by Dunn, Matt
‘Three out of ten,’ said Lisa, though she feared she was being generous.
‘That’s my girl! Well, you have fun now.’
Lisa smiled grimly. ‘I’ll try.’
‘And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ Jess added, and Lisa raised both eyebrows. Knowing Jess, that pretty much gave her carte blanche.
She marched towards the crossing, then hesitated at the kerb. The green man had begun flashing, and while normally she’d have stayed where she was, she was a different person now. Ready to take risks – or, at least, stop being so cautious. Stop falling at the feet of every man she’d ever known. In fact, she’d make them fall at her feet, for a change. And this blind date was about to be the start of that.
‘Well, as lovely as this little chat has been . . .’ she said to her friend, then without even glancing left or right, Lisa took a deep breath, stepped purposefully off the pavement and into the road.
And right into the path of a fast-approaching, silver Ford Focus.
Chapter 3
Simon slammed on his brakes, just in time to avoid running over the girl who’d stepped out into the road in front of him. Okay, so maybe he’d been in a bit of a hurry, and perhaps he hadn’t slowed down as much as he should have given the flashing amber light, but he didn’t want to be late for Will, plus the crossing was clear, which meant he had priority, and she hadn’t even looked when she’d stepped off the kerb. Worse than that, she’d been glued to her phone – probably talking to her boyfriend, he supposed – and completely unaware of her surroundings.
He hurriedly put the car into neutral, pulled on the handbrake and waited for his heartrate to return to something approaching normal. Simon wasn’t the biggest fan of mobiles. They banned you from using the things when driving for a reason, and he’d often thought they should be outlawed in other places too – at the cinema, on the train, at supermarket checkouts (something he found particularly rude) and on dates – a girl he’d gone out for a drink with once in the time Before Alice had taken seven (he’d counted them) calls during the hour and a half they’d spent together, each one preceded with an ‘I’ve got to take this’, though every time the content of the call had demonstrated that, actually, she didn’t.
He mentally added ‘crossing the road’ to his list, and widened his eyes at the girl in a ‘no harm done’ kind of way. She was pretty – once you got past the scowl she was currently giving him – and she was dressed to make the best of herself, if a little conservatively, rather than how most of the girls dressed around here, as if they were off to an Ibiza club rather than a Margate pub, with so much flesh on display (whatever the weather) that Will would often break off mid-conversation with him to stare, as if nowadays staring was an accepted way to express interest. No, this was definitely the kind of girl he’d find attractive, if he were ever back in that mode – not that he’d be able to get up the courage to speak to her. Though the fact that she’d marched round to the driver’s-side window and was currently rapping her knuckles against it seemed to suggest that wasn’t a problem she had.
‘What do you think you’re playing at?’
The girl sounded as angry as she looked, and, for a second, Simon regretted winding down his window so quickly.
‘Pardon?’
‘You could have killed me!’
‘Doubtful.’
‘You could!’
‘I was doing less than twenty miles per hour.’
‘And your point is?’
‘Well, that most traffic fatalities occur at a speed greater than that, and . . .’ Simon stopped talking, not keen to go down that particular conversational road. Besides, despite her question, the girl’s expression suggested she wasn’t interested in whatever point he’d been about to make. ‘Anyway, technically it would have been suicide.’
‘What?’
He nodded in the direction of the lights. ‘Your cross . . .’
‘Of course I’m bloody cross, given how you nearly—’
‘. . . of the road. It would have been suicide, given that you, you know . . .’ He indicated the bonnet of his car. ‘Stepped out in front of me.’
‘Hel-lo!’ The girl was giving him a look – one usually accompanied by the word ‘duh!’ ‘The little green man?’
‘What do aliens have to do with anything?’
‘No. That green man,’ the girl said, as if addressing a five-year-old, pointing at the crossing light.
‘I, um, think you’ll find it’s red.’
‘It is now. It was green then.’
