Then I Met You

by Dunn, Matt

  ‘What are you getting at, exactly?’

  With a flourish, she pulled the “Blind Date” questionnaire out of her handbag, causing the seagull to fly off with an alarmed screech, and Simon looked like he wanted to do the same. ‘Relax,’ she said. ‘All we need to do is make sure we come up with an amazing answer to each of these questions, so Jess has got no choice but to write something that makes us both look fabulous. Then . . . well, it’ll be like an advert, won’t it? As opposed to a . . .’

  ‘Warning-off?’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Lisa, pleased with herself. ‘But we’ll have to be honest with each other too. If, you know, either of us puts something . . . inappropriate. Or thinks we’re going in the wrong direction.’

  With a barely disguised sigh, Simon took the questionnaire from her and studied it for a moment or two, perhaps debating whether to tell her they were already going in the wrong direction – or, in fact, that the right direction was probably a different one for each of them.

  ‘So we’re just going to . . .’ He swivelled round to face her. ‘Make it all up?’

  ‘Why not? And over a drink or two.’ She stood up from the bench and held out her hand. ‘The Gazette are paying, remember?’

  Simon was regarding her outstretched hand as if it were infected with some terrible disease, then he glanced across to the clock tower.

  ‘Fine,’ he said.

  ‘Great!’ said Lisa, enthusiastically, doing her best to offset Simon’s obvious reluctance. ‘It’ll be fun!’

  Trying her hardest to ignore the fact that Simon looked like he doubted that, she reached down, grabbed him by the hand and hauled him up off the bench.

  And as she marched him back towards the seafront, Lisa tried – and failed – not to see the fact that she’d stepped in her dropped ice cream as an omen.

  Chapter 17

  Simon did his best to keep up with Lisa as she hurried the two of them back towards town. To be honest, he’d have been happy for them to have headed home to finish their questionnaires individually, then reappear at six to have their photos taken (though he couldn’t guarantee he’d have turned up). And although, in a way, he could see her point – pretend they’d had a wonderful date, get a fantastic write-up in the Gazette, position them both as ‘desirables’ – the fatal flaw in her plan was this: if they’d had such a great time, then what possible reason could they come up with to explain why they weren’t together?

  Besides, Simon wasn’t sure he wanted to be positioned as ‘desirable’. The prospect of random women approaching him at the café or stopping him in the street to chat him up quite frankly horrified him – not that he thought there was any danger of it actually happening. No, this was all about Lisa, he suspected – though for some reason, he decided he’d go along with it. Something about her made him want to . . . well, help. She seemed like a lost soul, despite all her pronouncements and observations about preordained paths. And while he didn’t believe any of them, maybe he could get her to see a little sense. See that life wasn’t all rosy when you left things to fate, to the universe. Because, quite frankly, the universe could be an absolute bastard when it felt like it.

  Still, he reminded himself, at least analysing their date in this way might be a good thing. So far it had been a pretty good dress rehearsal for when he eventually went out with someone he actually got on with and wanted to see again. And now, with Lisa saying she’d be honest with him at every step – and he’d already decided he wasn’t going to pull any punches himself – surely this was the kind of insight that was worth its weight in gold?

  ‘So, where do we start?’ he puffed, the speed at which they were walking making them both a little breathless.

  Lisa grinned. ‘Well, if there’s one thing working in publishing has taught me, it’s that you’ve got to get the words right. Think about what people are going to be reading, and how they’re going to interpret it. So . . .’ She waved her copy of the questionnaire in the air. ‘. . . I’d suggest we go and find somewhere to sit, go through the questions one by one – honestly – and see where we’re at. Then we can make sure we’ve got them right. Unless you’ve got any better ideas?’

  She was looking intently at him, her expression suggesting she’d just laid out the most logical plan ever, but – given his lack of enthusiasm – Simon didn’t have an alternative. And he supposed there was some sense in it, because the other option was to let each other make everything up individually – and what might that lead to?

