by Lynda Renham
I’m so excited. We’re going to see a performance of The Magic Flute in Hyde Park. Finally a man with culture. Will surely be ideal date for the Guildhall.
*
Wednesday 24th January: 5pm
Thought I’d write a quick blog post before meeting Nick. He’d said we should meet in Pino’s wine bar in Kensington and suggested I have a book with me.
‘I wouldn’t want to wander off with the wrong girl,’ he’d joked.
I’ve chosen ‘Twelve Years a Slave’ as couldn’t imagine many girls would be reading that in Pino’s. You can’t get more upmarket than Pino’s. Clearly Nick has class. Best to take a cab as there’s bound to be champagne in his picnic basket.
Decide to wear a white Boden cashmere cardigan over jeans. Love Boden. I bought it in their sale last year. Rummaged through my handbags until I’d found the Anya Hindmarch tote bag I’d bought from a charity shop in Fulham. After all, want to make a good impression. Obviously Nick goes for fashionable women. Shame about the Christmas bulge. Must look into slimming clubs at the weekend.
‘I’ll bring the blanket,’ Nick had messaged.
Obviously was meant in a non-sordid way. Nick isn’t that type, I can tell.
I’m slightly concerned about the weather but clearly he goes to lots of open air operas, but still worried about the cold, after all, it is January. I don’t want to get pneumonia before the Guildhall ball. Maybe I should take a shawl just in case.
Looking forward to this. I have a good feeling about Nick.
Chapter Fifteen
I get to Pino’s fifteen minutes early. I want to be relaxed when Nick arrives. I don’t want a repeat of the Andy debacle. Pino’s is most certainly upmarket. There are fashion magazines at the bar and I see Jonathan Rhys Myers sitting at one of the tables. Obviously, I act very nonchalant, as though seeing celebrities is the norm for me, although I am dying to ask for his autograph. Feel very sophisticated. Cool waiters wearing designer jeans carry drinks on silver trays. Soft classy jazz plays in the background and low lighting and flickering candles give the place a romantic atmosphere. I feel perfectly dressed for once.
I glance at the menu and almost fall off my chair. I thought a glass of wine might help calm my nerves but at seven quid a glass I don’t think so. I’ve already seen the large glasses that the waiters are carrying but need a magnifying glass to see the wine that’s in them. Still, I guess Nick will pay. After all, he obviously comes here a lot. Nick works with computers so I imagine he earns a packet.
‘You know, software and all that,’ he had messaged.
He must be clever to write software.
My wine arrives just as Nick does.
‘’ello doll,’ he says. ‘Christ, I wouldn’t buy a drink in ‘ere, their prices are criminal.’
*
Someone kill me, kill me now. I am paralysed with shock as not so classy Nick stands in front of me. He’s wearing the tightest cycle shorts I have ever seen and that’s not all I can see. I find myself staring wide-eyed at the outline of his meat and two veg. This is all so wrong. This is not my classy Nick. He’s supposed to be wearing Armani and not sodding neon green Lycra shorts and a matching jacket. Please don’t let Jonathan Rhys Meyer think I’m with this guy.
‘I ‘ope you’re ready,’ he says, pulling off his helmet and revealing a receding hairline. ‘Only I couldn’t find anywhere to padlock the bike.’
Hang on a minute. The photo on Tinder didn’t show a receding hairline.
‘I …’ I begin, but there are no words.
‘I brought the tandem, glad you’ve got jeans on,’ he smiles. ‘I was worried you may be wearing a skirt.’
Tandem? Is he serious? These are my best jeans.
‘I …’
‘Nice to meet you doll,’ he says, plonking his cold lips on to my cheek. ‘I ‘ope you don’t mind me saying but you look older than twenty-five.’
Note to self: must change age on profile if only to twenty-nine. Surely I can get away with that.
‘Erm, typo, I must correct it. Twenty-nine actually.’
‘Ah,’ he nods. ‘Right, if you pay for your wine we’ll get going then, shall we? Don’t wanna be late.’
It’s zero temperature outside and he wants me to ride a bike. I’m wearing heels for pity’s sake and I’m mortified that I’ve got to pay for the wine, especially as I haven’t even had time to drink it.
‘I bought the nosh,’ he says. ‘You don’t go ‘ungry when you go out with me.’
