Would Like to Meet

by Polly James

  As luck would have it (the bad kind of luck), it’s not just the same weather, but also the same taxi driver.

  “Hello, love,” he says, giving me a wink as I clamber into the back seat and accidentally spray him with water droplets as I fold my umbrella up. “Got a second date?”

  “No,” I say. “Unless you count a second first date, that is.”

  The taxi driver nods sagely, then changes the CD he’s playing.

  “This’ll help you get in the mood,” he says.

  Oh, dear God, he’s chosen Barry White.

  I sit and panic as Barry does his sexy thing. What if Mr Nordic does turn up and expects to sleep with me tonight? I know I used to complain to Dan that we hardly ever got around to having sex, but I wanted more sex with Dan – not with a complete stranger. And certainly not with a complete stranger who’s never seen my body before, so he won’t be inured to the gradual deterioration that’s been taking place ever since I hit my forties. I’m tempted to tell the driver to turn round and drive me straight back home, but now we’re already pulling into the car park of the restaurant. I must start arranging dates a lot further away from home to give me time to change my mind en route.

  “Want me to wait, in case this one turns out to be a dud as well?” asks the taxi driver, whose name is Mick, according to his licence.

  “Yes,” I say. Then, “No.”

  It’s time to think positive, seeing as I can’t afford to lose my head start over bloody Dan.

  Chapter 19

  Maybe there’s something in this “thinking positive” approach to life: Mr Nordic doesn’t stand me up!

  I spot him sitting at the bar as soon as I walk into the restaurant, which is both good and bad. It’s good, because he looks exactly like his profile photo, so at least he hasn’t been catfishing me, but it’s bad because I was hoping to go to the ladies’ and check my hair and add some more make-up before meeting him, and the entrance to the loos is on the far side of the bar. I’d have to walk straight past him to get there, while pretending I hadn’t noticed him, only to come back with my sight miraculously restored along with my maquillage.

  I loiter in the doorway for a moment, dithering about whether I can get away with it.

  “Are you meeting that gentleman?” asks the maître d’. “The one waving at you from the bar?”

  Oh, bugger. I’ve been spotted, so my options have now declined to one.

  I wave back, then make my way across the room.

  “Hello,” says Mr Nordic, at the same time as I say, “Hi.”

  Then we both say, “How are you?” at exactly the same time, too.

  “Fine,” we both answer – also simultaneously – and then Mr Nordic stands up and goes to kiss me on the cheek, at the same time as I bend my head to undo the buttons of my coat. Mr Nordic’s kiss thus ends up in thin air a couple of feet above my left ear.

  “Shall we try again?” he suggests, so I stand stock-still, one arm free of my coat by now, but the other one still halfway in.

  Everything goes fine with the cheek-kissing business this time, until I assume that we’re stopping after two kisses, one for each cheek. Mr Nordic seems to have been planning on several more, so his third attempt results in him kissing my right ear. It’s more embarrassing than erotic, despite ears supposedly being erogenous zones.

  We both laugh, and then he sits back down and asks me what I’d like to drink. I’m still considering my answer when he stands back up again, to help me climb onto the bar stool next to his.

  “Would you prefer to have your drinks brought to your table?” asks the barman, who’s been watching the various kissing and stool-climbing attempts with interest.

  “Yes, please,” I say.

  Bugger consulting Mr Nordic first, this stool is miles too high for me, and it’s impossible to look sophisticated when your feet are swinging miles above the floor.

  Once we’re settled at our table, we do the names thing – Will, Hannah – pleased to meet you – and then we shake hands self-consciously, before leaning back and covertly studying each other while we wait for the menus and drinks to arrive.

  I have no idea what to say.

