She raises an eyebrow.

'What is this, matchmaking?'

'Don't be stupid. That's not Ben's kind of thing.'

'Errr ...'

'What?' I ask, nervily.

'You haven't seen Ben for ten years, his thing could've changed completely.'

18.

Ben nominated a fashionable bar in the city centre that I haven't got round to visiting yet, rather giving lie to the idea that I can show him where to go out. It's all poured, polished concrete surfaces, with dramatic under-lighting, tropical flower displays and chairs that are so low-slung you end up talking to a collection of windpipes and kneecaps.

As we enter I see Ben at a table in the far corner, chatting to a tall, blond-haired, mid-thirties man whose expansive body language implies that all the world's a chat show and he's the host. The would-be Michael Parkinson gives us both a languid up-and-down full airport body scan as we reach their table.

'Hi ... Ben, you remember Caroline?' I say.

'Of course,' Ben smiles. 'How are you? Simon, this is Rachel, who works for the paper.'

Ben stands up, still in his work clothes, an artfully rumpled (as opposed to the crushed it'd be on a lesser mortal) cornflower blue shirt and dark navy suit trousers, jacket with bright lining slung over seat next to him. Part of me, the part of me that Caroline rightly points out has failed to notice a decade has elapsed, wants to whoop with excitement and throw my arms around him. It's you! It's me! I know I have to stop. This is nothing. This is a drink with an old face from university days. He leans in to peck Caroline on the cheek and naturally she goes gooey. Ben and I nod in acknowledgement towards each other, communicating that we did the kissing thing the other day and neither of us fancy a repeat.

Simon unpacks his collection of rangy limbs and rises to his feet also.

'Delighted. What're you having, ladies?'

'Uh, no, it's OK, I'll go, what are you drinking?' I say, realising as I do that resistance is futile: alpha male Simon's never going to allow it. I am far more used to beery betas.

'No. What are you having?' he repeats, firmly.

'Vodka tonic,' Caroline says to Simon, sweetly undermining me.

He turns expectantly.

'G&T? Thanks.'

'How are you, Ben? Rachel says you're married, and a solicitor?' Caroline asks.

'Yeah, family. My wife's in litigation.'

'You studied English at uni, didn't you?' Caroline asks.

'Yep. I did the wrong degree,' Ben says, bluntly. 'Good for almost nothing.'

This hurts. Not because I have huge pride about my qualifications. More that we wouldn't have spent three years in each other's company if he hadn't done that degree.

'Good for nothing if learning has to be vocational,' I say, prissily.

'Yeah, sorry, I didn't mean good for nothing, obviously you've done really well,' Ben says, remembering himself, and I can see he's surprised at his own lapse in tact. 'I was skint after graduating that's all, and I was only qualified to study more. Can't even teach English abroad without a TEFL. And I'm not cut out for journalism like Rachel. I could never buckle down and hit deadlines the way she could.'

I know he's trying to repair the 'good for nothing' damage and, while I appreciate it, I still feel a little wounded. I feel his eyes on me and pretend to be fussing with putting my coat on my chair to avoid his gaze.

Simon returns with two chunky lowball gla.s.ses full of ice. 'Lemon in the vodka ... lime in the G&T.'

'Thanks,' we twitter in unison.

He gets a round in without getting another for himself? I'll have to tell Rhys these men do exist. He'd probably recommend Simon donate his brain to medical science. Immediately.

We do the obligatory amount of 'getting to know you' chat, and after establishing Caroline's an accountant, Simon goes off on a tangent with her.

'How's Abigail?' I ask Ben.

Abigail, Ben's bug-eyed, skinny little sister, was around thirteen or fourteen when we were students. Ben doted on her in the way much older brothers usually do. Ben warned me before I met her that she had Asperger Syndrome, which meant she said whatever was in her head, with no checks, balances or social graces. Sounds no different to most of my family and my boyfriend, I joked, though privately I was apprehensive. What if she asked why I had sideburns? When I met her, I found she was one of those rare people who have few unkind impulses or nasty thoughts so it didn't matter as much as it might have. She admired a knitted hat I had bought at the student market, with: 'Can I have it, please?' Ben was appalled.

Afterwards, I sent her one similar. Ben said she was so pleased she was 'practically in tears, the gimp', even though it was so large for her it made her 'look like one of the aliens from Mars Attacks'. He reported this in a letter, having taken the unusual step of writing to me during the holiday break.

'Abi is,' Ben smiles, 'really well, actually. She has a part-time job in a travel agent's. My aunt works there so she looks out for her. And she still lives with my mum, so it's good knowing neither of them are on their own.'

I remember how much he used to worry. 'That's great.'

I recall the way Abigail once attached herself to me, and say: 'I bet she loves having a sister-in-law.'

Ben grimaces. 'Hmm, she did at first.'

I make a questioning face.

'Abi a.s.sumed she was going to be a bridesmaid at our wedding. Liv had already asked her two friends. She said she wasn't going to sack one of them because Abi jumped the gun. And Liv said if she had Abi, she'd have to have her demonic nieces and she wanted to avoid that at all costs. I tried to explain Abi's not manipulative, she doesn't understand. Well, you know how she is.'

I find it touching he presumes I understand Abi, despite all these years.