I follow him outside. He points proudly to the tandem.
‘I’ve got everyfing in a cold bag.’
Surely he means cool bag doesn’t he?
‘You got gloves doll?’ he asks.
I stare at the bike. I’m not seriously going to cycle through London on a tandem am I?
Ten minutes later and I’m cycling along the Embankment. My cheeks are stinging and my shoes constantly slip off the pedals. By the time we reach the park I’m so stiff I can barely lift my leg over the bar of the cycle and I’m panting harder than an asthmatic.
‘You okay?’ he asks, pulling my helmet off and taking several strands of hair with it. I fight back a yelp.
‘I can’t get my leg over,’ I reply without thinking. Luckily he doesn’t hear me. I don’t want Nick to think I’m talking about my sex life.
‘Bet you feel fit now,’ he laughs, pulling a blanket and Lidl cool bag from the back of the bike. I gawp at the Lidl bag. Okay, call me a snob but who carries their picnic in a Lidl carrier when going to the opera?
‘You’ll ‘ave to explain it to me,’ he says. ‘Ain’t never been to an opera before.’
‘Is this your usual mode of transport?’ I ask.
Well, you never know. His other one could be a Rolls. Maybe he likes to get a good bike ride in after work. Nothing wrong with being fit is there? I could certainly do with a bit more exercise.
‘Yeah, I don’t drive. Couldn’t get the ‘ang of it. It were the gears that did me.’
I’m with a man that can’t drive. Oh well, at least he won’t be trying to get me in the back seat later.
‘Right, just need to check this,’ he says, studying a Fitbit on his wrist.
‘Do you mind if we walk around the park for a bit. I’m 18,000 steps short of me daily target.’
He wants me to walk 18,000 steps? That’s over two miles. I’ve had a Fitbit, been there and got the blisters. I’ve just cycled half way round London. Well, it feels like I have, and now he wants me to walk the other half. At this rate I’ll need to take the day off work tomorrow. I think it can now be officially said that I have the worst luck with men.
*
Wednesday 24th January: 11pm
Evening with Tinder date Nick was a total disaster. Things really came to a head when he opened the cool bag, which he insisted on calling the cold bag, and pulled out a handful of protein drinks. To his credit there were a few beers, one bottle of cheap sparkling wine, which I quickly bagged, and some chicken legs. There were also some pork pies, sadly not Besties but I ate them anyway. They were better than the Quorn picnic eggs he had brought along. Turned out to be a godsend that the play was held in a marquee, as it was freezing. Wrapped myself in his picnic blanket for most of the performance to avoid hypothermia. Only hung around because I was too knackered to do anything else. Very embarrassing moment when he uncorked the sparkling wine and sent the cork flying into someone’s smoked salmon salad. Could have died with shame.
Spent the whole performance rubbing my sore feet and aching thighs which had totally seized up by the time the opera finished. Couldn’t understand a word of the opera anyway so didn’t have a clue what was going on. Nick said the programmes were a rip-off and spent ages talking me out of buying one. Turned out Nick’s high-profile computer job was in PC World, selling them. Thought I’d never recover from the walk which felt more like a trek across Nepal. He was totally disappointed in me, like I gave a toss. Couldn’t understand why I wasn’t into
running, Zumba, cycling or kick boxing. I don’t do exercise. My limit is climbing the stairs to my flat and I wouldn’t do that if there was a lift. Far better pastimes to indulge in if you want my opinion, like eating blueberry muffins, watching Game of Thrones and dancing, when lucky enough to be taken. Lycra shorts Nick prefers pastimes that stretch the muscles and I’m not talking about that particular muscle either. Decided very early on that there was no way Lycra shorts Nick was going to stretch that muscle with me. Was greatly relieved when he covered that particular muscle with a pair of loose fitting jeans. During the interval and with more partaking of protein bars, he talked about the endurance tests he has been on. I could totally relate. The whole Nick date was one big endurance test. During the opera the stupid git slurped his protein drinks and did stretching exercises. It was like being on a Bear Grylls expedition. He boasted about a cross country ride he was doing for charity.
‘Can’t seize up,’ he’d said.
Despaired when after the opera he suggested going to McDonalds. He didn’t like his dates to go hungry, he’d laughed.
