by Anna Bell
Parcel; Danny to Lydia, October 2012
I wake up with a crick in my neck and a numb foot. I wipe a patch of dribble away from my mouth as I push myself up. It takes me a second or two to work out that I’m in Hazel’s apartment. It’s now almost pitch-black aside from a sliver of moonlight coming through the window above the door.
I shiver involuntarily, as now that the sun’s gone down it’s cold in here. I realise that it must be late and I panic as I remember Sexy Steve. What if I’m late for the date? I flick the light switch on and try to find my handbag. I scramble to pick up my phone and I’m relieved that it’s only 6.45 p.m. I breathe a huge sigh of relief. I’ve got fifteen minutes to get ready; that’s plenty of time, right? RIGHT? All I’ve got to do is shower, shave my legs, pluck my eyebrows, find and apply my make-up and choose something to wear. Totally do-able.
I whip myself almost immediately into action. I crank up the heating before I have the quickest shower known to man. I choose legs over eyebrows and I don’t deliberate over outfits like I usually would. I slip on Lucy’s present to me followed by a pair of super skinny jeans and a flirty wool jumper that falls off one shoulder revealing the strap of the lacy black number underneath and finish the look off with my high-heeled, knee-length boots. I then slap on some make-up, shove some mousse in my hair and voilà. Stick a fork in me, I’m done. This is quite possibly the easiest getting ready I’ve ever done – I should definitely remember that less is more when it comes to time.
I quickly grab my bag and coat before I hurry off out into the apartment complex once more.
I’m practically skipping along, thinking how lucky I am to have found a holiday romance the second I arrived, when a thought hits me: no one knows that I’m going on this date and no one is expecting me home. I pull out my phone and WhatsApp Lucy:
Got a hot date tonight. Meeting at a restaurant called Los Toros. Will text you when home to let you know I’m safe. BTW thanks for the undies – I’ve got them on ;) x x
I’m just putting the phone back in my bag when I get the response:
OMFG – text me later – but he better see those undies x x
I laugh as I slip the phone into my bag and Los Toros comes into view. I can feel the butterflies starting to build up and I’m wondering if I’ve got the nerve to go through with this. I haven’t been on a proper date for years. Lucy’s been trying to convince me to join Tinder ever since Ross and I broke up, but I’ve resisted, hoping that I’ll meet someone organically. Only I wish now I had as I’m a bit rusty and I wonder what one does on a first date these days.
‘Come on, Lydia,’ I say, giving myself a pep talk. ‘You got this.’
I walk into the cute little restaurant and immediately I fall in love with it. It feels so quintessentially Spanish with its white-washed walls and dark wooden tables dressed with blood-red tablecloths. There are vaults running along the wall with large barrels set in them.
I look around for Steve but I can’t see him. Apart from one other couple near the back the restaurant is empty.
‘Ah, hello,’ says a woman as she bursts through the swing doors from the kitchen. She marches up with a big smile on her face.
‘You must be Lydia,’ she says, in a thick Spanish accident. ‘Steve told me all about you.’
‘He did?’ I feel so special.
‘Ah, yes, he was pleased he ran into you. He was worried he’d have a quiet night tonight.’
‘Me too,’ I say, feeling flattered that he’s so excited about our date.
‘He reserved the best table for you, I have it ready. Shall I take your coat first?’
I slip it off and hand it to her, and she wanders down to the coat stand at the end of the room to hang it up. I stand there a little awkwardly, when the door jangles behind me.
I turn and see Steve and my stomach does a flip at the sight of him dressed in black trousers and a leather jacket.
I feel a bit underdressed in my jeans and jumper, as he looks as if he’s made a big effort.
‘It’s cold out there, brrr,’ he says with a theatrical shiver. ‘Lydia, you’re bang on time.’ He leans over and gives me a kiss on each cheek.
God, he smells good. Whatever aftershave he’s wearing it was worth every penny.
‘You look great,’ he says.
I pat my hair and feel proud of my fifteen-minute makeover.
