SHE SPENT THAT WHOLE DAY at Wimbledon, cheering on her friend Serena Williams, from Serena’s box. She texted me after the final set as she raced back to her hotel, then texted again while she changed, then texted me as she
was rushing to Soho House.
This time I was already there—waiting. Smiling. Proud of myself.
She walked in, wearing a pretty blue sundress with white pinstripes. She was aglow.
I stood and said: I bear gifts. A pink box. I held it forward. She shook it. What’s this?
No, no, don’t shake it! We both laughed.
She opened the box. Cupcakes. Red, white and blue cupcakes, to be exact. In honor of Independence Day. I said something about the Brits having a very different view of Independence Day from the Yanks, but, oh, well.
She said they looked amazing.
Our waitress from Date One appeared. Mischa. She seemed genuinely happy to see us, to discover that there was a Date Two. She could tell what was happening, she got that she was an eyewitness, that she’d forever be part of our personal mythology. After bringing us a round of drinks she went away and didn’t return for a long time.
When she did, we were deep in the middle of a kiss. Not our first.
Meghan, holding my shirt collar, was pulling me towards her, holding me close. When she saw Mischa she released me immediately and we all laughed.
Excuse us.
No problem. Another round?
Again the conversation flowed, crackled. Burgers came and went, uneaten. I felt an overwhelming sense of Overture, Prelude, Kettle Drums, Act I. And yet also a sense of ending. A phase of my life—the first half?—was coming to a close.
As the night neared its end we had a very frank discussion. There was no way round it.
She put a hand to her cheek and said: What’re we gonna doooo? We have to give this a proper go.
What does that even mean? I live in Canada. I’m going back tomorrow! We’ll meet. A long visit. This summer.
My summer’s already planned. Mine too.
Surely in the whole summer we could find one small spot of time. She shook her head. She was doing the full Eat Pray Love.
Eat what now?
The book?
Ah. Sorry. Not really big on books.
I felt intimidated. She was so the opposite of me. She read. She was cultured.
Not important, she said with a laugh. The point was, she was going with three girlfriends to Spain, and then with two girlfriends to Italy, and then—
She looked at her calendar. I looked at mine. She raised her eyes, smiled.
What is it? Tell me.
Actually, there’s one small window…
Recently, she explained, a castmate had advised her not to be so structured about her summer of eating, praying and loving. Keep one week open, this castmate said, leave room for magic, so she’d been saying no to all kinds of things, reserving one week, even turning down a very dreamy bike trip through the lavender fields of southern France…
I looked at my calendar and said: I have one week open as well. What if they’re the same week?
What if?
Is it possible?
How crazy would that be?
It was the same week.
I suggested we spend it in Botswana. I gave her my best Botswana pitch. Birthplace of all humankind. Most sparsely populated nation on earth. True garden of Eden, with 40 percent of the land given over to Nature.
Plus, the largest number of elephants of any nation on earth.
Above all, it was the place where I’d found myself, where I always re-found myself, where I always felt close to—magic? If she was interested in magic, she should come with me, experience it with me. Camp under the stars, in the middle of nowhere, which is actually Everywhere.
She stared.
I realize it’s crazy, I said. But all of this is obviously crazy.