My vision of the evening hadn’t featured a McDonalds. Ashamed to admit I lost it then and told Lycra shorts Nick that he could take his tandem and stick it where the sun doesn’t shine. Somehow managed to get my stiffened legs to walk to the gate where I hailed a cab.
Need to reconsider the whole Tinder thing. Can’t afford to keep shelling out money on cabs, especially when the only thing I’m pissed on is a high protein drink. Think I’ll become a lesbian.
Chapter Sixteen
I nearly forgot Jeremy’s fortieth birthday dinner. It’s really the last thing I need. They are bound to invite all of their posh religious friends. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with religion and I have loads of friends who are into that Kabbalah stuff. It’s just not for me. I love Rita and all that but her huge house overflowing with kids and perfumed with the aroma of home-baked bread makes me feel a touch inferior. All her friends are married and I‘ll stand out like a sore thumb. I phone Imogen for advice.
‘It’s all getting too much,’ I say miserably. ‘All I think about is Ashby with her.’
I can’t bring myself to say her name.
‘If there was something here to do it with, I’d end it all now. It’s all becoming too humiliating.’
‘You must have razor blades in your bathroom?’ she says helpfully. ‘Or you could drown yourself in the bath, or even electrocute yourself. I can think of lots of possibilities. How about pills? It’s a shame you don’t have some Chanel No 5. That would be very Marilyn Monroe.’
‘I have a copy,’ I say helpfully.
‘Mmm, not the same is it. Copied Chanel, dingy flat, very unglamorous. More Paula Yates than Monroe. But hey, why change the habit of a lifetime? You’ve always gone for a copy of the real thing.’
‘What am I going to do? They’ll all be married and will look down on me because I can’t get a man.’
‘Of course they won’t,’ she assures me.
Not much.
I arrive later than planned and to top it all forget the bottle of alcohol free wine I’d bought especially.
‘I’ll just write in the card,’ I say, pulling it from my bag only to see it says Happy 50th.
Shit, I’d grabbed the one behind the original. I was certain it was the same one.
‘I don’t know how you can be so disorganised,’ says Rita, chucking it on the pile of gifts in the hallway.
‘I’ll email an Amazon voucher,’ I promise.
It’s no good; I need to stop focusing on getting a date for the Guildhall and get on with my life.
‘Come and meet everyone.’
This was the dreaded moment and there they all were sitting around the dinner table waiting for the latecomer. I don’t recognise anyone except Jeremy, who is dressed in an apron. Well, not just an apron, obviously, but you know what I mean.
‘Ah, here she is,’ he says and everyone stops talking to look at me. I feel like the late passenger on an easyJet flight.
‘Hi everyone,’ I say with a little wave.
They all chorus hello and Jeremy pats a chair.
‘Here you go.’
‘Happy birthday,’ I say.
‘We were just saying forty is the new thirty,’ says a woman who is introduced as Wendy.
‘Oh fab,’ I say, accepting a glass of orange juice. That was just what I needed to hear.
I’m seated between Wendy and someone called Bill. If nothing else Rita always does the seating right.
‘We’ll eat now you’ve arrived,’ says Rita.
‘Isn’t she marvellous,’ pipes up someone called Richard. ‘Three kids, a demanding husband …’
Everyone laughs raucously at this. I’m not sure why. Clearly I’m missing the joke.
‘Do you have kids?’ asks Richard.
‘I’m not married,’ I say.
I think it best to get it out in the open as soon as possible. The room goes silent and then Richard says,
‘Ah, I wondered why your husband wasn’t with you.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ says Wendy, sympathetically, ‘I had a bloody awful divorce too.’
‘I’ve never been married,’ I say.
The silence is so embarrassing that I want to crawl under the table. They obviously now think I’m a lesbian. Jeremy quickly puts them straight on that one.
‘Oh no,’ he says quickly, ‘she just hasn’t met the right man.’
‘I believe in having as many life experiences as I can before settling down,’ I say.
‘Really?’ says Richard. ‘Well, good for you.’
Patronising git.
‘You should let Iain take you up in his microlight. It’s exhilarating.’
I turn to Iain who is sitting quietly at the end of the table. How I managed to miss him I’ll never know. Of course, it may have something to do with the fact that he hasn’t opened his mouth. But, ooh lub dub, lub dub goes my heart. And there isn’t a gold ring on his finger either.
