I recognise the winding-up motions of the hands, the silent platitudes, a body posed for an exit. So I've about thirty seconds in which to say something cool, witty and sophisticated, delivered with a devil-may-care, look-how-far-I've-come intonation. No need to panic, just think of something.Twenty seconds.Damn. Damn.Think, curse you, think. The rush of emotions is making my head swim. The trouble is that on the infrequent occasions I've thought about meeting Simon again, I've always imagined myself rolling up in my fictitious sports car, my Prada bag firmly in my grip and my Manolos even more firmly on my feet. I've entertained images of giving his country estate a sniffy once-over while Simon expressed his disbelief at how glamorous/beautiful/intelligent I've become and how much he now regrets his past behaviour.I've been waiting for this opportunity for years, but now it's arrived I feel jumpy and uneasy. He had such a momentous effect on my childhood that I can't believe he is standing a few feet away from me now.