‘You don’t look too bad yourself,’ I say a little flirtatiously. I’m guessing things have to move fast in the holiday romance stakes.
‘Why thank you,’ he says, beaming.
‘Hi,’ says the waitress. ‘I was just going to seat Lydia.’
‘No need,’ says Steve, looping his arm through mine. He leads me across to a table in the corner and pulls out my chair. He’s so chivalrous. #Swoon.
I sit down and shake my hair over my shoulder so that my jumper slips down, revealing a bit of flesh. I don’t know what’s come over me; maybe the racy underwear is unleashing my naughty side or maybe it’s because I’m on holiday, but I’m feeling less inhibited than normal. I’m pretty glad I popped on Lucy’s little number as I’m feeling that it may well have an audience later tonight.
‘So, what would you like to drink?’ asks the waitress as she reappears with the menu. ‘Rioja, sangria?’
I look up at Steve, wondering what he’d like.
‘What do you reckon? Sangria?’ I say with a wince.
‘Perfecto!’ he says with a wink. ‘Liza makes the best sangria.’
‘Do you want a glass or . . . ?’
‘A jug,’ I say, looking at how cheap it is on the menu.
She smiles and heads off to the kitchen.
Steve’s still standing up, leaning against the back of a chair.
‘Are you going to sit down?’ I say, wondering if he’s standing up simply so I get a better look at his bum, which in the tight black trousers he’s wearing is no bad thing.
‘Sure,’ he says looking around the restaurant. ‘I guess. So, how long are you here in Roses for?’
‘Until the first, so just under a week.’
‘Great, so I’m hoping in that time I’ll see a lot of you.’
I’m having to pinch myself under the table.
‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ I purr.
‘Sangria,’ says Liza, placing the jug on the table. ‘Are you ready to order? I forgot my pad.’
She laughs a little and squeezes Steve’s shoulders as she goes down to the bar.
I feel a ripple of jealousy come over me. I’m sure it’s just the Spanish way to be touchy feely.
‘Earlier, it looked like you’d had a busy day travelling. I’m sure you must be starving.’
‘I am,’ I say, glancing over the menu. ‘It all looks so good. I’m never going to be able to decide.’
Liza walks up to us once again, pad in hand.
‘Well, you want the patatas bravas, obviously, but also the meatballs are fantastic and the squid. Oh, and the Manchego. Perhaps the gambas. Liza also makes this thing with peppers which you have to try.’
Liza laughs. ‘That’s a lot of food.’
‘It all sounds delicious,’ I say.
‘Shall I just bring you a selection?’ she asks, writing it down.
‘Yes, that sounds good, doesn’t it?’ I say looking at Steve.
‘Absolutely.’
‘Right, I’d better get back to the kitchen and cook it all,’ Liza says, walking off.
I reach over to the pitcher of sangria and fill my wine glass before turning to the one across the table for Steve.
‘Oh, I’d better not. Not when I’m working,’ he says with a wink.
‘Working?’ I say.
‘Well, it doesn’t feel like work when I get to sit here and chat to beautiful women like you.’
I close my eyes as it starts to dawn on me what’s going on. Oh, God. I’m not on a date. Well, I am, but it looks like I’m paying for it. I’ve somehow hired myself an escort. This cannot be
happening.
‘Um, I don’t know how this happened,’ I say slowly, as I try to work out how I’m going to get out of this. ‘You seem like a really nice guy and I’m sure you’re very good at your job, but I thought this was, you know . . .’
Steve’s wrinkling his brow in confusion.
‘I don’t have the money to pay for it. I mean usually I don’t have to, you know, pay for it. I usually get guys to take me out for free.’
‘Oh,’ he says, almost recoiling. ‘I feel awful. I made you come and tempted you with the food and you can’t afford to eat here.’
