Meet Me At St. Paul’s

I’m a pluviophile. I love the rain.

I’m also a big fan of pina colada’s too but I’ve only just made that connection. There’s something about the rain I find soothing, calming. You can stick me in the middle of a bustling cityscape, say London, during rush hour, during a torrential downpour, and the tube is flooded from Euston to Waterloo – and I have to get to Bank and carrying an overnight bag and laptop and, and…..I’d still be wearing a smile, because of you.

Of course, it was destined for failure. But at the moment, that damp, cold, October night, nothing has ever felt more right. The rain belted down from mid-afternoon. From my lunchtime spot in the Trafalgar Square pub, I watched both tourists and Londoners alike dash about with umbrellas trying to dodge the puddles. Still, I wore a secret smile.

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The advertising training session ploughed on though the afternoon and the heavily loaded clouds persisted over the Thames. Growing steadily in number and weight. Looking out from the 14th floor, searching for the landmark, knowing you were so close, yet the clock held us apart. It took everything I had to not bolt out of the room at the end of the day. Hurried goodbyes and papers stuffed into my bag, I made for the tube.

The course had been a casual event, which is lucky because my leather trousers and Adidas combo were my only defence against rush hour people, trains, cyclists, and the persistent rain. That rain. It was biblical. London reached critical mass at exactly 5:27pm. The Northern line had flooded, the city was gridlocked. The phone connection was patchy at best. With no umbrella and the hefty weight of my overnight bag on my shoulder, I made a decision.

There’s no way I was going to meet you looking my best. I made my peace with it. So out came the Yankees cap up went my denim collar, and the 2-mile trek across the city began.

I was wet in places you can only be when you’ve hauled ass through the pouring rain for something truly unmissable. I was drenched. Head to toe. Racing towards each other through packed streets, filled with pissed off commuters and shoppers, we checked in with short calls: “Where are you now?” “Oh wait, my phone is getting wet, let me duck in somewhere.” “I’ll call you right back.” “Stay right there I’ll get the tube towards you.” “Oh no, that’s flooded too.” Until finally.

“Okay, let’s just pick a central point, I’ll meet you at St. Paul’s Cathedral. Whoever gets there first, just take shelter and check back in soon, yeah?”

“Okay,” I smiled.

It was 2.3 miles, from where I was stood, outside New Look in the rain, soaking through my buttoned-up denim jacket and Adidas, to the steps on the west side of St Paul’s Cathedral. I was so cold. The type of cold that feels like it’s all up in your shoulders and neck. I looked like I’d walked twice that distance by the time I arrived.

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But the moment I laid eyes on you, it didn’t matter. Nothing did. It wasn’t meant to be a Hollywood moment. It really wasn’t. But it felt like one. Smiling and kissing and laughing. Just staring at each other in disbelief. Stood, rooted to the spot, almost in shock that it was even happening.

The rain stopped. We walked across the Millenium bridge to the Southbank, unaware that another human being walked the earth. It was all eyes on us. You snapped a pic of me having run across a busy road, dodging slick hackney cabs and red, London buses. Looking at it now, it could be a simple pic of St. Paul’s in the dark. But there I stand, unaware of your camera, yet wholly aware I was breaking every single rule in the book.

We wandered along the Southbank in a steady rhythm of comfortable silence and bouts of raucous laughter and conversation. You knew the perfect place to grab a bite to eat but suggested a drink first to dry off and settle the nerves. Nerves? The age of us, behaving like kids.

Shakespeare, the creator of the most famous lovers, looked on as we went for a late dinner at a cosy Borough Market restaurant. It was perfect. We’re sharing tapas, you’re getting tipsy on the red. You paid the bill and came back with two glasses of prosecco. Clinking glasses before we left for the apartment.

I remember feeling cold at dinner, my jacket and leather trousers still slick with rain. The nightcap prosecco took the edge off and loitering around Potters Field, snapping the lights reflected on the water, feeling your gaze one me, quickly took my mind elsewhere.  Stopping to take pictures on London Bridge, illuminated against the inky blue sky, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

Like a teen on a first date I walked along next to you silently hoping you were going to stop and kiss me again. As backdrops go, we’d started strong at St Paul’s, and London Bridge after a rain-storm is a pretty good second base.

Almost as if you’d read my mind, you took my hand, pulled me over towards the wall, and kissed me long and hard. against the backdrop of an in illuminated city. I was breathless. Your hand on my right cheek, the other pulling me into your body. The weight of my overnight bag on my shoulder, forgotten.

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