Flying Solo: The new laugh-out-loud romantic comedy coming this summer from Zoe May!

by Zoe May

  By the time I reach the table, I’ve practically turned my mood around. I feel so confident that I want to be proposed to on London Bridge and that this twist of fate is in fact mine and Paul’s destiny – a cute story to tell the grandkids – that I lean in and give Paul an enthusiastic kiss on the lips.

  ‘You alright?’ he laughs, raising an eyebrow, as though my enthusiasm has caught him off guard.

  ‘Yes! Of course, I am,’ I insist.

  I take off my coat and drape it over the back of my chair. I look over at Paul, expecting him to register my dress, hoping for a compliment, but he doesn’t appear to notice it at all. He’s not even really looking at me. He’s already ordered a beer and he swigs from it, while looking at his phone.

  I sit down, willing him to put his phone away and be a bit more attentive.

  He taps a few keys and then finally places his phone down on the table. He reaches for his beer again and takes another sip. The bottle’s almost empty.

  ‘Good day?’ he asks in a low bored voice.

  In fact, as he asks it, his gaze wanders across the restaurant towards one of the promotions emblazoned on the walls. His gaze bypasses my dress entirely. He doesn’t notice my curled hair, my eyelash extensions, my make-up or anything. Instead, he simply narrows his eyes at a deal on cocktails.

  ‘It was pretty good. I, err…’ I’m about to tell him about my afternoon of pampering but he doesn’t seem at all interested.

  He’s not making any eye contact. He’s barely even registered me. I feel like I need to wave a hand in front of his face to get his attention, because his eyes are roaming from the specials board to the salt and pepper shakers and even to the faces of other diners – anywhere but me. What’s he playing at? It must just be nerves but it would be nice if he could at least look me in the eye.

  A waiter passes our table and I order a large glass of red. I thought they might do some traditional Italian wines like Valpolicella or Montepulciano, but they only have commonplace choices like Merlot, Shiraz, and Cabernet Sauvignon, which the waiter refers to as ‘cab sav’. I order a glass of Merlot before asking Paul, who still seems in a total daze, what he’s having.

  ‘Oh!’ He looks between me and the waiter, as though startled. As if he hadn’t even noticed the waiter was there until now.

  I frown at him, wondering what the hell is up. There’s nervousness but this is getting borderline rude now.

  ‘Can I get you another drink, sir?’ the waiter – a tall athletic guy who could easily be a model or an actor, asks.

  ‘A drink?’ Paul frowns at the waiter as though he’s asked him a baffling philosophical question.

  I suppress the urge to roll my eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ the waiter replies, smiling professionally.

  ‘Oh, yeah...’ Paul blinks a few times, as though reality is dawning on him. ‘I’ll, erm, I’ll have another Heineken, please,’ he says, a little hesitantly, before nodding more firmly to himself. ‘Yeah, a Heineken’

  ‘Great,’ the waiter replies. ‘Draught or bottle?’

  Paul eyes him blankly. ‘Umm, draught. No, bottle. Oh, I don’t know,’ he sighs, ‘whatever’s biggest.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ the waiter replies politely before rapidly scurrying away from us.

  ‘Whatever’s biggest?!’ I echo once the waiter’s out of earshot.

  I get that this isn’t quite the romantic meal either of us had anticipated but is getting sloshed really the solution? When I pictured Paul down on one knee on London Bridge, it was because he was about to pop the question, not because he was struggling to stand up.

  Paul shrugs. ‘Sorry,’ he grumbles.

  His gaze wanders once more, uninterestedly, across the restaurant. I expect him to elaborate, to tell me that something stressful happened at work or that there was an annoying hold-up on the Tube, or something that’s made him crave a drink, but he doesn’t say anything. Silence stretches between us. I wonder whether I should make a joke about how much the restaurant’s changed, but I want Paul to ask me how I’m doing or at least look at me, and yet, he doesn’t seem bothered. He swigs the last of his beer.

  ‘This place is different now, isn’t it?’ I venture eventually, giving up hope of him starting conversation.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Paul replies, placing his empty bottle of beer back down.

  ‘Since we last came here! It’s completely different now,’ I remark.

  ‘What? When did we come here?’ Paul asks.

  I laugh, rolling my eyes at what is obviously a limp effort to wind me up.

