My cousin Mica was back in town. She had been away at university for the past 5 years and was now coming back into general circulation. She wanted to visit old friends, and as her mum and dad had moved to be near her university in Birmingham, she was going to stay in a hotel in town. She had sent me a rambling text telling me all this and wondered if we could meet up for a meal.

Mica and I had been inseparable as we grew up; living just a few streets apart, we went to the same schools and played together evenings and weekends. She had been pretty much a tomboy, always in jeans or trousers, never dresses or skirts, and then she went to university in Birmingham, and I went to Leeds, and we just kind of grew apart, and that was that.

After Mica had left, I started having girlfriends – some serious, most not, one broke my heart, a few others did, and Mica moved further to the back of my mind, but always in my memories, even if towards the back of them. I would occasionally wonder what Mica would think of or about something, but never of someone. Mica had never been on my radar as a girlfriend; she was simply my cousin.

I agreed to meet Mica in the White Hart at seven, I ordered an Uber, and I would no doubt be drinking and didn’t want to leave my car in town if, or rather when, I got an Uber back home. I showered and put on a crisp white cotton shirt, silk boxers for comfort as it was a warm day, and green chinos. Brown loafers and I was done. Wallet, keys and phone in my manbag, and I was ready.

I heard a car horn and opened my door; it was the Uber. I locked the house, and soon we were on our way into Bingley town, a journey of just a few minutes. I got the Uber to drop me off on the main road, and I walked the last few paces to the pub. The river weir was as noisy as ever, drowning all the voices coming from the outdoor terrace. I could see people, and they were talking, but I could not make out their words, only the roar of the weir.

Two hands snaked around my head and covered my eyes. “Hello, you,” the unmistakable voice of Mica said. Even after all these years I recognised her voice instantly. “Glad to see you haven’t changed, I recognised you instantly. “Let’s sit by the water.”

Her hands moved away, and I turned and looked into the eyes of Mica, how she had changed. Gone was the tomboy of my youth, and in front of me stood a beautiful woman, with blond hair tied in a high pony, a full figure barely hidden by a simple red dress, heels, stockings, and couture that was no longer denim jeans and trainers but now topped with perfect cosmetics.

“Well, I can hardly say the same for you, the woman in you has appeared, but I would still recognise you anywhere. “Hello, Mica,” I said and leant forwards and gave her a brief kiss before standing back for another look. She had certainly grown up.

“Oh, the woman was always there,” she said. “Let’s sit at that table there, and we can talk and catch up.”

“Perhaps she was, and perhaps I wasn’t looking; gosh, a blind man would have seen more than me.”

“No, those times were different; they were formative, they were fun, there were no complications, and I love those memories.”

“You know, I think you are right; we did have fun, didn’t we?”

“Yes, now, what shall we eat?”

“The steak here is good; they had a wobble a few years ago, but now, it is really good. I think they changed their supplier, or perhaps the boss simply reigned things in, I don’t know. I had an awful experience here once and complained, but privately, not publicly. Anyway, next time I went, it was all sorted.”

“Were you bringing one of your lady friends?”

“I may have been.”

“Have there been many?”

“Maybe, but then, too few to mention.”

I went in and ordered and got a bottle of house red for us to drink and also asked for a jug of water to go with it. Back outside I was again amazed at how good she looked. I mean, she wasn’t exactly an ugly duckling, but my God, in our youth there had never been even a hint of femininity. To be fair, I wasn’t exactly a lothario in my youth, and I doubt I would have noticed even if there had been.

As I sat down, a server came out with the wine and two glasses and explained that the water would follow. I poured Mica a glass of wine, and then I poured mine, and I raised my glass.

“Cheers,” I said.

“Good health,” Mica replied as she clinked my glass. “So, current girlfriend?”

“Sort of.”

“What in the hell does that mean? ‘Sort of?’” Her eyes piercing and her mouth firm, it was as if I had said just exactly the wrong thing.

“Well, I am seeing Svetlana, but it isn’t really working out, so I am going to end it; I just haven’t quite yet.”

“Why? What is wrong? Why isn’t it working out?”

