Truth Or Date

by Portia MacIntosh

  Whatever, I’m drunk, I’m having fun, I’m going to be safe – why shouldn’t I let my hair down?

  ‘Here we are,’ Greg says as the Uber pulls up outside the block of flats where he lives. I don’t think we’re too far from the centre – far enough to need a taxi though. I’ll have to get a taxi home in the morning because I’m notoriously bad with directions and getting from A to B without help is always a struggle.

  Greg takes my hand and leads me through his building silently – well, it is 2am – until we’re in the privacy of his flat. As soon as the door closes it’s like a switch is flicked in Greg’s head, like he’s been waiting all this time to finally go wild.

  ‘Bedroom,’ he mutters through our kisses, leading me towards the door. I follow his lead, as instructed, ready to let my hair/guard/mother down for the first time in a long time (no, wait, I let my mother down all the time, scrap that last one) but as he releases me from his grip for a moment to whip off his shirt, I am suddenly able to properly take in my surroundings. Holy shit, his bedroom is like a Doctor Who museum, from pictures to gadgets to his bed sheets – Greg must be a hardcore fan. This isn’t fair at all, this is the kind of thing that you should have to disclose on your dating profile. I feel more violated than I did when I was catfished, when Matt the sexy pilot turned out to be a butch, forty-something woman who spent the first fifteen minutes of our date trying to convince me that she was a he. Yes, I stayed, we had a nice chat about how a quick visit to a brow bar would do her the world of good.

  Now, I don’t know much about Doctor Who, but what I do know is that I can’t have sex in this room with all these monsters’ eyes on me.

  ‘Hit play on the stereo,’ Greg insists. I eyeball the machine, fully convinced the Doctor Who theme music will start playing if I hit the play button.

  ‘Can I use your lav, please?’ I ask, stalling.

  Greg nods, reluctantly. He gives me a look that tells me to hurry. It’s just that I’m not into it any more suddenly, and for some reason I can’t stop thinking about what happened with Nick today, the way he jumped in to save that woman’s life. He really is making a huge difference in the world, and I’m just serving coffee. Wait, why am I thinking about Nick when I’m about to have sex, or not have sex as the case may be this evening?

  I look at myself in Greg’s bathroom mirror and laugh.

  ‘Ruby Wood,’ I say to myself, in my head. ‘How do you get yourself into these nightmare dates?’

  There’s only one thing for it. There’s no way I can go through with it, and I’m a grown woman after all. I know what I need to do.

  I walk back into Greg’s room where he’s waiting for me on the bed, already stripped down to his (unsurprisingly) Doctor Who boxer shorts.

  ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’ I ask, hovering around in the doorway sheepishly.

  Greg’s face falls.

  ‘Erm, the bad news,’ he replies, reluctantly.

  ‘The bad news is that my “time of the month” has just kicked in,’ I lie.

  If Greg’s face had fallen before, it’s so low it’s in the flat below us now.

  ‘What’s the good news?’ he asks hopefully.

  ‘I’m not pregnant,’ I announce brightly, complete with jazz hands.

  Greg’s look shifts from disappointment to horror but if the first excuse doesn’t put him off, the second will for sure.

  ‘Oh,’ he replies. ‘Well, never mind. Maybe next time.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I reply, and yes, that does seem to be the catchphrase I end all my Matcher dates with, and yes, it is code for “I never want to see you again”.

  ‘Well, I’ll make my way home I think,’ I tell him, grabbing my things.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ he insists. ‘It’s too late for you to be trailing out, and I would really like to see you again. Stay the night.’

  It’s at this point that I remember that Greg is not a bad person, just a huge, huge nerd.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask. That’s very sweet of him, although with all these creepy eyes on me, I’m not sure I’ll be able to get to sleep at all.

  ‘I’m sure,’ he says with a smile, patting the space on the bed next to him.

  ‘OK, thank you,’ I reply, hopping in beside him.