  Luckily, Will does. He asks me a volley of questions while I sip my drink and try to work out what to order: What I do for a living? How long have I been internet dating? Do I have any children and how old are they? Do I own my own house or rent? I wonder if he’s got a mental checklist and he’s scoring my answers as we go along? It’s definitely starting to feel a bit like an interview by the time our starters turn up – one of those interviews in which the panel are so po-faced you can’t tell whether they like what they’re hearing or think it’s laughable. As a result, I have no idea whether I’m going to get the job of being Will’s second date or not. I don’t even know if I want the job, though it is nice to have someone taking such an interest in me – and ordering another bottle of wine already, too.

  “Do you like sports?” asks Will, as the waiter clears our plates ready for the main course to arrive.

  “Um,” I say. “To watch or do?”

  I’m not sure that “like” is the right word for the experience of spinning round and round in circles in a boat while looking for an oar, or for being forced to try planking by your ageing aunt, but I hate watching sport even more than I hate doing it.

  “Either,” says Will, who then proceeds to tell me how much he loves both. That’s a lot, judging by how long he talks about it: all the way through the main course and the second bottle of wine. Land-yachting, kite-surfing, surf-surfing, road cycling – you name it, Will enjoys it.

  “Well, you do look fit,” I say, when he pauses, as if waiting for me to make some sort of comment.

  “You do, too,” he says, winking, then passing me the dessert menu. As he does so, he runs his fingers lightly along the back of my hand and I recoil, as if I’ve been given an electric shock.

  I excuse myself and go to the loo. While there, I give myself a strict, if drunken talking-to: I am not to make any more comments that could be viewed as double entendres. Not when I don’t intend them to be double entendres, anyway. I am also going to change the subject away from sport.

  “What’s your favourite film?” I say, buttering half the bread roll I forgot to eat earlier on. I need to give my hands something to do, other than to be fondled when they’re least expecting it. “Or your favourite actor?”

  Will leans back, and closes his eyes while he thinks about it. He looks very attractive, all of a sudden, so I’m really hoping he’s not going to pick something like Dumb and Dumber.

  “Actors: DiCaprio, Nicholson and Brando, of course,” he says, finally opening his eyes again.

  Oh, my God – I love Marlon Brando, too.

  “Mm, yeah,” I say. “Especially in A Streetcar Named Desire.”

  Will raises an eyebrow, as if that’s an interesting choice.

  “Not Apocalypse Now?” he says.

  Never challenge the opinion of a woman who’s drunk too much wine, on top of spending the last two hours off her head on a combination of nerves and adrenalin. She will be predisposed to argue with you, especially when dessert is taking a ridiculously long time to arrive.

  “Last Tango in Paris,” I say, then immediately wish I hadn’t.

  This is not a competition, and I am supposed to be making Will like me, not arguing with him about Brando’s best films. I’m going to shut up right this minute, so – to make sure of that – I butter the other half of the bread roll and stuff most of it into my mouth in one fell swoop. I probably look like a wide-mouthed frog.

  “Like butter, do you?” says Will, raising his eyebrows while doing that thing on my hand again.

  “Well, these days nutritionists say it’s better for you than margarine,” I say, desperately trying to get back to single-entendre territory.

  This is getting out of hand and I have totally lost my nerve. I am going back to the loo, and this time I’m going to phone Eva while I’m t
here.

  “How’s it going?” she says.

  “Terrible,” I say. “I mentioned Last Tango in Paris, and then I spread half a ton of butter on my bread and shoved a great wodge of it into my mouth. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

  “Ah,” says Eva. “The notorious Marlon with butter scene. That was quite something, wasn’t it?”

  I put her on speakerphone so I can talk while also splashing my face with water. First date nerves are quite enough to cause a hot flush, let alone the Marlon with butter scene. (That was censored for good reason.)

  “This guy Will seems a lot more experienced at the dating game than I am,” I say, as I shake my head to get the water off my face. “And he stroked my hand! I moved it, but then he did it again, and now I don’t know what to do. He’s unnerving me so much I haven’t got a clue what I’m saying half the time, and that’s making everything ten times worse. I am seriously losing it.”

  “Well, no one’s less experienced than you,” says Eva, “so it’s good you’re learning from an expert, isn’t it?”

