on purpose?'

'It's supposed to be a cla.s.sic,' I protest, as a s.p.a.ce battleship shoots across the screen firing missiles.

She stares at me as if I've gone bananas. 'Hang on, is this the same woman who will only ever watch a movie if it's got Johnny Depp in it?'

'I don't think there's anything wrong with broadening our horizons,' I say defensively.

Fiona gapes at me, as if not quite believing what she's hearing, then gives a little shrug. 'Fair enough,' she nods, 'but in that case I'm going to leave you to broaden your own horizons, I'm going to get an early night,' and, hoisting herself up from the beanbag, she flashes me a smile. 'Enjoy!'

And then she's gone, leaving me on my own with Flea and this stupid movie. Correction: A cla.s.sic, I remind myself firmly. And, more importantly, it's Seb's favourite film, remember?

Taking a sip of tea, I enthusiastically concentrate on the screen again. Though after a few minutes I can feel my eyelids going. I'm actually rather tired and I could do with an early night myself. In fact, what would be perfect would be a lovely long bath beforehand with some of that nice scented bubble bath Gramps got me for Christmas . . . and I could put on that seaweed face-mask Fiona gave me . . .

s.h.i.t! What's happening? There's been an explosion!

A loud bang from the TV makes me snap back and I suddenly realise I've completely zoned out. Oh c.r.a.p, I'm going to have to rewind . . . Grabbing the remote, I start whizzing back. Honestly, at this rate I'm never going to get to bed.

Going right back to the beginning, I press play and start all over. Right yes, lots of s.p.a.ceships . . . girl with funny earm.u.f.f hair . . . strange little robot thing . . . a man in what looks like a Yeti costume . . . gosh, it's a bit too much like fancy dress, isn't it? You'd think they'd be a bit more realistic oh, and there's lots of shooting . . . and now there's another battle in s.p.a.ce. Again.

I let out another yawn. It might be a cla.s.sic but the plot is a bit silly. Still, at least it will be over soon. I pick up the cover and glance at the box. I wonder how long it is. My heart plummets over two hours? For a moment I'm tempted to fast-forward, when I check the time on my mobile and see Seb's text about the movies tomorrow night. My heart leaps. And I suddenly remember why I'm doing this.

Because I love Seb. And because I've been given a second chance! This magic happened for a reason. Seb and I are meant for each other, otherwise why would this amazing, miracle twist of fate have happened? Why would it have brought us back together? No, I mustn't waste this opportunity. So many other people enjoy these movies, it's not just Seb. There must be something wrong with me.

And now I've got a chance to put it right. How lucky am I?

With a superhuman effort I stare back at the screen with renewed interest. If Seb loves this film, I can learn to love it too! I watch as two men start fighting with fluorescent lights like the ones we have on our kitchen ceiling. Oh dear. But this film is terrible. Even worse than I thought! What the h.e.l.l am I going to say?

Dear Diary, My second date with Seb!! He took me to see Star Wars and we sat on the back row which was really romantic. I didn't think much of the film though and fell asleep before the end. Afterwards I laughed about how stupid and boring it was, but he didn't laugh along. In fact he got a bit grumpy. Only then did I find out it was actually his all-time favourite film . . .

Honestly, me and my big mouth!

Chapter 14.

'It was amazing! That has to be the best film ever made in the history of cinema!'

It's the next evening and Seb and I have just been on our second date to see Star Wars at a little art-house theatre in Soho, and we're making our way out through the red velvet foyer, along with the rest of the audience.

'Wow, you really love that movie, huh?' He flashes me a delighted grin.

'Absolutely!' I gush, nodding vigorously to stifle a yawn. If I couldn't learn to love it, I was still going to appear to. 'I've lost count of the number of times I've watched it.'

Three.

Actually, make that three and a bit times if you include the first time I watched it last night, when I fell asleep halfway through, and trust me I can remember them all. Every single galactic battle is ingrained on my memory, like scratches on vinyl. Last night I stayed up till gone 3 a.m., drinking black coffee to keep myself awake. At one point I nearly had to put matchsticks in my eyes to prop them open, but what kept me awake was knowing I'd been given this once-in-a-lifetime chance. Then today I skipped lunch and spent it at my desk doing research about it on the internet.

