And it’s still only 11:45am, damn it.
I have even mentally planned my outfit for this evening – black floaty skirt, pink strapless top, chunky black necklace, heels – and my getting ready ‘time-line’ – 18:00: bath, shave legs (no, not because I’m hoping he’ll be touching my legs later, but because I’m wearing a skirt, although…), shampoo, deep conditioning treatment, 18:30: moisturise, deodorise, sparkle-ise (bronzing powder with lots of tiny bits of glitter in), 18:45: pour glass of wine, drink wine, pour second glass of wine, warn self of dangers of drinking on an empty stomach, eg being pissed before the date has even started and making a complete tit of oneself, 19:00: (yes, I can drink two glasses of wine in fifteen minutes if time restrictions so require) makeup, hair, jewellery…
At midday my phone rings, throwing me into an immediate state of panic. What if it’s James? What if he’s phoning to cancel? What if he’s gone off me?
It’s not James.
It’s Emma.
“Hi Em.”
“Hiya.”
“How’s things?”
“Good. You?” She’s walking and talking, I think. I can hear her heels clicking on the pavement. “How’s the research going? Any better?”
“Kind of.” I want to tell her my research has changed direction a bit. I want to tell her about my date with James. But I decide against it. She’s still upset about her latest break-up. She doesn’t need to hear how excited I am about the developments in my own love life.
“I decided to give the Internet dating a go,” I tell her instead, laughing at myself before she can.
“Oh yeah? How’s it going?”
“Completely disastrous, as it happens! But I guess it might help with the overall picture – presumably if I work my way through enough Mr Wrongs, I’ll eventually find Mr Right, right?” I laugh.
“Process of elimination,” Em agrees. “Anyway, I was just phoning to see if you fancy doing something this evening?”
Bollocks.
I’m seeing James tonight.
I consider my options.
I could tell Emma a little white lie. Or I could postpone my date with James.
Emma is one of my best friends. And I hate fibbing. But James is very lovely. And what if he thinks I’m not interested? I don’t want him to think that. I really like him.
“I can’t tonight, Em,” I say. “I already have plans. I could meet you for a quick coffee?”
“Don’t worry. It was just an idea.”
“Why don’t you phone Katie? I think she might be free tonight,” I suggest, making a mental note to phone Katie myself and warn her not to put her foot in it.
“Yeah, I might do that. I better go. I’m on playground duty in a bit.”
“Okay hun. I’ll phone you over the weekend.”
“Okay, bye.”
It feels like it takes a million years but the afternoon does eventually pass – though not before I have supervised a Noddy and Big Ears birthday party, helped a young mum get green paint out of her eyebrows, and managed to squeeze the words ‘day Derek’ into a space not much wider than my thumb (his wife got a bit carried away with ‘Happy 40th Birth' before she realised she was running out of room). And at 5.30pm I finally lock up and head back to the flat.
Katie and Matt aren’t home yet which means I can hog the bathroom without any risk of piss-taking at all the lotions and potions that will no doubt be making an appearance for this most auspicious of occasions.
There’ll be no dashing to the gym for a quick shower and a change of clothes couriered to me by my best friend’s boyfriend tonight.
Tonight I have time to do things in style. To spend hours pampering and preening myself to perfection. To soak in a candlelit bath with lashings of Molton Brown bubble bath (it’s Katie’s though so best not mention it). To apply a soothing cucumber face mask…
I’m a bit bored to tell you the truth.
The candle has gone out (I splashed it by accident reaching for the soap), the bubbles have all but disappeared, and I am slowly turning into a giant prune.
Sod this.
After rinsing the conditioner out of my hair I grip the plug chain between my toes and let the water out.
I’ve never been one of those girls who takes hours to get ready – even if it is for a hot date.
I’ve tried, I really have. But the longest it has ever taken me is sixty four minutes. And that included long overdue attention to my eyebrows and extensive use of hair straighteners.
But you hear about these women who get up in the middle of the night practically, to start getting ready to go out – often just to go to work, when frankly I’d be happy to slum it with my hair tied back and a single coat of mascara if it meant a few extra minutes in bed. They spend hours in front of the mirror. What are they doing exactly? Coating each eyelash individually?
Even being generous I fail to see how it could possibly get anywhere near the hour mark, let alone above it.
But maybe I have been leaving the house looking like a complete dog all these years. Who knows?
After blasting my hair dry – a woman on a mission, head tipped upside down for extra volume, and a bit of extra blood to the head to boot – I sit cross-legged in front of the mirror with my makeup bag perched in my lap and get to work.
I am smearing silver cream eye shadow on my left eye, my lips pursed in concentration, when Katie knocks at the door.
“For Dutch courage,” she says, handing me a glass of red wine and sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Thanks. I’m a bag of nerves.” I hold out my hand to demonstrate. A slight tremble can be seen.
“I can’t remember the last time I liked someone this much,” I say. “I’m not sure I ever have even.”
“Not even Joe Davidson?”