  I don’t think it is. I’d prefer to blunder my way through this whole weird dating thing with someone who felt as clueless about it as I do, not someone who’s watching me the whole time in a very knowing way.

  “He works as a proper designer,” I say, “so he was totally unimpressed by my stupid job. And he has young children, too. Do I want to date someone with young kids, when I’m still waiting for Joel to finish growing up? And what if he’s expecting sex?”

  My voice has risen to a wail by the time I get to that last sentence, which is unfortunate, as – at that moment – the woman who was sitting at the next table walks into the loos and gives me a really funny look. I turn Eva off speakerphone, and clamp the phone to my ear, just in time to hear her telling me I must calm down.

  “Look,” she says, “all you have to do is take this a step at a time. Eat your pudding while he does all the talking and then call a cab. Don’t do anything stupid tonight, like going home with him – just leave him wanting more. Phone me when you get home so I know you’re safe.”

  I take a few deep breaths, then walk back out into the restaurant where I do exactly as she says.

  * * *

  “Text me when you get home,” says Will, as he kisses me on the cheek, and then opens the door of the taxi and ushers me in.

  “Um, okay,” I say, “but why? I’ll probably go straight to bed, to be honest.”

  Will gives me a weird but unreadable look when I mention going to bed, and then he says,

  “Why? So I know you got home safely, of course.”

  That’s nice, isn’t it? I’m so chuffed by what a gentleman he is, that I don’t object when he leans into the cab and kisses me briefly on the lips.

  “Until next time,” he says, then he slams the door and raises his hand as Mick the taxi driver revs the engine and pulls away from the kerb.

  “I see this one went a bit better,” he says, “judging by the way he said goodbye.”

  I lean back against the seat and watch the streetlights as they flicker past.

  “You know,” I say, “I think it did.”

  * * *

  I let myself into the empty house and double-lock the door behind me, and then I get out my phone and start to type.

  I’m home. Thank you for a lovely evening.

  Then I hit send and walk upstairs to bed, where I lie under the covers, thinking about Will and whether he’ll want to see me again – and whether I’ll want to see him too.

  On the one hand, I hated having to make awkward conversation with someone I’ve never met before – and the sense that I was being vetted – but on the other, it’s not as if I’ve got the option to date someone I know really well, and who doesn’t make me anxious, is it? Not when Dan has left me and, anyway, Will does seem nice. As nice as anyone can be when I know next to nothing about him, other than what he’s told me himself, both in person and in cyberspace.

  The whole internet dating thing’s nothing like the real-life kind, though maybe it is the real-life kind these days and I’m just hopelessly behind the times. I don’t think Joel would bother trying to meet women through the internet, though, not when he can just meet them down the pub or in a club. Maybe it’s just for tragic people like me. (I’m pretty sure “tragic” is the word Esther used the other day – not that she’s had any luck with men in real life recently.)

  Beep, beep, beep.

  My phone lights up with a message from Will. Well, I say “message” but the text contains no text, if that isn’t the oxymoron of the year.

  There’s just a string of weird icons that make no sense. God knows why a grown-up would send another grown-up cartoon pictures, instead of using words like a normal person. That’s why I keep my reply short and to the point:

  ???

  It’s the only thing I can think of in the circumstances, and I’m none the wiser when Will replies with another series of icons, this time of fruit and vegetables. Wtf? There weren’t any aubergines in our meals, nor any peaches or bananas. Maybe Will was drunker than I thought, unless he’s insane and I just failed to notice until now. I suppose I’d better check.

  I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean. Are you all right?

  The answer’s clear when I get Will’s response. This one contains another cartoon-cum-icon thing, but this time it’s a face with a sticking-out tongue.

  I stare at it in disbelief for several seconds, then make my last text much clearer than any of Will’s have been.

  Oh, fuck off!

  Chapter 20

  I’m still fuming about Will’s texts this morning when Eva calls.