‘What?’ I say. Now it’s my turn to wrinkle my brow in confusion. ‘I can afford to eat here, I just can’t afford you, I don’t think. I mean, I don’t know what the going rate for an escort is, but I don’t really want to pay for one as, believe it or not, I can usually get men to date me for free. Not recently, but then I just broke up with my ex-boyfriend, well, five months ago, which is quite a long time, but I broke up with him as he wasn’t the one, so I feel like I don’t want to date just anyone and I—’
‘Lydia,’ says Steve before he bursts out laughing. There are tears coming out of his eyes. ‘I’m not an escort, I’m a waiter.’
He slips off his leather jacket to reveal a neatly pressed white shirt.
I stare at him in horror.
‘You’re a waiter?’
‘And Liza, the chef, is my girlfriend,’ he says between laughs. ‘I’m so sorry I gave you the wrong idea.’
‘Ha ha,’ I say with a fake laugh. ‘You didn’t at all; I was just a bit confused when you said you were working.’
‘What did you think before that? Oh God, I’m sorry, did I make you think this was a date?’
‘Not a date,’ I lie, waving the idea away. ‘I thought we were having dinner together. But no, not a date, obviously.’
My voice has gone all shrill and squeaky. I’m not being very convincing.
‘How about I go and get you some olives, on the house,’ he says as he gets up, taking his wine glass away with him as if to prevent further confusion.
‘Great,’ I say, gulping down the sangria. Oh dear Lord, that is strong. I look at the jug, which I’m now going to have to drink alone.
I hear my phone beeping in my bag and I pull it out to see that it’s Lucy.
How’s it going with the stud muffin?
I’m mortified. Damn me and my personal safety pro-activeness.
ME
Aside from accusing the guy of being a male escort? . . . Let’s just say I’m having a meal for one in a lovely restaurant, with a sexy waiter and his beau-tiful girlfriend.
LUCY
OOOOOhhhhhhhh!!!! At least there’s still time for a sexy Spaniard. Enjoy the meal x x
I feel like a right dick as a family walk in and Steve hugs and kisses them all. He’s laughing and joking as he takes them to their table and I see that he’s just as much of a charmer with them.
All I want to do is sneak back to the apartment and hide there for the rest of my holiday. Didn’t I want lots of time for self-reflection?
*
I stagger a little on my way back to Hazel’s apartment. Liza did suggest that Steve walk me home, but I thought I’d already made enough of a tit out of myself as it was. Knowing my luck I’d misconstrue him coming in for a hug and end up kissing him on the lips or something equally as embarrassing.
It was so mortifying tonight. Not that Steve minded. He found it most amusing and Liza said his ego wouldn’t recover for weeks. I, on the other hand, practically wolfed down six plates of tapas and nearly a whole jug of sangria in record time and am back at the apartment at 8.32 p.m.
I open the door and I’m immediately hit by a wave of heat. I think I turned the thermostat up a little too much before I left. Man, it’s hot in here – practically a sauna. I slip my coat off and turn down the thermostat.
I’m feeling pretty special after all that booze, so I go to make myself another cup of tea. Apart from the kettle, the apartment is silent and it’s making me feel lonely. I find my handbag, pull out my wireless headphones and put iTunes on random on my phone. It’s still roasting in here and I can feel myself getting clammy. I slip my big wool jumper off, and immediately feel ridiculous in the see-through underwear, so I start digging around my case for my pyjamas before I stop – even the thought of the flannel pyjamas bottoms in this heat is making me sweat. Instead I peel off my jeans and basque, put on to impress Steve, and I slip on a super-comfy pair of giant knickers with my pyjama vest top and a pair of woolly socks to keep my feet warm on the tiled floor.
I pop my noise-cancelling headphones on and turn the music right up, whilst I finish making my cup of tea. I’m just about to sit down when I realise I need another wee. Damn the sangria.
I head into the bathroom and I figure I might as well take off my make-up whilst I’m here. ‘Like a Virgin’ by Madonna comes on, and I start dancing around.
It’s actually quite liberating being here by myself. I pick up the bottle of mousse from the side of the bath and I start to mime into it, before I remember that no one else is here so I start to sing. I’m getting quite carried away when I remember my tea’s going cold and I open the door to the lounge. The floor tiles in this place are particularly excellent for sliding, which I imagine is going to do wonders for my dance moves. I slide out sideways singing the chorus and doing a big woo as I punch my arm towards the ceiling when I notice a draft hitting my legs. I look up, shocked to see a man in the doorway with his back to me, shutting the door.