‘Here we are,’ says Rita, gliding behind a trolley. The smell of roasted chicken pervades the room.
‘Sounds fascinating,’ I say.
‘It’s just chicken,’ says Rita.
‘I’m sure he’ll take you to places you’ve never been,’ says Jeremy.
I imagine he could.
‘What’s that?’ Rita asks.
‘We’re talking about Iain’s microlight. Phoebe said she’d like to try it.’
I didn’t exactly say that.
‘Huh, not if she has any sense.’
‘It’s perfectly safe,’ says Iain finally.
He has a nice voice, quite calming actually.
‘You wouldn’t get me in one,’ says Rita.
It turns out that Iain is very available. His ex-wife had taken him to the cleaners but left him with the microlight and his pension. He seems very nice. He doesn’t say much but who needs a man who rabbits on? Unfortunately he sees everything as God’s will, so when I ask him how safe is microlighting, his response is ‘as safe as God chooses it to be.’
After a dare from Richard, I agree to go up in the microlight. I’m not too sure if I want to put my life in the hands of God but lub dub goes my heart and I certainly wouldn’t mind putting myself in the hands of Iain.
There’s still hope for the Guildhall do after all.
Chapter Seventeen
So, having agreed to go up in the microlight, I couldn’t very well back out could I? I’d look a right wimp. But seriously, have you seen those things? I did a quick search on Google so I knew what to expect. There was me thinking it was some kind of aeroplane. Had visions of myself doing a Karen Blixen in Out of Africa, but obviously a bit safer. After all, we’re in the twenty-first century. But the bloody things look like motorbikes with wings. Completely open and unprotected. There’s absolutely no doubt that I will fall out. How can I not? Iain said flying in January is quite good as the thermals are smooth. We agreed I should me
et him at the airfield on Saturday morning.
‘We need to go early,’ he’d said. ‘There’s a nice pub near the airfield.’
Couldn’t we just skip the flight and go to the pub?
‘Great,’ I’d said, thinking how I could conveniently develop a migraine on the day.
‘Don’t be an arse Phoebe,’ Mak had said. ‘They’re not open any more. Anyone who’s anyone has a covered one these days. It’ll be awesome.’
So I checked out the covered microlights and felt a bit more comforted. Of course he would have a covered one. He’s a barrister apparently, so felt sure he would be able to afford a decent one. I decide to pack a small bag so that I have a change of clothes for the pub as I don’t want to go in my thick baggy jumper.
‘Make sure you wear warm clothes. Two pairs of socks too. I’ll have a flying suit for you but it will be cold up there,’ Iain had advised. I have to say when he does talk it’s dreamy to listen to. Rita had said he’s wary of women after his horrid divorce but doesn’t want to be alone. My mother is over the moon.
‘Here’s a man to get you on to the right path,’ she’d said happily.
Oh well, at least my mum isn’t worried about me falling out. I quickly check Instagram and post a ‘me before’ the flight photo with a promise of a ‘me after’ flight one to follow. I look again and whoop whoop, Ashby is following me. That can mean only one thing can’t it? It couldn’t have come at a more perfect time. Went back into my post and edited it to say ‘Looking forward to my microlight experience with the lovely Iain. Will post pics of the pub too.’
That will show Ashby. I bet he thinks I’m sitting around pining for him. I throw my phone into my handbag, grab the holdall with the change of clothes and open the door only to come face to face with horsey mouth Jilly. What? Didn’t they break up?
‘Oh,’ I say.
‘Hello,’ she says stiffly.
We’re clearly both thinking of that day when she demolished Harry’s drums.
‘Hello,’ I say and quickly walk past her. I really don’t want to see Harry. Honestly what a weakling. What kind of man takes back a woman who destroyed his treasured drums? I wrap my scarf around my neck and head for my little Polo. I set the satnav for the airfield and take a deep breath. Okay, in just a few hours all this will be over and I’ll be enjoying a nice meal in the pub or … still, it will be a glamorous end won’t it? I turn the key in the ignition and nothing happens. For a second I sit in disbelief. Okay, it’s just the cold. Let’s face it; even I have trouble getting going in this weather. I turn the key again but still nothing. Oh no, I don’t believe this, my battery is flat, today of all days. I grab my phone and call Imogen.