I fell for Joe in the second year at university – at the Christmas ball. He was gorgeous, with a mop of dark floppy hair and a dress shirt covered in cartoon dinosaurs underneath his tux. I thought he was the cutest guy I’d ever seen.
But I was quite shy in those days and I wouldn’t approach him. Until Katie dared me to go up to him and snog him, that is. At which point my shyness miraculously disappeared. I never could resist a dare. There was a drink in it for me, if I did it – and a snog, obviously, if I could get it.
I got the snog. And the drink. Which I shared with Joe. Fair’s fair – he did help me win it, after all.
Joe and I dated for two-and-a-half weeks. And it was all going beautifully, until he got drunk one night and lost a game of pool. In a forfeit decided before the game, the loser had to shave his head. And Joe was so drunk he hadn’t noticed that his opponent was already a skinhead.
Losing the game was one thing. But losing his mop of dark floppy hair too…well that was just too much. I’ve never gone for skinheads.
“No. Not even Joe Davidson,” I tell Katie.
“Do you want me to straighten your hair for you?”
“Ooh, would you? Thanks Katie. What would I do without you?”
“I really don’t know,” she says, grinning at me in the mirror and reaching for the straighteners from the basket of hair stuff by my bed.
Half an hour later I’m ready for my big date.
Well, physically I am ready. Mentally I’m still a bag of nerves.
“How do I look?” I ask Katie, who is now cuddled up with Matt on the sofa watching How To Lose A Man In Ten Days.
“Have you seen this, Becks? You might be able to pick up a few hints!” Matt says.
“Ignore him! You look gorgeous!”
“She knows I’m only kidding, don’t you?”
“Yes…I think so.”
Katie’s grinning at me now. She has that look in her eye. She’s up to something.
“What have you done?” I ask.
“Nothing!”
“What are you about to do then?”
“Nothing! Well…it’s just…”
“What?”
“Well, I was just
going to say, you can bring him back here later. If you want to… If you are getting on well… You know…”
Thankfully I am saved by the bell.
“Shall I get that?” Matt asks, leaping to his feet.
“No! That’s okay, I’ll go,” I say, pushing him back down again.
“I’ll see you both later.”
“Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do,” Matt says.
“Well that gives me plenty of scope then, doesn’t it?” I reply, blowing them both a kiss and darting out of the room before either of them can protest.
So. We start the evening off in The Hedge.
James’ brother made the signage for it. It’s quite impressive. Chunky burgundy lettering against a cream background, a bottle of wine at one end and two glasses tipped towards each other at the other.
James gets a discount.
“It’s not why I brought you here,” he tells me sheepishly as he hands me my drink – a 1978 Cabernet Sauvignon, apparently. Alex bought me a book on wine for my last birthday. He always used to raise his eyes to the ceiling every time I said “they all taste the same to me” when ordering a glass of wine and decided he’d try to educate me. They still do all taste the same to me. It’s just that now I say ‘mmm, it tastes fruity,’ or ‘mmm it tastes woody,’ instead, hoping I must get it right at least some of the time.
“It’s a great place,” I say. “I’ve been here with my friends.”
We take our drinks and find an empty sofa.
“So how did your family get into the sign-writing business?” I ask James.
“My brother studied graphic design at university and had always wanted to own his own business. When he graduated, dad offered to lend him the money. Dan took him up on the offer on the grounds that dad be his partner in the business. He had taken early retirement from the police force and was really bored, so he did.
I sip my wine. “And then you joined them?”
He nods.
“I was never really interested in being a part of the business, but it has grown so much that they really needed the extra help with the financial side. I hated my job so it seemed like the right time to join them.”
“And are you glad you have?”
“So far, yes. It’s fun working with your family. I wasn’t sure it would be. But it is. Dan and I have always been friends as well as brothers, so we thought we’d probably work well together.”
“I think it’s great that you can work with your family. I couldn’t work with my brother. He’d think he could boss me around just because he’s older, like he always did when we were kids.”
James laughs. “It’s not for everyone, I guess. So, when do you hope to hear from these magazines then?” he asks, changing the subject to me.
By the way – I know it’s not ideal, telling porky pies this early on in a ‘relationship’, but I’ve had to tell James a teensy weensy white lie.
Well, I could hardly tell him I’m researching an article on how you know you’ve met Mr Right, could I? – ‘and by the way, I’m hoping you’ll be the one to show me…’
How to lose a man in ten days, more like…
So I have told him the truth up to the bit just before I got the commission – that I left my horrid job as a hole-punch saleswoman to follow my dream of becoming the next Carrie Bradshaw and that I’m still waiting for some wise editor to snap me up. To which James said “Carrie Bradshaw? She’s the one from Sex & The City isn’t she?” Which impressed me immensely. “The one that writes about sex?” he added, raising his eyebrows. Which embarrassed me immensely.
“I’m not sure when I’ll hear back from any of them,” I fib. “I only sent the letters off recently, so I guess I’ll have to wait a while for any responses. But I’m enjoying working at Potty Wotty Doodah for now. It makes a nice change from stationery!”