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ he said, even though he didn’t think it was a very good one.

  ‘Excellent!’ Lisa punched him playfully on the upper arm, then peered across the road. ‘Pub? The Lighthouse is nice.’

  ‘Wherever,’ said Simon, then he quickly added, ‘. . . you think’, so as to at least sound keen, though in actual fact he could do with another drink if he was going to go through with Lisa’s suggestion. And while he’d driven here earlier, the sangria had probably put him over the limit, plus the car would be safe enough until the morning. Whether he would be once he’d answered Lisa’s questions truthfully was another matter entirely.

  They strolled into the half-full pub, and Simon widened his eyes. He’d only ever seen it before from the outside, dismissing it as a bit ‘spit and sawdust’, but now he realised that had been a mistake. From the stripped wooden floorboards to the old black-and-white framed photographs up on the wall that depicted the town in its Victorian heyday, the place exuded a friendly vibe – as did the chalkboard by the bar advertising several ‘guest’ ales and ciders.

  ‘Good choice!’ he said, following Lisa to a table by the window, and, as she sat down, Simon stepped across to the bar. ‘What would you like?’

  Lisa was peering at the chalkboard. ‘Whatever the guest cider is, please,’ she said, and Simon raised both eyebrows.

  ‘Guest cider, was that?’ The landlord, a large-bellied, pink-faced man in his sixties with the whitest beard Simon had ever seen – put him in a red-and-white outfit and it’d be Christmas – was smiling at him from the other side of the bar.

  ‘Two, please,’ said Simon, backing it up with a Winston Churchill victory sign, though he didn’t know why – it wasn’t particularly loud in the pub, and he already knew the man spoke English.

  ‘Pints?’

  Simon glanced at Lisa, who simultaneously shrugged and nodded. ‘Why not?’ he said.

  He stood there as the landlord poured their drinks, a little nervous about what he was letting himself in for, and trying to convince himself that Lisa’s idea was a good one. But what was he worried about anyway? This way, they’d get to stage-manage everything. If he was going to get recognised from the local paper, it was better to know what he was going to be recognised for.

  He paid for the drinks with the Gazette’s card, then carried them the short distance to where Lisa was waiting and sat down.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said.

  ‘Cheers,’ she replied, clinking her glass against his before taking a sip, nodding in approval as she swallowed. ‘Delicious. Again.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ said Simon, taking a mouthful, and then another, relieved Lisa didn’t seem to feel the need to be taking a photo of it.

  ‘What happened to “I’m driving”?’

  Simon laughed. ‘You!’ he said.

  ‘So . . .’ Lisa smoothed her copy of the questionnaire out on the table, and indicated that Simon should do the same with his. ‘Let’s start off by answering the questions now, as we see them – truthfully. Then we can compare responses and see what we need to do to, you know, make them good.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And be honest.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Best policy, and all that.’

  Simon pursed his lips. Like he’d told Lisa earlier, he wasn’t sure it always was. And given her evident emotional fragility, he worried that honesty might not even be the second-best policy where she was concerned.

  ‘Okay. But
don’t get offended.’

  ‘Why would I be offended?’ Lisa took another gulp of cider. ‘I’m old enough not to need things sugar-coated. And there’s no point doing this if we can’t be truthful with each other.’

  Simon tugged anxiously on his earlobe. He didn’t really think there was any point doing this at all. And as he scanned through some of the questions, he was more worried about offending Lisa than ever.

  ‘So, should we do one at a time and compare our answers, or do the lot?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  He took another look at the sheet. ‘The lot, I think. Otherwise I might say something that . . . upsets you, which might make you a bit more vindictive in your next answer, and so on, and before you know it you’ll have emptied the rest of your cider over my head and stormed out through the . . .’ He looked up to find Lisa staring at him, horrified. ‘What?’

  ‘Have I been that bad?’

