by Pip Drysdale
‘That’s precisely why you can’t look at his page,’ Charlotte said, breaking my train of thought. ‘It’ll just torture you.’
My skirt was creeping up as we walked, so I adjusted it and pulled it flat. ‘You’re totally right,’ I said, ‘but it’s like I can’t stop myself.’
The pina coladas were wearing off, and the sadness I’d become accustomed to wearing was returning. The yellow-and-red lit-up signage of our burger place glowed from the street corner ahead and we walked quickly towards it, pushed through the wooden doors and sat at a table by the window. It had fogged up at the edges, but I could see a couple outside, kissing by the traffic lights. Her hands were in his back jean pockets, and they missed the green man. But they didn’t care.
‘What you need is a distraction,’ she said. ‘What about that guy from last week – the lawyer one?’
‘Jamie?’ I asked. ‘No, he just wants to hook up. I need for them to at least pretend to want to date me.’
‘Okay, give me your phone.’ Her hand was out in front of her.
‘What for?’ I asked, pulling it from my bag.
‘Just trust me,’ she said as she took it.
I watched her busy thumbs with suspicion. I could smell French fries and was hungry. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked. ‘It’s almost out of charge.’
‘Just wait,’ she said.
My eyes moved back to the couple outside. They were crossing the street. Then they were gone.
‘Two seconds. Seriously.’ She was concentrating, her fingers moving quickly.
‘You’re not texting anyone, are you?’ I asked. The last thing I needed was her sending a piece of her mind to Angus from my phone.
‘No,’ she replied, ‘calm down. Okay, I need you to enter your Facebook info.’ She lifted her eyes and handed me my phone.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Just sign into Facebook.’
‘What for?’ I asked.
‘Taylor,’ she said firmly.
‘Fine.’ I signed in and handed it back to her.
‘Okay, all done,’ she said as she leaned across to me so we could both see the screen. A picture of my face stared back at me, my name underneath it.
‘I don’t want to be on a dating app,’ I said, looking up at her.
‘I know,’ she replied. ‘But you don’t want to be pining after an arsehole, either.’ She swiped across, and a man’s face – mid-thirties, good hair, the sort of self-conscious smile that said he didn’t enjoy having his picture taken – filled the screen. ‘You know how this works, right?’
‘Sort of,’ I said.
‘It’s easy: press the heart if you like them and the cross if you don’t. We like him because he’s hot.’ Her finger loitered over the heart and it turned red. Another picture appeared.
‘Yuck,’ we said in unison and she pressed the cross.
‘See? Easy. Then when they like you too you get a match. And then they can message you. It’s like dating for dummies,’ she said, handing me my phone.
‘How do you even know about this stuff?’ I asked, eyes narrowed. ‘You’re about to get married.’
‘Yes, but I am a high-school teacher. I know everything.’
That was true. She knew about things I’d never even thought about: the newest apps, slang, and a series of sex tips she’d acquired via eavesdropping in the girls’ bathroom. Those, I’d tried to forget.
‘So, here’s what’s going to happen,’ she said. ‘We’re going to eat our burgers, when they finally take our bloody orders,’ she looked around for a waitress, ‘then you’re going to at least try using that app before you go to bed tonight, and then try again in the morning. And when you match with someone cool you’re going to go and meet them. You won’t want to, but just go. Maybe you’ll get a date for Valentine’s Day. And maybe you’ll surprise yourself.’
So, that’s what we did. We ate our burgers. She ate my fries. And then we both went home: her to the lovely Ben, and me to an empty bed and my purple notebook. And in it, I scribbled an account of that evening. Not because it was a diary, but because I needed to tell someone, and there was nobody there to tell.
Saw Charlotte tonight. It was fun but I’m still so sad. It’s like a rainstorm is following me around and I keep ignoring it, waiting for it to pass, but it doesn’t. It just grows darker and heavier. I just can’t believe he’d do this to me. Any of it. Tomorrow is Friday, his birthday. And I keep thinking about last year, wondering where we went so wrong, and about the prostitutes turning up, wondering if I did the right thing. I want him to pay for what he’s done but I hate the thought of him with someone else almost as much as I hate him. Anyway, bed now.