  Greg leans over and kisses me on the forehead before flicking off the lamp next to his bed. Unlucky for me, the Doctor Who Tardis nightlight in the corner of his room illuminates the place pretty well, so I can still see all the nerdy stuff around me. How does a grown man get so much passion for one thing? I mean, I know I’m passionate about things: prosecco, eyebrows, Tom Hardy – but not to the point where I’d have a room dedicated to all things one thing.

  Why does time move so slowly when you don’t want it to? When you’re on a good date or having the best sex of your life or sunbathing on the beach – time goes so quickly then, doesn’t it? But when you’re in the doctor’s surgery, waiting for your shift to end at work or spending a night trying to sleep in a Doctor Who shrine, time drags.

  I look at my phone – 4am. Three more hours and maybe I can leave without seeming rude or weird.

  I wonder if Millsy is still awake, so I text him.

  Ruby: Hey, you awake, mate?

  I don’t have to wait long for a reply.

  Millsy: Sure am. I take it you’re not home?

  Ruby: Nope. I take it you’re having a threesome…

  Millsy: Nope. If I wanted to disappoint two people at the same time, I’d visit my parents.

  I laugh quietly to myself, careful not to wake Greg who is fast asleep.

  Ruby: Wow, you met girls in a bar and didn’t shag one of them, you must be growing up

  Millsy: Oh, no, I did shag one of them. I left the other with Woody playing Mario Kart in the living room. So I guess we both got lucky tonight.

  Ruby: Erm, not quite. I got very unlucky. The guy is like the world’s biggest Doctor Who fan, his bedroom is just wall-to-wall with nerdy merchandise.

  Millsy: Fuck off, you’re making that up.

  Ruby: I wish I were. He’s got a life-sized Dalek next to his bed.

  Millsy: Pics or it didn’t happen.

  Ah, the age-old internet rule of ‘pics or it didn’t happen’ – standard protocol for situations where only seeing is believing.

  As I sit up slowly to try and take a snap of the Dalek that stands next to Greg’s bed, watching over him as he sleeps, I feel another message come through on my phone.

  Millsy: Selfie!

  I should’ve known he wouldn’t make this easy for me, but I’ve never been one to chicken out of a dare.

  The Dalek is on Greg’s side of the bed, so If I angle it right, I can get myself and the Dalek in the frame whilst Greg sleeps between us, blissfully unaware of the nightmare Matcher date he’s given me.

  I switch to the front-facing camera and line up my shot before posing with a meaningful pout and pointing a finger towards the Dalek behind me. Just as I press the shutter button, I notice something in the digital reflection on my phone screen: Greg’s eyes are open!

  It’s too late. As the picture takes I realise that it has captured the moment.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Greg shouts, jumping to his feet.

  ‘I can explain,’ I start. I mean, I can explain, but I’m not sure how well he’ll take it…

  ‘Just get out,’ he yells.

  I grab my things and head for the door, booking my Uber as I go.

  ‘Weirdo,’ he calls out as I close the door behind me.

  Once in the safety of the quiet corridor of his building, I slip my shoes on and make my way downstairs.

  And just like that I’ve turned my Matcher date from hell into Greg’s nightmare date instead.

  Chapter 10

  My taxi driver drops me outside McDonald’s on Briggate, where Millsy is waiting for me at a table with four cheeseburgers and two large fries sitting in front of him. You’ve got to love the sanctuary that a 24-hour McDonald’s provides, even i
f it is still rammed with drunk people fresh out of the clubs. You’ve also got to love having a best friend who will drop everything (including a bird) to meet up with you when you’ve had a bad night, no matter what time it is.

  As I approach Millsy he spots me and starts humming a song that sounds vaguely familiar, banging his hands on the table as he does so.

  I sit down in front of him and wait for him to finish. He looks so proud of himself.

  ‘What the fuck is that?’ I ask.

  ‘Two cheeseburgers and large fries,’ he replies. ‘For that hangover that’s pending.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I start. ‘But I meant the song.’

  ‘Oh. It’s the Doctor Who theme music,’ he laughs.

  ‘Erm, not it isn’t,’ I tell him, as I struggle to peel open my sweet and sour sauce.

  ‘Course it is,’ he insists, taking it from the top.