  ‘Apart from the road rage incident, scheduling a get-out call, and calling the date off after half an hour?’

  ‘Fair point. Though I had already suffered a near-death experience.’ She double-tapped the newspaper cutting with her index finger. ‘Anyway. Shall we?’

  Simon nodded, and turned his attention back to the questions. He’d answered most of them in his head earlier, but this time he felt under a bit more pressure – particularly because Lisa’s future happiness might depend on what he put. Not to mention how he didn’t want to come across as a laughing stock.

  He worked steadily through them, tapping the answers into his phone, doing his best to be kind rather than honest, sipping his cider, until he realised Lisa was staring at him from the other side of the table.

  ‘How far have you got?’

  Simon rested his phone on the table, screen down, just in case Lisa saw something he’d written and took offence. ‘Well, I’ve finished, but . . .’

  ‘You’ve finished?’

  ‘Yup.’ Simon took a large gulp of cider. ‘Though I’m not sure about a few of the answers.’

  ‘How many?’

  He picked his phone back up and frowned down at the screen. ‘All of them! No, wait. I’m happy with the first one.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Okay.’ He looked nervously up at her for a second. ‘Question one: “What were you hoping for?”’

  ‘And what were you hoping for?’ asked Lisa, when Simon didn’t continue.

  ‘That you’d turn up.’

  Lisa burst out laughing, then she caught sight of Simon’s expression and stopped abruptly. ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Well, nothing, but . . .’ She leaned forward, in the manner of a schoolteacher explaining something to a pupil. ‘It doesn’t make you sound particularly confident. And you’ve got to think about how you’re going to come across.’

  ‘It’s question one. Early days.’

  ‘And that leads us nicely on to question two. “First impressions?”’

  ‘Hang on. What did you put for question one?’

  ‘To meet the love of my life,’ said Lisa, confidently.

  ‘On a blind date?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘No pressure there, then.’

  ‘Why else would anyone go on a date?’

  ‘Well, because . . . I mean . . .’ Simon scratched his head again. ‘Okay. Fair enough. Even though it’s a little different to my answer.’

  ‘A little?’ Lisa rolled her eyes. ‘Let’s move on, shall we?’

  ‘Right,’ said Simon, nervously. ‘Next question.’

  ‘You first.’ Lisa sat back in her seat and folded her arms. ‘And I’m assuming you’ve gone for when we first saw each other in the restaurant.’

  Simon picked his phone back up, then hesitated. ‘But that’s not quite right, is it? We’ve got to go for when we first saw each other. Otherwise it’s not a first impression. Unless it means when we first saw each other knowing the other one was our date.’

  ‘Yes, well, then it’s going to be “disappointed”, isn’t it? You because you assumed you’d blown it by nearly running me over; me because I thought we’d got off to a bad start.’

  Simon put his phone back down on the table. ‘Are you sure doing this is a good idea? Look, half of these questions . . .’ He tapped a random one from the list with his index finger. ‘“Would you introduce them to your friends?” Our friends are the ones who introduced us in the first place, so that’s a bit of a moot point. And “If you could change one thing about the date, what would it be?” Right now, you’re probably thinking you wouldn’t have come. Because – and don’t take this the wrong way – I know I am.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  Simon picked up his cider, drained the rest of it and then – worried Lisa would get the wrong impression – spat the last mouthful back out into the glass. Then he worried that was making an even worse impression – though so would re-drinking it (if that was even a word), but the thought was closely followed by the realisation that he didn’t have to make an impression anymore, so he relaxed.

  ‘It’s just . . . this.’ Simon slid the newspaper feature across the table towards her. ‘It’s . . . dishonest. We’re trying to pretend we’ve had this amazing date, and I’m afraid people are going to see through it. See through us.’

  Lisa was staring at him strangely, and Simon was seriously considering downing his regurgitated cider, then her eyes suddenly widened.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Here’s a thought. How about you and I start over?’