Raindrops beat against the window as I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to fall asleep. I was wearing a pair of tartan pyjama bottoms and an old T-shirt – his shirt had been relinquished – and I was cold. I pulled the duvet up towards my chin and waited for the thoughts to stop. But they didn’t. They just kept swirling. I could feel him there beside me, his warmth, his weight. I could hear him breathing. His voice. All early-morning gravel: ‘Sunday Girl’. He used to call me his Sunday Girl. ‘You always know where your heart belongs when it gets to Sunday and there’s only one person in the whole world you want to curl up with on the sofa.’ And that was a crown I wanted. I tried to block it out and rolled over. But I couldn’t, it kept drawing me back, startling me like a motorbike backfiring. My eyes flicked open: there was light streaming in through the crack in the curtains and landing on my phone by the bed. So I reached for it and opened the app. What could it hurt to follow Charlotte’s instructions?
A parade of faces appeared on the screen. And names. James. Peter. Walter. Dave. Lars. Cedric. Funny blurbs. Souls for sale. Some were handsome. Some were not. But nobody was him, and I ached.
Still, I forced myself to press the heart a few times. And the cross a few more than that. And eventually biology won over and a deep sleep found me. And when I awoke the next morning … I had a match.
Actually, I had six.
friday
Master Sun said: ‘The skilful warrior stirs, and is not stirred.’
10 FEBRUARY
Perhaps if I’d seen David when I first walked in, I wouldn’t have got so drunk.
But I hadn’t. So I was.
It was 8pm, I’d been there since 6.30pm and Walter, my shitty entrée back into the dating world, was mumbling something inane through his teeth. We were surrounded by low lights, silver ice buckets and a sea of yellow napkins – all folded into origami witches’ hats – but he had one of those monotone voices that even atmosphere and wine can’t fix.
And I’d know, I was on my fourth glass.
At 8am, when he’d suggested dinner, it had seemed charming. At the very least, his photos had looked promising. But by 8pm, the un-retouched, un-filtered version was watching me from across the table and it felt creepy. Still, there we were: two ill-matched strangers at Signor Sassi. It was well reviewed and in Knightsbridge – just one Tube stop from work – which all sounded good in theory, but the longer I sat there the more I flinched every time that wooden door opened. I didn’t want anybody to see me there. Not with Walter.
‘Really, how very interesting,’ I said. He was in the middle of explaining what he did for a living – something about derivatives – and I was on my third bread roll, thinking instead about the fact that it was Angus’s birthday – Christy, Madeleine and their yellow silk ribbons would be turning up soon and I still wasn’t sure how to feel about it.
Walter had a mole to the left of his lips and it jiggled when he spoke. I kept watching it and was worried he’d think I was looking at his mouth. Small. Dry. So I averted my eyes and let them scan the room.
And that’s when I saw him. The other him. Four tables away. His face was slightly obscured by the back of a blond head but it was definitely him.
David Turner.
My eyes met his before I fully registered who he was. Fuck. I looked away an
d tried to focus on Walter. On his mole. But David had clocked me and I could feel him watching me. I willed my face to relax, my heart to calm down, but it wouldn’t.
Walter continued his monologue and I smiled. Nodded.
What’s David Turner doing here?
I watched him from the corner of my eye: talking, smiling, shuffling in his seat. Then I focused on the blond head sitting across from him: it appeared to belong to a man, not a woman.
Interesting.
‘How was your ravioli?’ Walter asked.
‘Great,’ I said, and took another sip of wine.
How was your ravioli. That was as interesting as Walter was going to get. Not like Angus. Fifteen minutes into our first proper date, he’d leaned in towards me, looked me in the eye with that whiskey stare of his and said, ‘You’re dangerous.’ Then he’d smiled and added, ‘But that’s okay, so am I.’ I guess I knew it was a line, but I didn’t care. It was electric.
