by Nicky Wells
At the other end, Dan laughed softly. “You’re so sweet. So…how’s the news desk going this morning?”
“Err, fine. You know, for a Monday morning. Just sorting through leads and all that.” Now I sounded like a private detective. More glam, but no more accurate. I hadn’t done anything at all yet.
“Leads, huh? What’s happening in the world then?”
“Ah,” I sang, “You’ll just have to read the papers for that, won’t you.” I couldn’t believe myself. I was flirting with him. He laughed again.
“Or,” he suggested, “you could tell me over dinner. You know, about what’s going on in the world. Things I should know.”
“Are you asking me out for dinner?” I blurted before I could stop myself. Back at her desk, Rachel—clearly eavesdropping—spilled her coffee in shock and had to race off to the kitchen to get some paper towels to mop it all up.
“What do you think? Am I?”
He was flirting with me too. He had asked me out for dinner.
“I think you’re being very…cheeky, winding me up like this,” I tried.
“I’m not winding you up in the slightest. Would you join me for dinner on Thursday?”
Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Breathe, breathe. I snorted attractively through my nose. There seemed to be too much air in my lungs. I cannot say yes. Say no, say no, say no.
“Thursday?” I repeated, flicking through my diary and turning pages as loudly as I could to give the impression that I was busy and important. “Thursday…Thursday…”
“If you can’t do this week, we can…,” Dan started, but I interrupted him breezily.
“No, Thursday would be absolutely fine. Lovely. Great.”
What was I doing?
“Good. Do you like Italian food?”
Too late to back out now. Perhaps I could cancel on Thursday? “I love Italian food.”
“Fabulous. I’ll book us a table at Fettuccine in Charlotte Street. Have you been?”
“No, but I know where it is.” It was rather close to Fischer’s, in fact.
“Seven-thirty all right?”
“Sure.”
“Good. I’ll see you there.” And he hung up.
Wow. A date with Dan.
Bugger. A date with Dan. What was I thinking?
I would have to cancel.
I let out a long wail. I couldn’t cancel. I had no idea how to get hold of him. He had just rung off. I had no contact details for him. How could he do this, after the last time? Why would he do this, after the last time?
Alone. With Dan. On a coach. Well, almost alone.
In the dark.
I could hardly breathe.
At last, I was really there. Alone. With Dan. The Dan. Dan, the lead singer of Tuscq. Millions of girls would have given everything to swap places with me right now. And here I was.
What was I going to do, though? I was free, unattached, and, although I had never had a one-night stand before, perhaps this was a worthy occasion? A true “one off?” But what about him? He was bad news, after all, it was all over the papers. Would I mind being one of a string of many, many girls? Then again, what else could I ever have hoped to be?
The champagne was impairing my thinking and while I was following those trains of thoughts, Dan had gently sprung into action. He was lying half on top of me, stroking my face and my hair and whispering things in my ear. I got hot and cold all at once, and our surroundings started spinning gently. That could have been the alcohol, of course, or impending motion sickness, but I put it down to sheer physical attraction. His fingers traced the outline of my face, and he planted little kisses on my cheeks and nose. I could feel his excitement quite prominently and felt momentarily sorry for guys. What a give-away. In some respects, we women had it a lot easier when it came to hiding attraction. Or did we? Dan didn’t seem to have the slightest doubts that I wanted what he wanted.
And so we lay as the miles rushed underneath us. It could have been hours that we spent like this or mere minutes. I was caught in a delicious haze of abandonment. And then suddenly I knew I couldn’t go through with it.
Damn it, why not, I howled at myself inwardly…but I just couldn’t do it. Perhaps because it would have spoilt a perfect day? Perhaps because I was too prudish? Too scared? Didn’t want to be “one of those girls?” I didn’t know. What I did know was that I couldn’t do it. I gasped for air and struggled to sit up.
“What’s the matter?” Dan wanted to know. “Is something wrong?”
“No. No,” I yelped, then added, somewhat incongruously. “It’s me.”
“You’re not wrong,” he chose to misunderstand me. “Not at all.”