“Well, it is a bit personal to be honest.”

“Oh, come on, Paul, we grew up together; we have no secrets, no embarrassments, and there is nothing too personal that we cannot share.” Her mouth softened, and her head tilted a little to one side, her ponytail waving gently.

“You are right. She is nice, well, more than nice. We have fun when we go out, we laugh at the same things and get annoyed at the same things.”

“Oh, I got it. When you said ‘nice’, that is an awful thing to be described as. No woman wants her boyfriend to be nice, oh no, nor does she want her boyfriend to think of her as nice. God, that is a terrible word; it should be expunged.”

“Well, there you are then, so I need to finish with her and let her go and find a better boyfriend.”

“Oh no, you are not getting off that easy.”

I was about to answer when the server delivered our starters. I had gone for paté and Mica had gone for calamari. I busied myself with slithers of toast as Mica skewered battered bits of squid onto her fork. The weir gurgled and splashed as the water, at a relatively low level due to the low rainfall recently, flowed over and onto the rockier outfall side on its way downstream.

We didn’t talk as we ate, and the food was good, the paté was exceedingly smooth, almost like spreading velvet on my toast, and the toasted bread, a proper crusty white, not the populist sourdough so beloved by trendy establishments, the toasting at just the right level, not a hint of carbonisation, just a beautiful brown toasting.

“That was good,” Mica said as she put her fork down, her plate empty. A flash of blue in my eye as a kingfisher flew down the river briefly distracting me, and then the deep blue of Mica’s eyes dragged back to the present. I smiled at her.

“Yes, I have had the calamari here, and I found it good, and I have to say that the paté was divine.”

“Now, finish explaining about the nice poor Svetlana.”

“Do you remember that song by Lily Allen, you know, the one about her boyfriend?”

“No, which one?”

“Unfair it was called, I think, about his inability in the bedroom.”

“Oh yes, I do now; that was a while ago.”

“Well, anyway, Svetlana is a bit like that in the bedroom; she sort of lies there and lets me get on with it, no interaction if you know what I mean.”

“Well, no, not really, but okay, no sexual fireworks then?”

“No, not even a damp squib.”

“And that is important, is it?”

“Heck yes, isn’t that important to you?”

“Well, no, not really, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? How can you not know?”

And then the server came and cleared our plates and asked if we wanted another bottle of wine. Without realising it we had gone through the first bottle, I answered yes and then turned back to Mica.

“Well?” I asked again.

She shrugged and smiled and finished her glass of wine, her finger absentmindedly running around the rim of her empty glass as she looked at me. As much as I thought I knew Mica, I was beginning to think that perhaps I didn’t know her at all. Had we grown up together and not known each other? I was beginning to feel a little out of my depth; I was the wrong side of the weir.

The server returned with our steaks. Simply presented, seared and placed to one side of the plate, a small collection of thick golden chips to one side and a grilled half of tomato. None of those ridiculous collections of leaves that so often get thrown onto a plate. It looked utterly delightful. I cut a piece and put it into my mouth. The flavour was exactly what it should be, and there was no toughness; it was excellent-quality, perfectly cooked.

Another bottle of wine arrived, and after the server had refilled our glasses, we were once more alone with each other and our food. We concentrated on eating our steaks; they were superb, and delaying them would not do the chef any justice. As I ate the last piece of meat, I looked across at Mica; she was just taking her last piece, and we had finished simultaneously.

“Well,” I said, “as good and as distracting as that steak was, you ignored my question.”

“Oh, that was ages ago; we’ve moved on since then.”

“Have we indeed? Okay, tell me about your boyfriend.”

“Oh, that is easy; I don’t have one,” she replied, smiling.

“Girlfriend?”

“Oh, don’t be daft.”

“Okay, the last boyfriend that you had – tell me about him.”

“I haven’t got one; I haven’t had one.”

“What? No boyfriend ever, all the way through uni, and you haven’t had a boyfriend. I find that difficult to believe.”

“Why, why is that so difficult?”

“Well, I mean, look, you are bloody gorgeous. I cannot believe that boys were not attracted to you, that they didn’t ask you out.”