  ‘She’s right,’ a man on the table next to us insists. He’s drunk and covered in barbeque sauce, but he’s on my side so I’m not about to whip out my rape alarm.

  ‘What is it then?’ Millsy asks him, annoyed.

  ‘It’s “The Imperial March” from Star Wars – you know, Darth Vader’s theme music,’ he informs us.

  ‘Erm, well I obviously don’t know because I’m not a huge geek,’ Millsy tells him, clearly irritated that someone has proven him wrong.

  ‘Thank you,’ I tell him.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ the man replies, too drunk to notice that Millsy offended him. He affectionately taps me on the nose with a chip before getting back to his meal.

  ‘I hate drunk people when I’m sober,’ Millsy tells me as he takes a bite of his burger.

  ‘You’re not exactly sober,’ I remind him, as I wipe chip grease from my nose with a paper napkin.

  ‘Am I ever completely sober though?’ he laughs. ‘Anyway, come on, I want to see this photo.’

  When I left Greg’s place the first thing I did was call Millsy and the first thing he did was come to see me – although that might be because I told him all about it and he really wants to see the photo. I’ve been too mortified to look at it.

  I unlock my phone and load up my camera roll, clicking it and turning it to show Millsy without looking for myself, instead watching his reaction.

  The look on my friend’s face is one of pure elation, like I was showing him the lottery numbers and that burger in his hand was the winning ticket.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more incredible in my life,’ he half speaks/half pants in a fit of laughter. ‘Oh, God, look at it. Seriously.’

  I take a deep breath and look. Were it a photo of anyone else, I imagine I’d find it hilarious too. It’s the Dalek in the background. It’s the pout on my face. It’s the look of horror in Greg’s eyes.

  I shake my head, smiling gently. I do see the funny side, it’s just mortifying.

  ‘I’m going to have T-shirts made with that on,’ Millsy says, sipping his drink.

  ‘I believe that,’ I reply.

  I unwrap my burger to see that whoever constructed it has drastically misfired with the cheese. As I scrape it from the paper and try to push it back inside the bread, I sigh.

  ‘It’s 4am and they’re rammed in here, what were you expecting?’ Millsy asks.

  ‘It’s not that,’ I tell him. ‘I couldn’t sleep with Greg.’

  ‘Damn right you couldn’t, not with that thing standing next to the bed watching you.’

  I give Millsy a slight smile, but I fear my friend is only trying to make me feel better.

  ‘Are you telling me you wouldn’t sleep with a girl in the same situation?’

  ‘Mate, her best friends could be watching and I’d still be able to do it,’ he laughs. ‘But I don’t know what else to say.’

  I stare at my burger, too scared to look my friend in the eye as I say the words that are on the tip of my tongue.

  ‘I have a crush on Nick.’

  ‘After a couple of sex dreams and watching him save someone’s life? Come on,’ Millsy reasons.

  ‘I can’t stop thinking about him. I can’t sleep with other people. I…I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Look, calm your tits, OK? Let’s not overreact. You’re drunk, you’ve had a rough night. Just go home, get to bed, chill out and in the morning you’ll have forgotten all about it, OK?’

  ‘OK, sure,’ I reply, but I’m not convinced.

  Chapter 11

  After dragging my half-drunk, half-hungover butt up the hill to my flat, I struggle to find the concentration and the energy involved to unlock the door. It’s not my fault though; the lock on this thing is a little temperamental. I take my key out and put it back in, I jiggle it around in the lock – nothing works. Exhausted and exasperated, I stop trying, leaning forward to rest my head against the door. In the second before my head makes contact, the door is opened from the inside, causing me to fall straight into Nick’s arms.

  I pause in his strong grip for a moment, until he hurriedly pushes me back onto my feet and releases me, like I’m something gross he accidentally caught as a reflex that he can’t wait to put down.

  ‘Wha…what are you doing up?’ I babble.

  ‘I’m going for a run,’ he tells me.

  ‘At this time of night?’ I ask.

  ‘Ruby, it’s morning.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘No prizes for guessing what you’ve been doing until this time,’ he says, unimpressed.

  ‘Not that – honest,’ I insist, worried about what he thinks of me for the first time in my life.