I seized on this opportunity gratefully. In a flash, I knew just what to say. But oh no, I was heading for complete obliteration of his opinion of me. I was heading toward a brick wall of unavoidability. Still, on I plunged, “But I am. Wrong. Completely.”
Dan laughed. “You’re not. You’re perfect. I want you. You’ve been teasing me all night.”
Oh no. No, no, no. I would never, never be able to face the band again. Let alone Dan. How could I have gone so utterly wrong? When had I been teasing him? How could I not have noticed that I was doing so?
“But I am, really. I…,” I hesitated. Could I really say it? “I…well, I haven’t…ever…I’m not…I’m still…”
Dan looked at me in utter confusion. Gosh, did I really have to say it?
I cringed with embarrassment and didn’t let myself finish this particular memory. Instead, I summoned Rachel for an immediate council of war at the coffee shop.
“Well,” Rachel suggested, “you could always just not show?”
“No,” I exclaimed forcefully—perhaps too forcefully because Rachel’s eyebrows went into orbit with astonishment. “I mean, that would be so rude. I can’t just not show.”
We contemplated that for a moment. Of course, a girl always had the option of not showing up, but we usually reserved that option for geeks or weirdoes. And Dan was neither. The biggest problem about dinner with Dan, apart from the fact that I was seeing Tim, was that I liked Dan—very much. That made him more dangerous than a geek or a weirdo.
“No, I guess that’s not an option,” Rachel concurred, enjoying herself tremendously. “In fact, I think you should go. It’ll be great. Just think about it. You are having a date with the lead singer of Tuscq, who are just about to reclaim their place in the world of fame. How cool is that?”
“I’m not going on a date with him,” I corrected tartly. “I’m having dinner with him.”
“Yeah, right,” snorted Rachel, “As if there were the slightest bit of difference.”
“There is,” I insisted. “You can go for dinner with a male friend without going for a date.”
“Sure, if he’s gay.” Rachel wasn’t perturbed. “But anyway, I think it’s great. I could go if you don’t want to?”
“You are still seeing Jordan.” I reminded her primly, and then pleaded, “Can’t I just see how I feel on Thursday? I can’t think straight right now.”
“I can see that,” Rachel observed. “I think you’ve crossed some kind of line there. There’s that sparkle in your eyes. I think that’s great. But there is the small matter of Tim.”
I wailed again, this time in even greater disbelief. “I can’t believe you just said that. You’ve been trying to get me to drop Tim for years, and all of a sudden you play the moral reminder?”
“No,” Rachel clarified, “not moral, just reminder. There are things to consider before you go off on the deep end, remember?”
“I’m not going off on the deep end,” I stated categorically. “If I’m going—and that’s a big if—then it’s for dinner, not for a date. It’ll be two acquaintances getting together to catch up on old times. We’ll meet at seven-thirty, be done by ten, and we’ll each go home to our respective places, separately. That’ll be that.”
“Sure. Right. You’re right,” Rachel soothed. “What are you going
to tell Tim though about Thursday night?”
I didn’t pick up on her shrewd undertone or the way she looked at me way too closely for a reaction.
“Nothing,” I said without any hesitation whatsoever. “I don’t have to. Tim’s out of town on a conference.” I trailed off and clapped my hand in front of my mouth. I was a sly, deceiving, cunning, conniving cow. I had known that Tim would be away on Thursday, and I had seized on that day because I knew I wouldn’t have to make up an explanation. I stared at Rachel with big, startled eyes, genuinely shocked by the hidden depths of deviousness I had discovered in my soul. Rachel looked back and just chuckled.
Chapter Thirteen
Being my best friend and comrade in arms, Rachel came through with top marks when it came to preparing a strategy for Thursday night that would allow me to go and see Dan, look devastatingly beautiful, flirt outrageously, and keep the whole thing innocent. We went to her place on Wednesday night to talk through the ins and outs of what I was going to wear and what I was going to say.