“Yeah, I imagine it’s probably more fun than paper clips and staplers.”
“Definitely. Although, a lot more messy too! I frequently go home covered in paint.”
“It’s a good look on you, though,” he jokes.
An hour later, after a second glass of wine, we leave The Hedge. When we are walking to the restaurant James takes hold of my hand. It feels nice. I like it. I like James. A lot.
“Perhaps we should look at the menu before we do anything else,” James laughs as we are shown to our table. “We don’t want to keep sending the waiter away again.”
James orders a steak and I go for the chicken risotto – one of my favourites this time, although I’m even less hungry tonight than I was on Monday. I make sure I eat it though. We’ve been drinking a lot of wine and I don’t want to end up getting drunk and embarrassing myself.
As the restaurant fills up and then empties around us, we satisfy our need to know more about each other.
We talk about what’s important to us, what drives us crazy, our interests, our friends, our childhoods.
Now I know that when James was seven he and Dan were fighting over a metal crook-lock on the back seat of their mum’s car. They each had hold of one end, both of them pulling with all their strength. Then Dan let go and it hit James in the face, narrowly missing his left eye. He was rushed to hospital where he had nine stitches.
I lean across the table, kiss my index finger and gently touch it against the tiny faded scar.
For dessert we share profiteroles and tales of past relationships.
It shouldn’t matter, should it – who you’ve been out with and for how long? It’s in your past, after all, just as much as the boy you held hands with at the school disco when you were twelve years old. But it holds a strange fascination somehow. Maybe we see a person’s romantic history as a sign of how successful our own relationship with them might be.
James tells me he recently split up with his last girlfriend.
“I loved being with her, but I didn’t love her,” he says. “But I think she did love me, so I knew I had to end it.”
“How did she take it?”
“She was upset. Which made me want to say I didn’t mean it. But I did. So…well, I think sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. How did your boyfriend – Alex, wasn’t it? – how did he take it when you broke up?”
“Well he had just asked me to marry him, so not great.”
“Really? Wow. That must have been hard.” He pushes the last profiterole towards me. A consolation prize for the worst break-up maybe? I slice it down the middle with the side of my fork, take one half and then push the plate back towards him.
“Yes. It was. But like you, I knew it was right thing to do. I probably should have done it a long time ago really, but I kept hoping I’d feel differently.”
“Why?”
“Because I did love him. And because it’s so hard telling someone you love that you just don’t love them enough.”
“How do you know it wasn’t enough?”
“Because I couldn’t say yes when he asked me to marry him,” I say. “I guess I just knew I could love somebody else more.”
Could I love James more than I loved Alex? Eventually? Could I love him enough to say ‘yes’ one day? If he asked me?
I look at him across the table, stabbing the last bit of profiterole with his fork, his eyes never leaving mine, and for a brief moment I wonder if he isn’t asking himself the very same thing.
James won’t let me pay. Not even half. It’s his treat, he says.
“But it was your treat on Monday,” I remind him.
“Yes. And it’s my treat again tonight,” he smiles, placing his credit card on the saucer with the bill and handing it to the waiter as he passes.
“So when will it get to be my treat?” I ask.
“Oh, I think we’ve got plenty of time,” he says, squeezing my hand across the table.
Wimbledon has come alive by the time we leave the restaurant at 10:30.
“We could just make last orders?” James says.
“Okay.”
As we walk along
in comfortable silence I hold James hand. We are surrounded by other people, all making their way to their next drink, like us. And yet it feels like it’s only us.
With his free hand James presses the button at the pedestrian crossing. As I look across the road, I sense him turning towards me, watching me.
I look down the road at the cars coming towards us, self-conscious, unsure. Eventually I look at him and something happens in the pit of my stomach and he leans towards me and kisses me. Gently at first, so that our lips barely touch, and then firmer, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me close, as if our very survival depends on this kiss.
I am only vaguely aware of the beeping that signals the lights are now green, and that the cars are waiting patiently for us to cross.
But they are red again long before we break apart, long before we look at each other and both realise that not only could this be something, but that one day, maybe this could be enough.
CHAPTER FORTY SIX
“Why didn’t you tell me you had a date last night?” Emma asks the next morning.
After a coffee at James’ (yes, just coffee) I got a taxi home at 2am and found Emma snoring on the sofa bed. She had joined Katie and Matt half way through How To Lose A Guy In Ten Days. And I had forgotten to tell Katie not to mention the date.
“It’s very early days,” I tell her. “I didn’t want to make a fuss.”
“So tell me everything,” she orders, nursing a cup of coffee. They had sent Matt out for a takeaway last night after the film. And three bottles of wine. I pick up the empties from the coffee table before one of us throws up.
“He’s lovely,” I say, acutely aware of the huge grin that has suddenly appeared on my face.
“We met in the café. He was picking up some pottery that his niece had painted. I thought it was his daughter, though, and that he was married.”
“What does he look like?”
The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights Page 147