  ‘Umm, our first date, remember?’

  Paul stares blankly back at me.

  ‘Our first date?!’ I repeat, my voice nervous and a little high-pitched.

  Paul frowns. ‘Huh?’

  My stomach does a little flip. Surely, he remembers. Surely, he’s just winding me up. How can he have forgotten our first date? That’s the whole reason we’re here, after all.

  ‘Yes, our first date. It was in this restaurant, but it was completely different back then,’ I remind him, feeling surreal.

  ‘Oh, right,’ Paul replies, swallowing. ‘Sorry, I forgot.’

  ‘You forgot?’ I balk. ‘Why are we here then?’

  ‘They have good deals on pizzas. I got a two-for-one promo voucher in my inbox the other day,’ Paul tells me.

  A two-for-one promo? My heart sinks. Paul loves to subscribe to discount websites that send their subscribers emails packed full of coupons and deals and vouchers. I don’t bother with them myself, but Paul loves a good bargain. On the rare occasions that we eat out, Paul will often whip out a discount voucher once the bill arrives, and although I find it slightly embarrassing, it does save us money. But I can’t believe it. The reason we’re here isn’t because it’s where we had our first date, it’s because Paul got a voucher. What’s going on?

  The waiter comes over with our drinks. He places my glass of wine down first. I thank him and bring it hungrily to my lips, dying to take the edge off what’s been a terrible start to the night.

  The waiter places Paul’s beer down. He immediately starts drinking too.

  The wine creates a comforting buzz in my stomach, and I try to relax. So, Paul may not remember that this is where we had our first date, and he may be acting a little odd, but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to propose. He’s clearly on edge about something, and that something could well be popping the question, right? After all, proposing to your partner isn’t something you do every day. I should at least try to cut him some slack and relax. I need to stop expecting everything to be perfect and just relax. Just because I’ve been waiting for this for two years, doesn’t mean the stars are going to automatically align and everything’s going to be ideal.

  I reach across the table and take Paul’s hand, showing I’m on his side.

  ‘What’s up?’ I ask as I trace my thumb over his knuckles.

  He smiles sadly.

  ‘I love you, boo boo,’ I add in a quiet babyish voice. I don’t usually call Paul ‘boo boo’ in public. It’s a pet name we have for each other that we normally use exclusively at home.

  It started as ‘baby’, but then ‘baby’ became ‘babes’, sometimes ‘bubs’, sometimes ‘bubby’, and then ‘boo boo’. At least ‘boo boo’ is my own personal favorite. Paul secretly likes our pet names, but tonight, it doesn’t have the desired effect on him at all and instead causes his mouth to twist into a grimace.

  He pulls his hand from mine and looks around at the diners seated at the tables around ours, embarrassed, in case someone overheard, even though no one else is paying us any attention. The restaurant is full of young professionals catching up after work. There’s a loud hum of conversation and it’s not like anyone would have heard.

  ‘What’s up with you, tonight?’ I ask, rattled, my engagement fantasy thoroughly fraying at the edges.

  ‘Nothing,’ Paul replies curtly, finally meeting my gaze, his expression listless. ‘I just… I d
on’t know. What are you ordering?’

  He looks down at his menu. ‘I think I’ll have a pizza, although the pasta dishes do look good,’ he says.

  ‘Great,’ I comment weakly as I peruse the menu, but none of the dishes particularly jump out.

  I take another sip of wine and look back up at Paul.

  ‘Can you please tell me what’s wrong?’ I implore him.

  Paul glances up from his menu. He looks irritable, fraught almost. I don’t often see that look in his eyes. He looks even more despondent than he gets when Manchester United lose, which is extremely despondent. He even looks more downbeat than when he found out that the last company he worked for was going into administration, meaning he and all his colleagues would be laid off. He definitely doesn’t look like a man who’s about to pop the question. He looks like a man carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Suddenly, I forget about my engagement fantasy and start to feel really nervous. Has something happened? Has Paul been fired? Is he unwell?

  ‘What is it, Paul? Is it work? Are you okay?’ I ask anxiously.