To be honest, I'm exhausted. I'm also flabbergasted. I had no idea how many websites, conventions not to mention all the merchandise, even theme parks there are dedicated to this film. I knew it was popular but people are obsessed! A Google search brought up over three million fan sites, all full of devoted followers. There was even an entire forum devoted to discussing how Chewbacca (believe it or not, the Yeti has a name) goes to the loo!

'Did you know that the word Jedi is derived from the j.a.panese words "Jidai Geki?", which translates as "period adventure drama"?'

Thanks to Annie in Texas, for making that point.

'Wow, you really are a true fan, aren't you?' he says in admiration.

My conscience p.r.i.c.ks and for a split second I feel slightly guilty. Is it wrong to pretend like this? Should I instead be coming clean and telling the truth? But then it's no different to when Seb used to fib and say he loved the dress I was wearing, just to get me out of the door when we were running late. Or when I rea.s.sure Fiona that no, of course her b.u.m doesn't look big in her new jeggings. Or when Dad pretends to Mum that he's a huge fan of her terrible cooking and asks for seconds. It's not hurting anyone.

On the contrary, it's doing the opposite, I muse, looking at Seb and seeing his face all lit up. He looks so happy. I mean, seriously, how can that be wrong?

'Sorry, I tend to get a bit carried away,' I say, and give a little embarra.s.sed laugh. 'Stop me if I'm boring you.'

'Boring me?' he exclaims, gesticulating excitedly with the programme. 'Are you kidding me? I could talk about Luke Skywalker and Jedi knights for hours. You're the first girl I've ever met who loves the movies as much as I do and it's awesome . . .' He breaks off as we exit through the main doors, and as we empty onto the street he turns to me, his face softening. 'You're awesome,' he adds quietly.

Despite the subzero temperature outside I feel a warm flush of happiness. Who cares if I had to stay up late and skip lunch? Feeling his fingers brushing against mine, he gently, but firmly, interlaces them. It was all worth it to have him look at me the way he just did. It's like that saying, 'No pain no gain.'

Plus, it's not as though I'm ever going to have to sit through that movie again, I remind myself, as we set off walking hand in hand to escape the crowds.

After a few minutes we turn down a side street and our pace slows.

'So . . .' he says, glancing sideways to look at me. All wrapped up in a slate-grey overcoat and a beanie pulled down low over his hair, he looks more adorable than ever. We pa.s.s underneath a streetlamp and I see his white teeth against his tan. I swear, Seb's the only person I've ever met who can still manage to look s.e.xy in a British winter. The rest of us have gone all pale and chapped lipped, with noses that turn bright red as soon the temperature drops below freezing.

'So . . .' I reply, trying to be all enigmatic and not think about my own nose, which looks like one of those ones that people wear for Comic Relief.

'What happens now?' He raises an eyebrow and gives me a little smile.

Well, last time we said goodbye and I caught the tube home and kicked myself all the way back for opening my big mouth and saying all the wrong things.

'We could get a drink, maybe?' I suggest. 'There are lots of nice bars around here.'

His smile widens. 'I've got a better idea. Why don't we go back to mine? My apartment's only five minutes away and I've got an awesome bottle of red I haven't opened yet . . .' He breaks off, his eyes searching out mine in the darkness. 'What do you say?'

I say there's nothing in the whole world I'd rather do right now than go to back to your flat and share a bottle of wine, I think, my stomach fluttering.

But of course I have to at least try to play it cool. Officially this is only our second date.

'Hmm . . .' I pretend to think for a moment, as if I'm actually mulling over his invitation.

'You're safe with me, I promise,' he says, crossing his heart with his free hand.

'd.a.m.n,' I curse jokingly.

He laughs. 'So do you want to join me? Or do I have to drink all that bottle by myself??'

Like he really has to ask.

