Truth Or Date

by Portia MacIntosh

  ‘Yeah,’ he replies confidently, before sounding less sure of his statement. ‘Well, she’s a big Michael Fassbender fan, and she really wants to see the movie.’

  As furious as I am, I can’t help but laugh.

  ‘Go to your audition,’ I tell him.

  ‘You’re a star,’ he replies, going to kiss me on the cheek before hesitating. ‘I don’t wanna cock-block myself by kissing you, just pretend I did.’

  I give his arm a soft(ish) punch.

  ‘Just go,’ I instruct.

  Millsy doesn’t need telling twice. He whips off his apron, throwing it at the hook (and missing), and jumps over the counter before dashing out of the door. I’d assume this was a showy act for his new female friends, but I’ve seen him jump the counter many times. This is what I’m talking about, if anyone needs a warning, it should be the person who uses this counter like a dating app/piece of gym apparatus. Not that I want him to get sacked, I just want the injustice noting.

  I’m not going to let this get me down, because pretty soon Sally will have had her baby, she’ll be back, and Rita will go back to stoking fires in hell, or whatever duties Satan usually hands out to his favourite child. At least things are improving with Nick. That’s my priority right now. That and making it out of here today without throwing the panini press out of the window in temper.

  Chapter 20

  Operation get in Nick’s good books and make his super-rubbish girlfriend look super-rubbish by comparison is: go!

  Yes, I said operation, because this is going to take a lot of work. To understand just how much of a U-turn I need to pull here, you need to understand what happened when Nick and I first moved in together. It was eighteen months ago when I grew tired of living in the middle of nowhere, having to catch the train back and forth into Leeds, just so I could have a decent social life. The worst part of that was having to catch the last train home – well, when I had the willpower to do so. 11pm is no time at all to head home from a night out, that’s why you would have to make a decision: leave early to make the last train home or stay out until the first train home in the morning. When you’re out having fun, the idea of calling it a night in time to make the 11pm train is a sucky one, because you don’t want to go home, you want to stay out with everyone, you wanna drink in rooftop bars like a civilised, sophisticated lady until closing time, before heading to Call Lane to get messy with all the other drunk people until the small hours. The only problem with staying out is that it seems like a great idea…until the clubs kick out at 4am, and you’ve got two hours until your first train, and those two hours will be the longest of your life, especially if the weather is cold and rainy. That’s why McDonald’s has a special place in my heart, because it’s always been my middle of the night sanctuary, my port in a storm – often literally.

  So, I decided enough was enough, no more commuting to work/play, I am a city chick at heart and I need to be in the middle of it to be happy. The only problem was that I couldn’t find anywhere central – that didn’t look like a crack den – that was within my pitiful price range. I asked Millsy, but there was no way he could afford it, and this was months before he started crashing at his uncle’s place. Enter stage right my friend Marshall, who told me about his friend Nick who was looking for someone to share a flat with in the centre. I started looking around and, even paying half of the rent on a 2-bed flat was a little out of my price range, until I found our little flat that we live in now, which I could easily afford with someone chipping in half.

  It did cross my mind that sharing a flat with a member of the opposite sex might not work; what if we couldn’t agree on the furniture in the communal areas of the house? What if he left loads of gross hair in the plug hole? What if he watched noisy action movies all night like a rugged manly man? Incidentally, I will happily admit that Nick has way more of an eye for interior design than I do, if any hair is blocking up the plug hole it has usually come from my legs, and if you’re likely to find anyone binge-watching Taken 1-3 in the middle of the night, then it’s me. Yes, really, and that’s close to five hours I’ll never be able to get back.

  I figured I’d be fine living with a male roommate, because I’ve had a male best friend all my life. I know that platonic relationships are entirely possible. I know that Match of the Day is a valid way to spend a couple of hours. I know that fluffy cushions, scented candles and wall decals that read things like “Live, laugh, love” are not required to make a living room awesome.

  So the day came around to view the flat and I met Nick for the first time then and there. Escorted around by the agent, we chatted politely about how this place was perfect for both of us, and we agreed to think about it and let him know ASAP. We left the flat, popped into one of the bars on Merrion Street and started talking. Nick told me that he was a junior doctor, that he had refused money from his parents to help him through university and that right now, paying his own way meant that he couldn’t afford to live anywhere special. I commended him for this, because it would be the easiest thing in the world to just take money from his parents (I wish mine would throw a bit of theirs my way, rather than blowing it on things like dolphin-shaped foliage and secret cruises – don’t they know how expensive cocktails are?). Yep, we should have got on like a house on fire, and we did…until I literally set the house on fire. It was the night of our housewarming party, and the only thing Nick and I had disagreed about so far was the fact that I was a smoker. He asked me not to do it in the flat, and in an attempt to be a good housemate, I agreed. What I will say in my defence is that an addiction is an addiction, and I think I should be cut a little slack. I had been noticing that Nick was a little OCD with the neatness. The party was in full swing, and he was buzzing around like an attentive little bee, topping up glasses (but not without sneaking a coaster under them first). It was raining outside, and Millsy and I needed a cigarette, so we figured it wouldn’t be a big deal to do it in the bathroom, with the extractor on and the window open and then we’d flush the evidence, freshen our breath, wash our hands and Nick would be none the wiser. I’d like it to go on record that we were both pretty drunk at this point. We shared a fag, like naughty teenagers, before squeezing toothpaste straight from the tube into our mouths, laughing as we spluttered it everywhere, flecking the bathroom mirror with white specs. As I hastily cleaned the mirror with a towel, Millsy got rid of the evidence. We fist-bumped, celebrating just how sneaky we’d been, and what an awesome team we made, before heading back to the party. And it all would’ve been fine, if Millsy hadn’t tossed the cigarette into the bathroom bin without putting it out properly. The next thing we knew, smoke was billowing out of the bathroom door and Nick was running in with his fire extinguisher to put out the flames – because of course he has a fire extinguisher. Luckily he caught it before it could do any real damage, but it didn’t take him long to figure out what happened and we had our first argument.