‘But it was flashing.’
‘When?’
‘When you started to cross.’
‘And?’
The girl was showing no sign of backing down, and Simon surreptitiously glanced at the clock on his dashboard. He had five minutes to find a parking spot, then he had to grab a table as per Will’s instructions before the place got too busy, and right now he wasn’t that confident about managing either of those two things.
‘Well . . .’ he began. The girl was standing, glaring aggressively at him, her hands on her hips, and Simon swallowed hard. ‘Technically, you’re not supposed to. Cross. If it’s flashing.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise I was speaking to the person who wrote the Highway Code.’
She’d folded her arms now, and was showing no sign of moving despite the fact they were blocking the road, and Simon was beginning to wonder why on earth he hadn’t just apologised and gone on his way.
‘No, I just . . . Rules are important in a civilised society. That’s all.’
‘So is not running people over.’
‘Which is why I hit the brakes.’
The girl was looking at him like she’d like to do some hitting and breaking herself, and Simon edged his finger towards the ‘window up’ button. Then a loud honking alerted him to the fact that the driver in the car behind was getting impatient, and even though he might not have written it, he liked to follow the Highway Code to the letter.
‘Yes, well, I’d love to stay and chat, but . . .’ He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder to indicate the vehicle behind him (though the girl had already silenced the driver’s horn-tooting with a glare), then put his own car in gear.
‘Just watch where you’re going in future.’
‘You too,’ said Simon, as pleasantly as he could muster. Which, when he played it back in his head as he drove off down the road, wasn’t as pleasant as it might have been.
He made his way along the seafront, gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly. Girls like that always scared him a little. Every girl scared him a little. Sometimes a lot. Especially since Alice. Which, Simon knew, was one of the reasons he was still single. One of the many reasons. Though not the main one.
He sighed through his nose and concentrated on trying to find a parking spot. Parking near the seafront was always a nightmare, but he’d driven in anyway, partly because, if he drove, he wouldn’t drink, and if he didn’t drink, he wouldn’t get too emotional when Will gave him the usual pep talk, or insisted they went and spoke to a couple of girls because one of them had allegedly been giving Simon ‘the eye’. Though it usually turned out to be of the ‘evil’ variety.
Taking the next turn on the right, he headed up the High Street and, as if by some miracle, spotted a space, so he quickly (but not too quickly) parallel-parked, debated briefly whether to wear his coat or leave it in the car, then quickly decided on the latter (despite his earlier Primark incident, Simon doubted anyone would try to steal his). Finally, he checked he hadn’t left any valuables on display (not that he really had any valuables), double-checked exactly where he was leaving it, and locked the car. His hands were shaking – adrenaline after the almost accident, probably, rather than the freshness of the day – so he stuffed them into his pockets and did his best to put the near miss behind him. That was something he’d tell Will about, if Will brought up the subject of him meeting women. How he’d run into one just now. Nearly.<
br />
With a half-smile, he filed the joke away for later, and began walking towards the seafront.
Chapter 4
Lisa watched the car accelerate away, trying her best to be Zen about what had just happened, which really just consisted of her resisting the temptation to give the driver the finger as he went. This wasn’t the ideal start to her blind date – turning up flustered from nearly having been hit by a car on the way to the venue. Maybe it was a sign. Though of what, she didn’t like to think.
She crossed the road, careful to ensure the green man was illuminated this time and looking left and right anyway – just in case the Focus had circled the roundabout by the clock tower and was coming back for another go on the other side of the road – then headed into the restaurant. Her heart was pounding, perhaps an after-effect from almost being run over, though it was more likely nervousness about her upcoming date. Something confirmed by a sudden, desperate need for a wee.