He’s blocking my only way out so I panic and throw the can of mousse I was holding and as he turns back round to face me, it hits him squarely in the stomach.
‘Ow, fuck,’ he says as he doubles over clutching his waist. And then as I get a better look at him, it’s my turn to swear.
‘What the actual fuck?’ I say.
I wonder for a second if my mind (or that sangria) is playing tricks on me. But I’d know that face anywhere. ‘Danny Whittaker, you scared the living daylights out of me.’
Chapter Seven
We’re doing this event at work and Kylie Minogue actually played. I can never think of Kylie without thinking of you so I got her to sign a photo for you. So here you are ‘Dani’ – sorry, it never occurred to me to spell it for her, and I guess she’s used to writing it that way.
Letter and signed photo; Lydia to Danny, May 2013
For a moment both of us stand stock still, staring at each other. He looks as shocked as I am and he seems to have lost all ability to speak. As have I. I mean, it’s Danny – Danny is here and he’s clutching my bottle of hair mousse which I just despatched as a not-very effective weapon.
‘Lydia,’ he says. His cheeks are a bit flushed and he’s looking at a spot past my head as if he can’t actually look at me. OK, so I know I just took my make-up off, but I don’t look that shocking, do I? I might have been doing some dodgy out-of-tune singing to Madonna, but was it so bad that he can’t even look at me?
It’s then that I realise that my legs are feeling awfully chilly. I look down and jump in horror at the sight of the giant pants and pull a crochet blanket off the back of the armchair. I know that, technically, in my giant knickers I’m actually more covered up than I would be if I was sunning myself on a beach in a bikini, but somehow I’m more embarrassed.
‘I didn’t see anything,’ he says, finally daring to look at me, now that I’m as decent as I can be.
‘You forget that I used to play Monopoly with you when we were kids and I know when you’re lying,’ I say, my cheeks matching his in the red stakes.
He tries to suppress a giggle. ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t look away quickly enough – those pants are pretty hard to miss.’
‘Yes, thank you. I wasn’t really expecting anyone to see them, and besides, they are super comfortable.’
He’s grinning like a loon and I realise that I am too and it takes a moment for my brain to catch up with the situ
ation.
‘What the hell are you doing here? You scared me half to death,’ I say finally.
‘It’s my mum’s apartment. Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?’
‘She said I could stay here. My mum organised it for a Christmas present.’
‘Oh God,’ he says. ‘I looked last week on the calendar and it was free and I didn’t expect it to change.’
‘It was a last-minute thing. Why didn’t you ask your mum?’
‘I didn’t want her to know I was coming out. I was worried they’d all gatecrash.’
I can’t believe that he’s actually here. I haven’t seen him alone for years. Of course, I would have preferred not to have been half naked with the world’s most embarrassing granny pants on and zero make-up, but it’s still great to see him.
He’s changed a little since I last saw him two years ago. Grown up a bit. He’s now got a tiny bit of salt and pepper around his sideburns and his hair’s less spiky. He’s also got a hint of stubble; too much for one day, but not a full-on beard.
I’m lost for words, which is crazy, seeing as this is the guy that I’ve been writing to at least once or twice a month for the last ten years. I know that I’ve seen him, but it’s always been for some big occasion – his parents’ 40th wedding anniversary or my mum’s sixtieth – and we’ve always had partners in tow or been surrounded by relatives. This is the first time in almost nine years where it’s just been the two of us and, suddenly, I’m a girl standing in front of a boy dressed in a pair of pants so large that I could eclipse the moon.
We both giggle as if we’re suddenly embarrassed by the situation. I honestly don’t know what to say to him.
‘So why are you here?’ I finally ask.
‘Christmas with the family was getting a bit much so I thought I’d come out here for a few days.’
‘You didn’t get invited anywhere for New Year, huh?’ I say, jokingly.