  Simon rubbed his stomach. ‘I’m not sure I could manage another burger. And judging by your little “accident” earlier, that coffee ice cream didn’t go down so well.’

  ‘Not like that.’ She pulled her sleeve up to expose her watch, then shoved it right under his nose. ‘We’ve got about two hours before we have to meet the photographer. Why don’t we go and actually have the perfect date?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m serious. I’ll take you somewhere I think you might like, then you do the same with me. We’ll really have fun. No pressure, no hidden agendas. And that’s what we’ll write up.’

  Simon stared at her. Lisa was looking like she’d come up with the best idea ever, something on a par with achieving world peace or finding a cure for cancer, and though from where he was sitting it quite patently wasn’t, try as he might it was hard to argue with her logic. Besides, as Will had reminded him earlier, the one thing she was full of was hope – something Simon had to admire. And who was he to crush that?

  He drained the dregs in his glass, forgetting he’d already done that the once, and stood up. ‘Why not?’ he said, doing his best to phrase it in a ‘what the hell’ way.

  Because, if pressed, he could probably think of lots of reasons why not.

  Chapter 18

  Lisa led Simon up the steep steps to the town’s art gallery, feeling slightly nervous. She’d taken Chris here once, but only the once – fed up by his constant claims that he ‘could do better than that rubbish’ when confronted by some amazing piece of abstract art, or moaning that he’d seen similar drawings done by his five-year-old nephew and displayed on his sister’s fridge. Such had been his level of complaining he’d begun to sound like a five-year-old, and while they’d eventually cut the visit short and headed to the pub (for Chris, the failsafe equivalent of sticking a child in front of a cartoon), she’d known better than to try to do it again.

  She was pleased Simon had agreed to come to the Turner Contemporary – or the Turner Centre, as everyone local called it, perhaps because ‘Contemporary’ was a bit of a mouthful – mainly because it would help her to set her stall out. While she hoped he’d enjoy it, she wanted anyone reading about her in the paper to know this was her kind of thing. To see that she enjoyed a bit of culture. To understand that if they were going to take her out, she was more of a Canaletto girl than a can-of-lager one. More Picasso than pick ’n’ mix. That she was tur
ned on by Turner . . .

  Lisa ran out of art analogies as she reached the top of the stairs, filing them away mentally in case they might look good in the paper, and turned round to take in the spectacular sight of the beach behind them.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘It’s worth it just for the view.’

  ‘You mean inside, or out?’

  ‘Both!’ Lisa smiled as Simon jogged up the last two steps then stuck his fists above his head and danced around like Rocky while he got his breath back. ‘I can’t believe you’ve never been!’

  ‘I guess I just never thought it was my thing. And when you don’t know much about something . . .’

  ‘Well, prepare to be educated!’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ he said, with perhaps a hint of sarcasm, as he followed her in through the heavy glass doors. ‘Here,’ he said, handing her the credit card, but Lisa waved it away.

  ‘It’s free!’

  ‘Which means one of us is a cheap date!’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘I’ll let you know,’ said Simon, and Lisa gave him a look.

  They made their way through the gallery’s reception and rode the lift up to the first floor, emerging into the building’s main exhibition space, and Lisa gasped at the view. She’d been here a dozen times, and the way the huge picture window framed the sea never failed to take her breath away.

  ‘So, who is this by?’ Simon said, interrupting her reverie. He was pointing at a large seascape hanging on the wall in front of them, so Lisa switched into tour-guide mode.

  ‘Turner.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘How could you not?’

  ‘He’s who the gallery was named after.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. In fact . . .’ Lisa noticed Simon was making a ‘duh!’ face, so she punched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘He used to come here.’

  ‘To the gallery?’

  ‘To Margate! Around two hundred years ago. He really liked the light.’

  ‘Which one?’

  Simon was pointing at the lamps suspended from the ceiling, so Lisa shot him a look. ‘The ambient light.’