She checked her watch: just enough time to head to the toilets, adjust her make-up, find the seat where she and Simon were due to meet – if he wasn’t there already – and then . . . well, like Jess said, that was assuming Simon was on time and not expecting her to be late. But that was what other women were like. How they behaved. Not how she was. Punctuality was a virtue, in Lisa’s book. And, in fact, not even that; it was a basic human requirement, or at least it should be. She had friends who were constantly late – Jess was one of the worst – and Lisa often lectured them about how rude it was, that they regarded their time as more valuable than hers. And though they all denied it – Jess in particular – she suspected that, actually, they did.
Besides, Simon being on time would show her if he was keen or not. If he wanted to make a good first impression. If he was a decent human being. And after Chris – who she’d half expected was about to present her with a ring, but in the end hadn’t even called – Lisa was desperate to meet one of those.
A sign above her head was pointing towards the toilets, so Lisa followed the direction of the arrow, then blanched when she saw the size of the queue. Why was it always like this, a ten-minute wait to use ‘her’ loo, when you could always walk straight into the men’s?
Anxiously she checked the time again, then joined the back of the queue as she weighed up her options. Wait in line here, and she was sure to be late – and Simon might think she was one of those women, or even that she wasn’t going to turn up, and he might leave, and neither of those outcomes was what she wanted. Or she could head straight for the table and hope the feeling would pass, though if it didn’t . . . Best-case scenario would involve her sitting there uneasily until there was a suitable pause in the conversation; worst-case might mean . . .
Lisa didn’t want to think about that. Even if Simon did have the ‘great’ sense of humour Jess had promised, her bladder might not find it so funny.
She could just push to the front of the queue, she supposed, explain she was late for a blind date, and appeal to the spirit of sisterhood, hoping they’d let her go first, though by the way the girls ahead of her were hopping anxiously from one foot to the other, she didn’t fancy her chances. Alternatively she could just stroll confidently into the men’s, avert her eyes, pray there was a cubicle free, do what she had to, and be sitting at the table on time.
The line wasn’t moving, and Lisa realised there was nothing for it. Besides, her retreat in Cancún had taught her that life was all about new experiences. And while maybe this wasn’t the kind of new experience her instructors had been referring to, it would have to do.
Her head held high, and careful not to meet anyone’s eye, she slipped out of line and walked purposefully towards the gents. A man was just coming out through the door, so she nodded a quick thanks as – though looking a little bewildered – he held it open for her and she nipped through. Then she hesitated in the doorway, doing her best not to gag. This was why there was never a queue – the place was disgusting.
The door swung shut behind her – it was one of those bi-directional ones – and hit her heavily on the backside, catapulting her into the middle of the white-tiled room. To her right, three men were stood at the five urinals, evenly spaced at every other one, while a fourth man hovered behind them, waiting for one to be free, as if acting on some unwritten understanding that he couldn’t use any adjacently occupied one.
Holding her breath, she marched confidently past them, ignoring their suddenly panicked expressions when they caught sight of her in the mirror above the urinals (and what was the point of that, Lisa wondered – to prevent someone sneaking up on them, like the mirrors they had at cashpoints?) and strode into the nearest cubicle. Then, horrified, she strode straight out again. ‘Don’t you guys ever flush?’ she said to herself, making her way into the adjacent stall and pulling the handle without daring to look in the pan.
Doing her best to breathe through her mouth, she locked the door behind her, grabbed a handful of toilet paper, gave the seat a thorough wipe, grabbed some more toilet paper to fashion a layer to put down on the seat, slid her jeans below her knees (careful not to let them touch the floor) and, with a silent sigh of relief, sat down. As she studied the graffiti on the wall to her left (a surprisingly detailed drawing of what she’d first thought was a woman playing the clarinet until she remembered where she was), a commotion outside was followed by a loud knock on her cubicle door.
‘Occupied,’ said Lisa, firmly, then she lowered her voice an octave or two. ‘I mean, occupied.’
‘Security,’ said an actual male voice from the other side of the door. ‘Could you come out of there, please, miss?’
‘What do you mean, “miss”?’ she said, doing her best to mimic the same gruff tone.