'Well now you put it like that,' I say at last, all thoughts of cool flying out of the window, 'that sounds lovely.'

I've been to Seb's apartment so many times I could do the route with my eyes closed, and I have to keep stopping myself from automatically turning a corner, or crossing a street. At one point I almost blurt out, 'No, it's quicker this way,' and lead him down a little alley I always used as a shortcut.

Before I was forever telling him it was quicker this way, and he was forever telling me it wasn't. Once we got into such a disagreement about it that we each went our separate ways and Seb insisted on timing us both to see who was quickest he could be really compet.i.tive like that and he said his way was six-tenths of a second faster. (He has one of those super-chunky top-of-the-range sports watches, so I couldn't disagree.) Saying that, I could have sworn he was a little flushed, as if he'd been running, but he was adamant he'd walked the whole way and it was just the wine we'd been drinking.

But then this was nothing unusual. Seb and I always used to squabble about directions. It didn't matter where we went, we'd always end up disagreeing and it would often deteriorate into a full-scale row, with him grabbing the map from me and declaring I'd taken us 'the wrong way!' Which I don't think is very fair. I mean, I'm not one of those people who have an inbuilt compa.s.s, but I can navigate my way around H&M even in the sale, and believe me, that's saying something.

In the end I bought him a Sat Nav for his birthday. Brilliant. Problem sorted! But that didn't work either, as he just disagreed with that as well. And it was Stephen Fry giving the directions. I mean, who disagrees with Stephen Fry, for goodness' sake?

Now, however, I let him lead the way and we arrive at his address without any squabbles. Not so much as a cross word (though I do still think my way is quicker) and, after he punches in his security code, we step inside the carpeted foyer. Seb lives in one of those prestigious portered blocks, with shiny bra.s.s nameplates and a lift with a sliding grille to whisk you up to his flat on the second floor. It's a whole world away from Arminta Mansions with its Tipp-Ex-ed buzzers and lung-busting flights of stairs.

'So here we are,' says Seb, as we walk out of the lift and down the corridor to his flat. Sliding his key in the door, he pushes it open. 'Welcome to my humble abode.'

That's just Seb being modest. Trust me, there's nothing humble about his apartment. It's twice the size of mine and Fiona's, and is all open-plan with these big lovely windows and polished parquet floors. It reminds me of a New York apartment not that I've ever been in a New York apartment, but you know what I mean. The colour scheme is all muted greys and white with cool abstract paintings on the walls, and he's got this huge grey sofa that could seat about twenty people and a gla.s.s coffee table with three legs by some designer whose name he told me once but I can't remember.

'This place is amazing,' I say, looking around and feeling wowed all over again.

'Thanks,' he smiles, 'but I'm afraid I can't take all the credit.'

'You can't?' I stop gawping at a pair of fancy modern lamps, and turn to him.

He shakes his head. 'No, when I moved in I had an interior designer come in to decorate. She chose all the furniture, even the artwork,' he explains. 'I was too busy at work.'

'Oh . . .' He had never told me he didn't decorate it himself. I turn back to look at the apartment, but instead of feeling impressed, now I can't help feeling disappointed. 'What a shame,' I console. 'I've always imagined the best bit about getting your own place would be buying those little tester pots and painting patches of walls all kinds of weird and wonderful colours until you work out what looks amazing.' I turn back and catch his expression, only instead of nodding in agreement he's looking at me as if he doesn't understand what I'm saying.

'Seriously?' He frowns in surprise. 'Wow, not me. I'd rather have a professional choose my colour scheme for me.'

'But that's half the fun,' I protest.

'Maybe for you, but I'm pretty colour blind,' he laughs. 'I'd probably end up with purple walls.'

'Well what about all the other stuff??' I laugh. 'Like spending weekends rummaging around the markets, like Spitalfields and Portobello, hunting out all the weird bits and pieces and junk you can transform. Like a ratty old armchair you could cover with some vintage fabric, or even a whole sofa and what about a lamp that you could make a new shade for?' Getting carried away with ideas, I start gesticulating enthusiastically.

