So there he was, 8 years later buying a pack of fags in my local newsagents, looking just as ruggedly perfect as he did all those years ago when he had me pinned up against a sweaty club wall.
8 years ago he was an up and coming DJ and producer (just like all the boys were 8 years ago), and after three weeks of bunk ups and parties I grew tired of his lifestyle and moved on to the next party and bunk up...so was my life for a while before Summer.
Separated from part-time dad (who was then just called Part-time boyfriend) I was a size 12, tanned, blonde with money in my pocket living every day like it was the weekend, only seeing the sunset bleary eyed from a London club car park, gurning my face off.
Over the 8yrs , I'd watched (only semi-stalkingley) him make it big (ish) to now, with his own radio show and music videos that get teenage girls up and down the land wet.
And there he is .....waiting for his change and fags.
And shit here I am .....5 stone heavier, dressed like a goth, greasey hair staring at him open mouthed clutching 3 bags of skips.
Ohhhh where do I hide where do I go .... Do I say hi, do I act cool?, no.....hide .....hide. This is not the image I want him to have of me. The awkward conversation, the look of regret, I'd say something stupid, he'd give me a sympathetic tap on the arm.
I turn in circles looking for a hiding place, my fat arse shuddering a stack of wine gums. I sneak behind him and take cover behind multi pack boxes of Mc Coys, the shopkeepers nervously eyeing me up.
Ohhh fuck...Summer....forgot she was here.....oh I hope he doesn't think it's his! Ohhhhhhh I need to hide her too now.
"ssssshhhhh" I call her over to my hiding point.
He spots her bounding towards me...his eyes following the fluffy head monster and he smiles at her, Summer recognising him from his instagram feeds i show her constantly, she smiles back as she hurtles towards me.
"Mum isn't that man ......."
Straight into the fucking crisp boxes that tipple me over.
And there I am ,8 yrs later, 5 stone heavier, dressed like a greasy goth, spread eagle on the floor surrounded by 100 packets of Mc Coys as my daughter laughs so hard she starts farting and wetting herself at the same time as the shopkeeper shouts at me in Bengali .
And there he is offering me a hand , staring into my eyes, smelling the same as he did 8 yrs ago.... The faint look of recognition on his face...he's processing me......looking into my soul..... I'm smiling up at him
"I know you don't I ?" he says ?........
Yes! Yes you do and yes ....yes I will ..... Yes, yes she could be yours if you squint and don't ask for a DNA test...yes,yes,yes............
"your one of cleaners at the studio aren't you ? " .........
And there he goes, into his tinted windowed prestige Mercedes having been given a bad Hispanic accent by me pretending to be Rosa.