  After the not-so-great fire of Upper Briggate, things only got worse as Nick and I realised just how different we were. Complete opposites, in fact. Of course, by this point, it was too late to do anything about it, because there was no way either of us could leave. Well, Nick technically could if he’d just take the money his parents offered him, but he wouldn’t and this – despite me originally commending him for it – royally pissed me off.

  So, back to my master plan. I think the problem is that, after eighteen months of being me, Nick doesn’t see me as the kind of girl he could be with. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s more fond of the verruca he caught at the gym than he is of me right now. But I know how I’m going to change that, I’m going to one-up his girlfriend, and I’m going to do it with meat.

  Until he started dating a vegan chick, steak was Nick’s favourite thing in the world. So I stopped at the shop on the way home, flying around Tesco so that I could be home first. The second I got through the door, I went full-blown Stepford Wives, tidying up all the junk I left lying around this morning. Now that the flat is
tidy, I’m cooking myself a steak. The thing is, you get two steaks in a pack (lie) and the sell-by date demands that they’re eaten today (lie) so I’m going to have to cook them both and, obviously, it will be too much for me to eat (also a lie, I could easily eat two steaks). Nick will get in from a hard day of swabbing people’s junk and delivering babies (OK, maybe that last one is pretty hard) and the smell of steak and chips will hit his nose and go straight to his heart. Well, maybe that’s a stretch, but at the very least I’ll be able to give him something his girlfriend can’t, and that’s got to get me in his good books, right?

  There are many ways to serve a steak, but only one right one in my opinion, and that’s medium rare. But if Nick doesn’t get home soon, I’m going to ruin them.

  Just when I think I’m done for, Nick walks through the door, and as the smell of dinner cooking hits his nostrils, I see her face light up with joy.

  ‘What is that?’ he asks, salivating like a dog with a bone dangled in front of it.

  ‘Just making myself a bit of dinner,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve had to cook two steaks, they both needed using today. Want one?’ I ask.

  Nick blinks at me, confused by my niceness. As his mouth snaps into a smile he seems like he might be about to say yes, until he remembers…

  ‘I would, except I told Heather I wouldn’t eat meat any more, so…’

  I can hear the disappointment in his voice. Oh man, it’s embarrassing how easy this is going to be.

  As I turn the almost-perfectly cooked steak it makes a satisfying sizzle.

  ‘Come on,’ I say, encouragingly. ‘What Heather doesn’t know won’t hurt her…’

  I stare at Nick intently. He’s thinking so hard about this his brow furrows, but I don’t think he’s battling with his conscience, I think he’s trying to figure out if he can get away with it or not.

  Channelling my inner Nigella, I purse my lips and twirl my fork around in my hand, stroking the handle seductively – I cannot believe I’ve resorted to softcore porn. I don’t know if I’m impressed or ashamed of myself right now, I guess we’ll wait and see if it works.

  ‘OK, I’d love some. Thank you.’

  I turn back to my pan, smiling victoriously. Impressed it is.

  Nick rolls up his shirt sleeves and washes his hands, as though he were scrubbing up to perform a C-section. Hmm, think I’ve been watching too much Grey’s Anatomy. Nick doesn’t really talk about his job, so I’m pretty much just going on what I’ve seen in movies and TV shows when I think of him at work. It’s hard to imagine him being a doctor, mostly because he’s hot. Who wants to see a hot doctor? Especially a hot gynaecologist! When I was seventeen and I took a tumble after too many apple vodka Kapops, my mum rushed me into A&E to get checked out because I couldn’t move my wrist and it had pretty much doubled in size. The triage doctor I saw was absolutely gorgeous, so much so that, when he wiggled my wrist and asked me if it hurt, I swallowed spit, screamed internally, and said no – turns out I’d broken it, but that’s what a pretty face will do to a girl. The point is, I found it hard telling a handsome doctor that my wrist hurt – just try and imagine looking one in the eye and telling him that it burns when you pee.

  We sit down at the table together, our plates in front of us. I pull out a bottle of wine from my shopping bag, casually, like I’d forgotten it was there.

  ‘Well, we may as well open this. Drink?’ I ask, as I remove the cork.