'You couldn't have intervened, somehow?' I ask. 'I know how tricky these things get.' Do I ever.

'I wanted to. I tried. Ultimately I couldn't tell Liv who to have as bridesmaid.'

'Ah. Sure.'

'Abi dug her heels in, got into a "bridesmaid or nothing" mindset. It was so political between my mum, Abi and Liv. I stayed out of it. Anyway, upshot is that things have been a bit strained between all of them since. Or they are between my mum and Liv. Abi's forgotten about it. I'm sure they'll sort it out eventually.'

I think of Ben's mum's easy laughter when she met me, and for a split second imagine a parallel universe where I'm her daughter-in-law and Abi was my bridesmaid, and how well we'd all get on. More of my fantasy fiction: I should throw in a few elves as ring-bearers.

'Will you give Abi my regards, if you speak to her?'

'Course,' Ben says. 'She used to ask after you a lot.'

We both pause, at the 'used'. How did he explain our terminated friendship, I wonder? How did he think of me? If he thought of me at all ...

This is the first conversational pothole of many on the road that lies before us, if we're going to be friends. It's possible Ben doesn't see the start of anything here, only a favour to another friend. A trip down memory lane, a swift three-point turn and back out again, foot firmly on accelerator.

Ben's obviously thinking this way too, because he says: 'This is mad, isn't it?' gesturing at me, him, our being together. 'Where does the time go?'

I'm sure it went faster for you, I think, nodding. Caroline and Simon's tandem conversation about high finance shows no signs of stopping. Ben therefore obviously deems it safe to ask: 'What happened with you and Rhys? If you want to talk about it? Totally fine if you don't ...'

'It was everything and nothing in particular. We reached the end of the line. c.o.c.kfosters.'

'Sorry?'

'The end of the line. The Underground? Never mind.'

'Ah.' Ben smiles politely, bemused.

At university, I'm sure that would've made him laugh. I don't know him any more. He's changed. Or maybe I should try again with a better joke.

Half of me wants to throw myself on Ben and tell him every last thing, gesturing to the barman to bring us the rest of the bottle and telling Caroline and Simon they're good to leave us. The other half of me knows not only is this the wrong person to seek sympathy from, I can't bear to see a grain the smallest speck of relief in his eyes. Relief that he got away from me.

'Anyway. What made you want to move back up here?' I continue, slightly desperately.

'Apart from the fact that Simon said his firm had a job going? Dunno, really I was fed up with London, couldn't face the commuter belt, I couldn't live somewhere too small, and this is the other big city I know and like.'

'Was your wife keen to move too?'

'Not exactly. We reached the decision through a process of mature debate. And, er, compromise and ... concession.'

Simon overhears this and interrupts: 'What he means is, they're here, but Olivia gets her way now until either of them dies.'

He adds: 'And while we're on the subject of pushy women, Caroline thinks Ben should get some more drinks.'

'I didn't say that!' Caroline protests, enjoying Simon's teasing. She's always liked c.o.c.ky blokes.

Ben shakes his head in mock disapproval. 'Come on, Caroline. We're not doing slammers in the union bar any more. She was monstrous at university ...'

'Really?' Simon says, contemplating Caroline, obviously hoping 'monstrous' is code for 'open to suggestion'.

'What was Rachel like?' Simon asks Ben.

Ben mutters 'Worse' and gets up swiftly.

19.

'Are you going to tell Rachel about this story, then?' Ben asks Simon, on his return. I'd have liked to sustain the illusion that this isn't about business for a little longer.

Yet I add: 'Yeah, what is it? I'm curious.'

'Can I trust you? Is this off the record?' Simon says, warily, pushing forward on his seat, eyes darting round the bar as if my plainclothes a.s.sociate might be loitering by the f.a.g machine.

'I don't come to wine bars wired for sound.'

Simon glowers at me.

I make a cross on my chest with a fingertip. 'Promise this goes no further. On my life. You are safe to speak.'

Simon leans further forward. 'I've got an important client who's ready for an interview. With the right paper.'

'We can't pay big money,' I say.

'I said the right paper, not the one that can pay the most.'

'Who is he?'

Simon leans back again, scrutinises my face as if it's a map that contains the key to my trustworthiness. 'She. Natalie Shale. So wife-of-client, strictly speaking.'

My pulse quickens, before natural pessimism returns it to normal.

'She doesn't do interviews.'

'She didn't, I'm advising her differently.'

'To who?'

'Her husband's last solicitor,' Simon says, mouth twitching slightly, possibly in irritation at being doubted. 'I've taken over from a colleague who's snowed under.'

'You must be doing well to get given it ...?'

'Simon's in line to be made a partner,' Ben supplies.

'So, you up for it or what?' Simon asks me.

'Natalie would do a face-to-face piece, photos, everything? An exclusive?'

It's been a while since I got truly excited by a story, but I can feel the proper journalist in me stirring after a long, deep, Rip Van Winkle length sleep. My news editor will do somersaults.

'Yes. But no spoilers on the fresh evidence for the appeal, and I'd want your a.s.surance that it wouldn't be a dredge of hubby's murky past. She's very sensitive about it, as you can imagine. She doesn't want to do anything that's going to dim the glory when he's freed.'