‘Just come out, will you?’
Quickly, Lisa pulled her jeans back up, flushed the toilet, then worried that by flushing it, she’d already given the game away.
‘What for?’
‘This is the gents.’
Lisa cracked the door open to see a bald, heavily muscled, stern-looking security guard glowering at her – the kind you’d imagine might graduate top of his class from security guard school on appearance alone. ‘So?’
‘And you’re not.’
‘Fair point, and, can I just say, well spotted, but there was a queue for the ladies and I was desperate . . .’
‘Even so.’
She glanced around the room. It had suddenly emptied, as if the fire alarm had gone off and everyone but Lisa had heard it. ‘It’s not as if I saw anything.’
‘Did you want me to call the police?’
‘The police? Is this against the law, then? Because I can’t recall the last time I saw someone in court for using the toilet.’
‘The wrong toilet.’
The security guard had folded his arms, revealing biceps the size of her head, and Lisa suspected the game was up. She stalked past the sinks, wondering whether stopping and washing her hands would be pushing it.
‘Hey,’ she said as the security guard took her gently but firmly by the arm and escorted her back out. ‘I might be transitioning, for all you know.’
‘Are you?’
‘No, but—’
‘Well, if you could transition yourself into the ladies next time.’
‘Okay, okay,’ she said, then she realised the man was steering her towards the exit. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I think you should go.’
She shook the man’s hand off, and rubbed the spot on her arm where he’d been holding on to her. ‘That’s what I was trying to do. But like I said, there was a queue for the ladies, and—’
‘Outside, please.’
Lisa glanced helplessly back towards where she was supposed to be meeting Simon. Surely her chances weren’t going to be scuppered before the date had even begun? But what to do? She could cry, she supposed, but she’d spent ages putting on her mascara, and that wasn’t how she wanted Simon to see her – or to be featured in the Gazette when the photographer
turned up later.
‘Listen,’ she said, an idea suddenly coming to her. ‘I’ll level with you. I’m actually here on a blind date. That’s why I had to use the gents. Because I was worried I’d be late, and Simon – that’s my date – might have thought I’d stood him up. And you men are always complaining that women are late all the time, so I thought . . .’
Lisa stopped talking. The man had folded his arms again. His biceps really were scarily large. ‘That’s a lovely story,’ he said. ‘But what does it have to do with me?’
‘Well . . .’ Lisa peered at his name tag. ‘Michael. Can I call you Michael? The thing is,’ she continued, without waiting for his permission, ‘this particular blind date is for a feature in the local paper. The Gazette. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?’
‘So?’
‘So I’m going to be interviewed afterwards. In the paper. The local paper. That everyone here in Margate reads. And when they ask me about where we ate, I can either tell them that we had a lovely meal, and how the staff were all so friendly, which means loads of people will read that and think, “Hey, perhaps we should give Seafront Street Food a try”, or . . .’
Michael’s eyes flicked across to a man in a shirt and tie who was watching them from an office in the corner. ‘Or . . . ?’ he said, nervously.
‘Or I could tell them that the date never happened, and the reason it never happened was because the restaurant’s’ – she cleared her throat – ‘facilities weren’t up to scratch, and when I pointed this out I was roughly frogmarched outside.’ She rubbed her arm again for good measure, then realised she was rubbing the wrong arm, although Michael didn’t seem to notice her mistake. ‘And by an overly efficient security guard called . . .’ She peered closely at his name tag again. ‘. . . Michael. I mean, what with you being a new restaurant, looking to develop a good reputation, I can’t imagine that kind of publicity is the sort of thing you want.’
Lisa did her best to look more confident than she felt, then folded her arms, hoping her nerve was stronger than his, even though her biceps plainly weren’t. Then, after another anxious glance towards the man who was evidently his superior, Michael stood to one side. ‘Fine,’ he mumbled. ‘But keep out of the gents in future. Please.’