Over a bottle of wine and a takeaway pizza, we decided that I would wear my navy, flared hipster cotton trousers and a white tailored linen shirt. A romantic outfit, but definitely grown-up and sophisticated. I could just about pass it off as work clothes, which would allow me to pretend that I hadn’t made a special effort at all.
Over dessert, we tackled the sex question. Rachel spun endless scenarios about how the dinner might go and what I should say and how I should react. She kept bringing it back to the goodbyes and the question of whether I would “come in for coffee.”
The answer was no. No, no, no. There would be, could be, no sex. I would not be unfaithful to my boyfriend. I wouldn’t.
“But,” I asked somewhat reluctantly, fearful of baring my soul quite so completely even to my best friend. “If I flirt outrageously and all that, and then put him off again…won’t I just be an awful tease? Won’t it be Edinburgh all over again?”
Rachel gave me a questioning look that clearly said, Why would that matter? But she didn’t say anything for a moment. “Well,” she uttered eventually, “I think there is only one thing you can do. You must be honest with him.”
I gasped with astonishment, “What? Tell him right at the beginning that this is all very nice, but that we can’t have sex? Isn’t that a bit forward?”
“No, dummy. Honest about your situation. Talk about your life, tell him about Tim. It doesn’t matter what you tell him about Tim—whether you say the relationship is wonderful and you’ll get married or whether you make up a few white lies and say it’s all a bit rocky—fact is, you’ll be saying, ‘I’m with someone and I am faithful.’ So that gets you out of the sex.”
“It does?” I was astonished. Rachel made it all sound so easy—but then she had infinitely more practice than I did.
“It does,” she confirmed. “But what it also does is say, ‘Hey, I am faithful, but I am interested in you and perhaps if we saw each other again…or perhaps in a different universe…we might…’” She paused. “It sort of closes the door without locking it. You’ll be off the hook for this date, but if there is a next date, you might have to revisit.”
That actually sounded very complicated, but it didn’t matter as there would be only this one occasion anyway. And I was determined: no sex. That was a line I couldn’t, wouldn’t, cross—not in the past, not now, not ever. I momentarily forced myself to revisit the memory of how I left it with Dan the first time. Embarrassing or not, I had to face up to it. Besides, that tactic wasn’t likely to work again.
“I’m a virgin, damn it,” I declared.
Dan burst out laughing. Not mean, just astonished. “You what?”
“I am. I’m sorry. I can’t. Sleep with you. I want to. But I can’t. It’s not right.”
Dan sat up too, his interest piqued. “Are you religious or something?”
“Err…no. Just…never had a chance before. And so I can’t. I’d…I’d bore you. Yes, that’s it. I’d bore you.”
“Oh, but I could teach you,” he offered.
“No,” I shouted, involuntarily. “I mean, I’d love you. To teach me, I mean. But not here, not on this coach, not with all these…people.”
Dan considered this for a moment.
“Are you really a virgin? You’re not kidding?” Golly, how many more times would I have to reiterate the most embarrassing white lie ever?
“Absolutely. Not. Not kidding, I mean.”
“Right. Right. Well...” He sat quietly for a moment. “Well, you’re a good girl, Sophie from Bristol. Sorry, Newquay. Maybe some other time, ey?”
I let out a quiet sigh of relief. No doubt there would never be “some other time,” but at least this one was over. Already I was having second thoughts about having turned down this opportunity. I desperately wanted to stroke that rugged face, get my hands entangled in his brown mane, to gaze forever into his blue eyes. I wanted to kiss and be kissed by those lips. But I just couldn’t jump over my shadow: wanted to, tried, but couldn’t.
Dan got up and drew me close to him for a big hug and a long, long kiss. My knees went wobbly, and I yielded gratefully.
“And you’re absolutely sure?” he asked gently for one final time.
“Yes,” I croaked, “Absolutely.”
“Well, best be off to bed then,” he offered. “Alone, I mean.” He smiled. “You are a good girl, Sophie from Newquay,” he repeated and then disappeared.
The coach fell quiet except for the humming of tires on tarmac and the occasional snore from someone. Darren was quite poorly, and I heard him mumbling feverishly a few times through the night. But there was no further sound from Dan or anyone else. I, of course, couldn’t sleep at all. Not a chance. I went downstairs and sat in the seat next to the driver, who was glad of some company.