  Paul’s always had a bit of an issue with his boss, Simon. He often refers to him as ‘that self-satisfied prick’, which is kind of understandable to be honest. I’ve met Simon a few times at drinks events hosted by the company and I have to admit, I’ve never exactly warmed to him. He’s forty-five but still talks about his Eton days like they were yesterday. He loves rugby – watching, these days, not playing – and he has floppy foppish blond hair and a penchant for pinstripe shirts and chinos. He also has an annoying tendency to be incredibly overfamiliar. He gives everyone nicknames, although the nicknames tend to vary according to his mood. He’s referred to Paul as everything from Paulo and Paulina (which he, naturally, despises) to The Paulinator (a lame twist on The Terminator) and McCartney (in reference to Paul McCartney, who neither Paul nor Simon are fans of). He also has a lax attitude to personal boundaries and doesn’t think twice about calling Paul in the evenings or during the weekend if something’s happened that he believes is an ‘emergency’ (spoiler: these incidents are never actual emergencies).

  Simon’s been scoring contracts with multinational corporations recently and Paul’s not been particularly happy about it. The high-paying contracts haven’t been reflected in Paul’s salary and yet his workload has become far more intense and far less creative. Paul insists the clients he’s now working for don’t represent the agency’s original vision, of being a ‘forward-thinking, dynamic, cutting-edge design consultancy’, which aimed to represent ‘innovative, sustainable, game-changing brands’. Instead, Paul insists the company has become ‘nothing more than a cash cow’. Those are his exact words from one of his rants last week, when he ended up bringing work back from the office and burning the midnight oil, while complaining about how pissed off he was to be ‘losing sleep so Simon can buy a yacht to seduce poor unsuspecting girls off the coast of Marbella’. I get that it’s frustrating for him to not be working on the innovative, edgy, exciting projects he usually prefers, but the market is tough. My company’s been in the same boat too. We take on work for the highest-paying clients these days, not necessarily pursuing the cases we find the most interesting, but I don’t let it get to me. I’m just grateful that my and Paul’s companies are doing well. I’m thankful we’re in work.

  But suddenly, I get it. Paul must have finally had enough of Simon and told him as much. He must have snapped. That’s why he’s so spaced out and weird. That’s it.

  ‘Did you confront Simon?’ I ask.

  ‘What?’ Paul looks surprised.

  ‘About all the contracts. Did you confront him?’

  ‘No.’ Paul shakes his head.

  ‘What is it then? Did you quit?’ I ask, secretly hoping he hasn’t.

  I know Paul doesn’t exactly love his job, but we have a mortgage to pay. We were lucky enough to get a run-down terraced house in south London for a bargain price and even though it’s been quite an effort to do it up, it’s our first real home and I really don’t want to default on our mortgage payments and lose it.

  ‘Huh?’ Paul looks taken aback. ‘How did you know?’.

  My heart sinks.

  ‘It was just a guess,’ I murmur. ‘So, you really quit?’

  The butterflies that were in my stomach earlier because I was excited are now beating their wings because I’m just plain nervous and uneasy.

  ‘I, err…’ Paul fixes me with a serious look.

  He looks as nervous and uncomfortable as I feel. He takes a swig of his beer and before he has a chance to answer, our waiter comes back.

  ‘Ready to order?’ he asks.

  I order a margherita with olives, even though I couldn’t be less fussed about food right now. Paul always used to take the piss out of me for loving margheritas, claiming they were the most ‘basic’ of pizzas, but you can’t go wrong with a margherita. Paul orders a repulsive-sounding pizza with garlic and egg and anchovies, which doesn’t exactly bode well for the epic engagement kiss I’d envisaged on London Bridge. Although to be fair, nothing about this evening is boding well for that.

  We hand our menus back to the waiter and he heads to the kitchen.

  I eagerly take another sip of wine.

  ‘Paul, what’s going on?’ I ask, urging him to elaborate, while desperately hoping this whole thing is some kind of wind-up.

  Paul may not be the biggest fan of his job, but he’s not usually an impulsive person. He wouldn’t just quit, out of the blue like that. Sure, he talks about it, but don’t we all? I’ve had moments when I’m drowning in work and I’ve sworn I’m going to throw the towel in and pursue my long-lost childhood passion for pottery. I’ve day-dreamed about starting my own quirky business, selling handmade ceramics at Greenwich market, but that kind of thing is just a fantasy. It’s not like I’m ever going to actually do it. The daydream is a pressure valve, providing a nice little escape during hard times. Paul muses about stuff like that too sometimes, but he’s been working in graphic design for eleven years now. He’s always been steady and reliable, seeing projects through even when they’re tough. He’s not the kind of person who’d just wake up one day and quit their job.