There was nothing dangerous about Walter.
My eyes were drawn back to David. He was dressed for a business meeting – all pink shirt, tie and tailored stitching – and was pouring wine for the table. Red. The muscle in the left side of his jaw was twitching beneath the stubble. And he was sipping from his big glass, focusing intently on what the man in front of him was saying. Then he was squinting. Feigning interest. And as I watched, his demeanour changed in the subtlest of ways, a minute shift in the way he was sitting – taller – his forehead furrowing, his laugh masculine, and I knew: he knew I was watching him.
‘Mine was great too,’ said Walter.
‘Great.’ I smiled, rearranging my cutlery.
‘Anyway, I feel like I’ve done all the talking,’ he said. ‘Tell me all about you.’
‘What would you like to know?’ I asked.
‘Everything,’ he said with a smile. ‘Why don’t you start at the beginning?’
Shit, he thinks this is going well.
I laughed nervously. ‘Okay … Well, you think of a question, I’m just going to pop to the ladies’ room for a moment,’ I said, standing up and laying my yellow napkin down on the table – I needed to escape, even if just for a moment.
‘Okay,’ he said.
Then I headed towards the staircase: it was steep and spiralled and lined with mirrors, and I could see the restaurant reflected in it. I led myself upwards, took a deep breath and let my fake smile relax.
And as I pushed through the heavy doors that led to the ladies’ room with one arm, I used the other to retrieve my phone from my handbag.
You bitch! I typed with clumsy, drunken fingers. He’s so awful! xx I managed to type enough of Charlotte’s name for the software to do the rest, and then I pressed send, but it didn’t go. No reception.
‘Perfect,’ I said out loud. A girl in silver shoes exited the cubicle behind me, and moved towards the basin. ‘No reception,’ I offered as she turned on the tap. She gave a half-smile, dried her hands and left.
Putting the phone back into my handbag I moved my face close to the mirror: I looked haggard. The red wine had left my teeth a funny colour, my face looked pale against the black dress I was wearing and the unforgiving lights made the skin under my eyes look crepey. How the hell did I get here?
Two minutes later I exited, my drunken eyes guiding me towards the spiral staircase that would deliver me back to dear Walter.
Now, you wouldn’t think destiny intervening would have a sound, but it does: a high-pitched clang. Like one of Fate’s dominoes had fallen over a teaspoon, or banged into an empty ceramic cup. And if you close your eyes you can feel it on a cellular level.
‘Taylor Bishop,’ he said.
Clang.
Of course, maybe it wasn’t destiny at all. Maybe he’d just followed me. But it sure as hell felt like destiny. I looked up, my hand grasping tighter to the flimsy banister for stability. And there he was, passing me on that narrow spiral staircase.
David Turner.
I’d never had a thing for the Pierce Brosnans of the world; I was wary of their smoothness, their lacquered veneer and the wholeness that I sensed lay inside them. Wholeness meant they didn’t need me. It was always the inwardly broken and unpredictable ones who won my heart, the poetry of their jagged edges catching on my imagination as I tried to walk on by. And there was nothing broken about David Turner, so he wasn’t my type. Not at all. And yet there I was, trying to remember to breathe.
‘Hi,’ I said. Surprised. His reflection was splintered in the shards of mirror that lined the staircase.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘Eating,’ I replied. ‘I’m with, ah,’ I didn’t know what to call Walter, ‘a friend.’
‘Right. Going well, then?’ he joked. And a new smile, a less rehearsed smile, flashed across his face.
I laughed. ‘No. Terrible. What about you?’ My voice was low. Almost a whisper. And my pulse was fast – I could smell the alcohol.