Everyone was still sleeping when we reached the end of the M1. I tried very, very hard not to think about what Dan would tell the others, and about the fact that I could never, never turn up to see them again. Even on my own, my face turned a deep shade of purple as I had an intensely hot flush of embarrassment. Still, I had done it—or rather, I hadn’t—and there was no going back.
I asked the driver to drop me off in Hampstead and made my way home with the first Tube. It was only when I finally hit my own bed that I realized that I hadn’t taken a camera and that I wouldn’t have a single picture to remember this day by—except in my head.
Thursday morning dawned bright and sunny. I donned my navy trousers and took a little suit carrier for my linen blouse. There was very little point putting that on for the Tube journey into work as it would just crease to destruction. I had that strange sense of purpose and exhilaration again that I had had last week, on the morning of the gig. Somehow, this week had passed too quickly, too excitedly, and my life seemed…richer.
At work, I was presented with a substantial hitch—where last week I had got a message from Tim that he had to cancel me for the gig, this week his conference had been cancelled and he would no longer be out of town tonight. He wanted to meet me for dinner and the cinema.
“Don’t panic,” Rachel advised. “Just tell him you’ve made plans already.”
“Sure,” I said, “but then he’ll either want me to cancel them or want to know what they are, or both.”
“Hmm. So…say I have a boyfriend crisis and need your urgent attention.”
I thought about that. That kind of excuse was one of the few things that Tim wouldn’t argue with. But… “That would be a lie, though, wouldn’t it?” I stated flatly.
“It would indeed. But you’re going to have to say something, at this point,” Rachel said, giving me a pitying look. “Sorry, Soph, but there it is. You may be determined as hell to keep this dinner innocent, but you only have two choices—you can tell Tim the truth or you can lie.”
Truth or lie? Was a dinner with Dan really worth this level of moral anxiety? There was no way that I could tell Tim the truth. The dinner was just not quite innoc
ent enough for me to display the right kind of casualness. Tim would pick that up, and he would ask questions and the whole thing would take on unnecessary importance.
But lying? That would be a watershed moment. Briefly, I had a vision of myself standing at an abyss with a choice of going forward or back, and I was falling. Then I crashed, gave in, spun a scenario.
“Okay. So you’re having a boyfriend crisis. We’ll be at your place all night. Eating pizza. You’re in tatters. I can’t possibly leave you on your own. Right?” I rehearsed with her. “But what if he rings you?”
“Jordan and I will be out so it’ll go to answering machine. But you could always say we unplugged the phone. I’ll just have to remember not to answer it when I get back.” She paused, grabbing a yellow post-it note. “Again,” she added with a wink, as she wrote “Don’t Answer Phone” in her big scrawling handwriting and stuck it on her desk phone so she would remember to take it home.
Chapter Fourteen
I arrived at Fettuccine only ten minutes late. I was actually quite proud of myself for not being there early, as I was a little worried about seeming, well, too keen. I clocked the restaurant from the outside. Somehow it looked familiar beyond just having walked past it before, but I couldn’t put my finger on why that should be.
I found myself anxiously scrutinizing the tables in the window, hoping fervently that Dan hadn’t chosen one of these prime seats. Normally, I would have loved to be on display—and particularly with Dan—but given the circumstances of my rather secret assignation, I was weary of being spotted. If not by Tim, then by one of his obnoxious work mates. Or someone from my office. Or some complete stranger who would somehow be able to give us away. But, a sigh of relief, no Dan in the window.
But oh—did that mean he wasn’t there at all? I was going from one fear to another, and I could feel my palms sweating up nicely. At this rate, I would look attractively sticky just with emotional stress before I even saw Dan. Get a grip, Sophie.
A friendly waiter opened the door for me and I scanned the tables, but there was still no Dan in sight. After all the trauma I had put myself through, he wouldn’t stand me up, would he? “Are you meeting someone?” the waiter asked solicitously.