  Paul reaches for his pint and downs a third of it. He places the glass back on the table with a thud and wipes a moustache of foam from his upper lip, before fixing me with a foreboding look that has me hungrily taking another sip of my drink too. My stomach lurches. I can tell from the intensity in his eyes that I’m not going to like whatever it is he’s about to tell me.

  ‘I quit. I finally quit,’ he states firmly. ‘I’m not going back.’

  ‘But why? What do you mean you’re not going back? What about your notice period?’ I ask, curious, even though talking about his notice period sounds a little pedantic and trite.

  I mean, what’s a two-month notice period in the grand scheme of things? Why am I concerned about that when my boyfriend is clearly having some kind of meltdown?

  Paul rolls his eyes and reaches for his drink.

  ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, we haven’t taken a holiday for three years, so I don’t exactly have to work out my notice period. I’ve just booked it all off as annual leave,’ Paul informs me, taking another swig of his beer. ‘Today was my last day. Ever.’

  ‘Right…’ I grumble, shifting in my seat, not knowing quite how to react.

  There’s a lot to unpack, from Paul’s dig about us not having gone on holiday to him suddenly letting me know, out of the blue, that he’s simply not going back to work. I decide I’ll start with the dig and work my way up to the more monumental life-changing stuff. I know I should have moved on from it by now, but underneath all the questions I have and the shock of Paul’s big news, there’s still a small crushed part of me, a silly hopeful part, that truly wanted to end up getting engaged tonight. I reach for my wine, eager to numb the sinking feeling inside.

  ‘You never complained that we didn’t go on holiday,’ I point out, taking another sip
.

  It’s true that we haven’t gone on holiday for three years, which I know is a long time, but I never realized it was such a big issue. Instead of going on holiday, we’ve been spending money on doing up our house. I thought Paul and I had a mutual understanding that it was more important to get our house in order than it was to spend a few weeks in Mykonos or wherever. And anyway, it’s not like we’ll be redecorating forever. Eventually we’ll get the house sorted and we can go on loads of holidays. I had no idea our lack of getaways was getting to Paul quite so much. If I did, I’d have suggested a break.

  ‘If I had complained, would you have listened?’ Paul huffs.

  My heart lurches. Of course, I’d have listened. What is this? What’s got into him? Paul literally drives us to IKEA every other weekend. Only a fortnight ago, he was assembling a cabinet for the bedroom while belting along to an Ed Sheeran song on the radio. He even picked up some gorgeous second-hand curtains and a candle holder from Habitat during his lunch break the other week. I thought he was completely on board with our project to transform our home. I didn’t think he minded that we were spending our money and our weekends on the house. And yet now he’s acting like I’m some kind of controlling tyrant who’s forced him into living a miserable holiday-less existence.

  ‘Of course, I’d have listened!’ I tut. ‘You know, it might actually have been helpful to speak to me rather than keeping whatever resentment you’ve been harboring locked up inside, quitting your job and then getting at me in the middle of a restaurant!’

  A few other diners look our way. Damn. I realize I’ve raised my voice. I dip my head, allowing a curtain of my hair to fall, partly covering my face.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you, but sometimes you can be a bit… overbearing, Rachel,’ Paul states, his voice quiet but clear.

  ‘Overbearing,’ I scoff. ‘Are you kidding me?’ I gawp, staring searchingly at him.

  I feel half-tempted to just get up and walk out of the restaurant. What on earth has got into Paul? I’m not overbearing. I’m just a normal woman and a normal girlfriend. I go to work, I come home, Paul and I hang out, there’s nothing overbearing about me. I’ve never stopped him from doing anything and I certainly didn’t deliberately deny him a holiday. What’s overbearing is making life-changing decisions without talking to the people they’ll impact. What’s overbearing is character assassinating your partner in the middle of a restaurant. I want to say this, but I’ve already attracted enough attention from fellow diners, and I don’t trust myself to voice my thoughts without losing my cool.