'Like I said, I don't have time for any of that,' shrugs Seb.

I get the distinct feeling he's not sharing my enthusiasm, and I feel a bit silly for even suggesting it. It's true: he's far too busy to be rummaging around markets. He's got this high-flying career and he's always at the office. Saying that, he does spend a lot of time at the gym or doing sport. Still, I guess it's just priorities, that's all.

'Well, it's still really lovely,' I say, rather lamely.

'Thanks,' smiles Seb, throwing his keys on the table and taking off his coat.

Meanwhile I look around me. It all seems to be exactly the same as before. Nothing has changed, and yet everything has changed. My eyes sweep across a shelf of photographs. There used to be one of us two at a party, but it's gone now. Sadness flickers, and for a moment I feel a sense of loss, of bittersweet nostalgia for all the times we spent together that have now never happened. Like Sunday afternoons spent reading the papers. Like the dinner party we threw last summer where we all got drunk on toffee vodka, and did karoake.

Like when we broke up, I remind myself sharply.

Suddenly it hits me that was the last time I was here and out of nowhere an old hurt rises up inside. Rewind a couple of months ago and I was sitting right there . . . I glance across at that big grey sofa and it's like Sliding Doors . . . there I am, hugging a cushion and trying not to cry, and sitting opposite on the armchair is Seb, staring at his trainers, the atmosphere strained and awful.

'Everything OK?'

I snap back to see Seb looking at me, concern in his face.

But that's all gone now. Deleted. Erased forever. Like a tape that's been wiped clean. And now we're recording over it again, only this time with something different. And I'm not sorry, I'm glad. The good times might have gone, but so have all the bad times. The last time I was here was the ending, but now we're right back at the beginning. A new beginning.

'Yeh, everything's great,' I smile, delighted by the thought. I still can't believe this is really happening, that I'm getting to do it all over again. I almost want to pinch myself.

'Good.' His face relaxes. 'You're still wearing your coat, I was worried you were thinking of leaving . . .'

I suddenly realise I haven't taken it off. 'Oh, sorry,' I laugh, and start unzipping it and tugging my arms out of the sleeves. 'It just takes me a little time to warm up.' Making excuses, I pa.s.s it to him.

'Well in that case let me get that wine. A good bottle of red will warm you up in no time,' he grins, taking my coat and hanging it on the stand in the corner, before walking into the open-plan kitchen.

There's a wine rack next to the fridge and I watch as he expertly selects a bottle and grabs a corkscrew and two gla.s.ses, then turns to me. For a moment I think he's going to say something, but instead he angles his body towards mine and kisses me gently on the lips.

It's the first time he's tried to kiss me and it's so casual and relaxed that for a split second it barely registers what's happening.

Until his lips brush against mine.

The effect is immediate and all at once a familiar ache ripples through my body. G.o.d, I've missed him so much. And for a heady, breathless, urgent moment, all I want to do is pull him closer, wrap my arms around him, and snog the living daylights out of him- I slam on the brakes and my mind screeches to a halt.

Tess, no! You can't. You've only just met him, remember? Plus you've barely been in the flat five minutes you can't just jump on him in the kitchen. What will you look like? You're aiming for perfect girlfriend, not complete slapper.

Fighting the urge, I give him a quick peck on the lips.

And I thought giving up chocolate for Lent last year was hard. Believe me, that kiss took serious willpower.

We break apart and he holds my gaze for just long enough to make my legs go all wobbly, then says, 'Let's go make ourselves comfortable,' and gestures towards the sofa area.

'OK,' I reply, in what I hope is a husky voice. But instead it comes out all squeaky and high-pitched, like the time I went to an engagement party with Fiona and we got drunk and inhaled the helium balloons and spent the whole evening talking like Pinky and Perky.

Only this time there's no helium balloons. Just me and Seb. Alone in his apartment with a bottle of red wine and a whole night ahead of us. My lips are still tingling and, feeling a flutter of antic.i.p.ation, I follow him towards the sofa.