‘Same,’ he said, ‘but mine actually is a friend. Recently separated.’ His head motioned down the stairs. ‘I’m trying to cheer him up so he doesn’t top himself on Valentine’s Day.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘I know, it’s all so shit,’ he said with a smile, his eyes holding my gaze. ‘Shall we stage an escape?’
And I couldn’t help myself. ‘Definitely,’ I laughed.
And then we stood there, silent. I could feel his body heat, smell his shampoo – spiced limes – and all I wanted was to reach out and touch him. But I couldn’t: he was a client, and Walter was waiting for me downstairs. I started to walk away.
‘Well, have a nice evening, David,’ I said. ‘It was nice to see you.’
Good save. Professional.
‘Nice to see you too,’ he said.
I could feel him watching me as I moved down the stairs back to Walter. And I liked it.
‘The pudding menus came while you were gone,’ Walter said as I sat down.
I smiled in reply.
‘I’m thinking cheesecake,’ he continued.
I pretended to study the menu, my heart beating hard against the soft spot in the middle of my throat.
‘What are you going to have?’ he asked.
‘Same,’ I replied, placing the menu back on the table and crossing one hand over the other in front of me.
‘So, tell me about your job,’ he said. Then one of his hands – soft and flat – reached on top of mine. My jaw clenched and my skin recoiled. All I wanted was to pull my hand away, but I didn’t want to be rude. I’d forgotten how awful first dates could be.
‘I work in property.’ I forced a smile.
‘Really?’ he replied.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I mainly do research.’
My eyes scanned the room. I was searching for David’s face among the remaining diners. They landed on his seat. It was empty. He was gone. And so was the man he’d been dining with …
Fuck.
‘Oh, right.’ Walter took a sip of wine, let go of my hand, narrowed his eyes and smiled. He was trying to flirt.
Shit.
‘So, markets. Property markets,’ I said, keeping it deliberately vague.
Then I saw it: a flicker of movement in the corner of the room. And I allowed my eyes to follow it.
Just for a moment.
One. Single. Moment. A solitary marker amid the white noise.
Because that flicker of movement could have been anything: a waiter returning from a smoke break, a diner who’d taken the wrong route to the bathroom, anything. But it wasn’t. It was David Turner, eyes smiling, hand beckoning.
To me.
And I knew that I shouldn’t go. That it wasn’t sensible. That he was a client. But I was drunk. And he was an unexpected shard of light, piercing through the darkness Angus had cast. And everybody needs the light sometimes.
‘Sorry, I need to go back to the loo quickly,’ I said. ‘I feel like I have something stuck in my teeth.’ I pulled my hands back
and covered my mouth with one of them. ‘Need to floss,’ I said. Then I grabbed my handbag and got up.
‘Let me see?’ Walter offered but I shook my head and made my way across the room, tugged by an invisible wire lodged deep within my chest. Past the staircase. Past the mirrors. And into the narrow, darkened hallway where he stood. David grabbed my wrist and pulled me out of sight. We were standing side by side, hiding in the darkness. He already had his coat on – black – and a light grey scarf hanging from his neck.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked with a laugh, dizzy from the wine.
‘Staging our escape,’ he said as he peeked his head around the corner, back towards the tables.
‘This is nuts,’ I said. But it was also fun.
‘Shh,’ he hissed, forefinger to mouth.
‘Where are we going to escape to?’ I whispered.
‘Anywhere,’ he said.
‘What happened to your friend?’ I asked.
‘He’s in on the plan. Fully endorsed it. He happily went home to drown his sorrows and drunk dial his soon-to-be ex-wife. Poor fuck.’ Wink.
‘Are you drunk?’ I asked. He seemed so different from the man I’d met just days before.
‘Very. Are you?’ he asked with a smile.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘quite.’
‘Good,’ he replied. ‘Okay, this way,’ he said, leading me away from the tables and towards what sounded like the kitchen. ‘I know a secret exit.’
‘Oh really?’ I said. ‘Done this before, have you?’
‘I am deeply wounded by your insinuation,’ he said. Then the corner of his mouth turned upwards.