  Nick glances down at my body briefly before making eye contact again.

  ‘Your dress is on inside out,’ he tells me.

  I look down and see that he’s right. Fuck.

  ‘Goodnight,’ he says as he heads downstairs, not really sounding like he means it. God, he looks good in his running gear. He’s wearing tight pants and a fitted vest with a hoodie loosely over the top, probably to combat the chilly morning weather, along with a beanie hat covering his short, neat, dark hair.

  ‘Wait,’ I call after him, because for some reason I don’t want him to leave. ‘What are you doing today?’

  Nick turns around and looks at me, visibly puzzled why I’d ask such a thing.

  ‘Why, do you want to grab a coffee?’ he asks.

  I’m momentarily tongue-tied – luckily, it turns out.

  ‘Ruby, I’m kidding, don’t look so worried,’ he laughs. ‘I don’t want to hang out with you either.’

  Words we’ve exchanged with each other a thousand times, but now they really sting.

  ‘No, right. Yuck,’ I say, unconvincingly.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve got some time off so I’m going to go stay with my family in Ilkley tonight, so you’ve got the place to yourself. Have your dating freaks over, tell Joey it’s safe for him to come round – just make sure the place isn’t trashed for me coming back, OK?’

  I nod nervously.

  ‘If you’re going home, you’re going to want to take that hat off,’ I tell him, in a voice that does not sound like my own. I sound like a dork.

  ‘What?’ he asks.

  ‘You know, like the song: “On Ilkla Moor Baht ’at”. You need to take your hat off,’ I continue, kicking myself a little harder with each word that leaves my mouth.

  ‘Are you having a stroke?’ he asks me, straight-faced.

  ‘It was a joke,’ I tell him.

  ‘OK, what have you broken?’ he asks. ‘What kind of fast one are you trying to pull? Are you trying to sneak someone in? Are you pranking me? The sooner you tell me what’s wrong with you, the better.’

  ‘Nothing, nothing,’ I assure him. ‘Doesn’t matter. See you later.’

  Nick shakes his head and jogs the rest of the way down the stairs.

  I close the flat door behind me and look at myself in the mirror that sits above the bowl where we keep the keys – the bowl Nick insists the keys must be kept in at all times, my God, wh
at do I see in him, seriously? We have nothing in common. We hate each other. Look how horrible he was to me just now, and how judgemental he was. I’m the kind of girl who gets in and goes to bed at 6am and he’s the kind of guy who gets up and heads out at 6am. He’s going for a run, I just ate two cheeseburgers. We couldn’t be more opposite if we tried. Millsy is right, I just need to give it time and this silly crush will wear off. I just hope it happens sooner rather than later because things are starting to feel very awkward.

  Chapter 12

  ‘Mate, she was bang-on about your eyebrows.’

  I shoot Millsy a filthy look.

  ‘That customer from Friday,’ he persists. ‘She was right about those brows. You look like a pissed-off Cara Delevingne in an Avril Lavigne wig.’

  I give my long dirty blonde and pink ombre curls a defensive fluff with my hands.

  ‘I look pissed off because you’re pissing me off,’ I tell him. ‘And you know it’s because I’m Italian. We’re brow-rich, butt-rich, temper-rich and national football team-rich.’

  ‘You can’t just blame everything on you being a bit Italian,’ he insists, suddenly inspired to start eating biscotti out of the jar. ‘Like assaulting teenage boys by throwing muffins at them. Anyway, you’re not Italian, your mum is Italian. Your dad is as English as tea.’

  ‘First of all, that was one time,’ I protest. ‘And tea is from China, dipshit.’

  ‘Language,’ I hear a woman gasp. ‘And what’s this about throwing food at customers?’

  ‘When I asked him what he wanted, he said “your chebs, love” and it wasn’t a full-size muffin, it was a mini muffin, which is a third the size of a regular one – and who are you?’ I ask as it occurs to me I’m explaining myself to a perfect stranger.

  ‘Rita,’ Millsy beams, hopping over the counter to give her a hug. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fantastic, how are you?’ she asks him. ‘Have your muscles grown even more since the last time I saw you?’