  “Can’t talk for long,” I say, “I’m running late. I’m on my way to the TV studio, and I’ve still got to cancel today’s rowing lesson with Albert before the interview starts.”

  “Then speak fast,” says Eva. “I can’t wait any longer to find out what happened with your date last night.”

  I sigh and roll my eyes, then remember I ought to keep them on the road.

  “Nothing happened,” I say. “Except the idiot texted me some fruit and vegetable icons afterwards, and another one with a sticky-out tongue. So then I told him to fuck off.”

  For some reason, Eva thinks that’s so hilarious that she’s still choking with laughter when I end the call and manoeuvre into the car park at the TV studio. So much for the sisterhood.

  I wave to the Fembot, who’s hovering in the entrance to the building, and then I phone Albert several times, but the call goes straight to voicemail, every time. He must be on his way to the lake already, as the signal’s so patchy there, so now I don’t know what to do. We’d arranged to meet at the lakeside cafe this morning, instead of at Abandon Hope, so maybe he’s gone there a bit early, to read his paper and observe the birdlife on the lake. He enjoys that when the weather’s nice, like it is today, and he says he’s also doing his best to keep the cafe going, as it doesn’t seem to be getting many customers these days. He’s obviously alone in this admirable endeavour, as when I try to call and leave a message with one of the staff, I discover the phone’s been disconnected.

  I call Pearl instead, and ask her to walk down to the cafe and give Albert my message. She seems about as un-keen on this idea as it’s possible to be, but eventually she agrees, albeit reluctantly. She still doesn’t find Albert very interesting, though I can’t see that he’s any worse than the guys she’s been meeting via the internet. The last one asked her if she thought she was fit enough to be his carer, or so she says.

  “That reminds me, Pearl,” I say. “Have any of your internet dates sent you pictures of fruit and vegetables?”

  “Don’t be silly, Hannah,” says Pearl. “Why on earth would they do that?”

  I can’t answer, partly because I still don’t know, and partly because I’m so distracted by the text I’ve just received that I hang up on Pearl by accident. As usual, Eva doesn’t mince her words.

  Those
cartoon vegetables were emojis, you muppet, and so was the icon with its tongue sticking out. Will was sexting you, not insulting you. The fruit and vegetables represent body parts, and the face with the sticky-out tongue indicates what he’d like to do to the peach. Look it up if you don’t believe me.

  I don’t have time to look anything up, because it turns out that the Fembot has somehow forgotten to warn me that she and I are expected to join the presenters in dancing along to “Happy” when the credits roll at the end of the programme.

  Luckily, that brilliant idea does not go well when we rehearse it, mainly because I’m wearing a narrow skirt and some stupid shoes that Eva lent me, which have ill-fitting sling-backs and absurdly-high heels. The female presenter, Mindy Something-or-other, says my dancing’s the funniest thing she’s ever seen, but she doesn’t think we’ll do it on camera, after all.

  She’s not finding me even remotely funny by the time my phone starts to ring, just as the recording lights go out after the show.

  “Someone wasn’t listening when they were told to turn their mobile off, were they?” she says.

  I assume that’s a rhetorical question, so I don’t answer and race outside to answer my phone instead. Albert sounds almost as out of breath as I still am, once he starts to speak.

  “Don’t panic,” he says, an entirely futile instruction which works as well as you might expect. “Your aunt’s just had an accident.”

  I open my mouth but no sound comes out (probably due to the combination of too much dancing, combined with panicking), so then I rummage in my bag for the Rescue Remedy, but the bottle’s empty. I remind myself that Eva said it doesn’t work anyway, then I concentrate on breathing through my nose as Albert explains what’s happened to Pearl. Apparently, she tripped over an oar when she arrived at the lake, and landed so awkwardly that Albert thinks her ankle’s broken.

  “Clearly, the problem with oars runs in the family,” he adds.

  I ignore that provocative statement, even though I’m finally capable of speech now I know Pearl’s not likely to die.