  ‘If it’s open, then why not,’ he replies, taking a glass from me. He takes a sip before gasping with delight. ‘God, you don’t know how much I needed this,’ he tells me.

  ‘Really? How come?’ I ask.

  I watch as Nick cuts his meat with care and accuracy, and I wonder if this is something they taught him at medical school in a roundabout way.

  ‘It’s nothing to talk about over dinner,’ he tells me.

  ‘I don’t mind if you don’t,’ I insist. ‘We never really talk about your work.’

  ‘We never really talk,’ he laughs. ‘And we certainly don’t cook for one another.’

  I think he was joking, but now I’m worried he’s suspicious.

  ‘Well, it was only going to go in the bin,’ I assure him. ‘And you did make me a cup of tea this morning.’

  ‘Well that’s true,’ he replies, flashing me that gorgeous smile of his – that I am very rarely the cause of. ‘This is good steak, I’ve missed this.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ I tell him. ‘It’s actually one of the few things I’m good at cooking, probably because there’s a whole spectrum of degrees of done – so I’m bound to nail one of them.’

  ‘Don’t sell yourself short,’ Nick insists, ploughing through his dinner like he hasn’t eaten in weeks. Suddenly, his face falls. ‘A patient lost a baby today.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘I know that it’s just one of the negative parts of my job, and that it’s outweighed by all the healthy babies that we bring into the world, but this was especially sad because it was so early. The mum was distraught. She wanted to hold her baby, say a proper goodbye, have a funeral – but she was so early on in her pregnancy, I had to explain to her as delicately as possible that there just wasn’t really a baby there. Just finding the words to explain that to a grieving mum, that’s the hardest part of my job.’

  Listening to Nick talk, seeing the expression on his face – that’s when I realise, that’s why it doesn’t matter that he’s a “hot doctor” because he’s a good doctor.

  ‘That’s awful,’ I reply, not really sure what to say. Well, what can you say? ‘But she had you to talk her through it, I’m sure that helped. You’re very easy to talk to.’

  ‘So are you, which is surprising,’ he laughs, perking up a little. ‘I don’t know if it’s the steak, making you seem less annoying than usual.’

  I fake a laugh.

  ‘This is nice though,’ he starts, but suddenly we’re interrupted by someone barging through the front door. We both look over to see who it is, only to see Heather checking the sideboard behind the door to see if she knocked anything over.

  I gesture with my hands to tell Nick to pass me his plate, which is empty, but you can tell it had meat on it. As Nick slides his plate to me, I place mine on the empty dining chair next to me and slide it under the table so that she can’t see.

  ‘Drink,’ I whisper to Nick quietly. Hopefully the wine will stop him smelling like he just ate a whole steak.

  By the time Heather approaches the table the evidence is gone, but she still looks suspicious.

  ‘You’re here. Drinking. With Ruby.’

  ‘Yeah, well she opened the bottle, couldn’t have her drinking it alone, you know what she’s like.’ He laughs awkwardly, jumping to his feet to kiss his girlfriend. ‘She was celebrating something that happened at work today, couldn’t let her do it alone, could I?’

  ‘Aw, you are too sweet,’ she tells him patronisingly, before turning to me. ‘So, what happened at work?’

  ‘I got an official warning,’ I beam. ‘One more and I’m fired.’

  I raise my glass and smile my biggest, most menacing-looking grin, visibly freaking her out.

  ‘And I suppose you also celebrated being a bad employee by eating a defenceless baby animal?’

  ‘I don’t think it was a baby,’ I reply, tilting my head thoughtfully. ‘But yeah, it’s the only way to celebrate.’

  Heather literally turns her nose up at me.

  ‘Well, we disagree, don’t we, Nick?’

  ‘We do,’ he replies, a little quicker than seems natural. He’s not great at this lying thing, whereas I excel at it, it seems.

  ‘Someone has to be the bad guy,’ I tell them, pulling myself to my feet, heading for my room. I think my work here is done…

  ‘I think you’re out of line,’ Heather calls after me.

  I stop suddenly and turn around to face her.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I ask.

  Heather, who is a good four inches
shorter than me, takes a step towards me, as if to show me that she’s not scared.

  ‘You’re out of order,’ she repeats herself. ‘I think it’s really unfair that you cook and eat meat in front of us.’

  I glance over at Nick, but he’s keeping quiet. The old me would have sung like a bird, but it wouldn’t serve me well to get him in trouble, it would only make him hate me. So I keep quiet about Nick being my partner in meat-eating crime, but I don’t keep quiet generally.

  ‘You walk into my flat and tell me how to live my life and you think I’m out of line?’ I ask her. ‘Wait a minute, how did you get into my flat exactly?’

  ‘It’s Nick’s flat too, he gave me a key, obviously,’ she replies.

  My business is no longer with this horrible little woman. I turn my attention to Nick.

  ‘You gave her a key,’ I tell him, as though he may not be aware. ‘Of course you did. Maybe I’ll give Millsy a key. Maybe I’ll give the homeless guy with the cute dog who is sitting outside a key. Maybe I’ll give my boyfriend a key – I don’t need to consult you, do I? We just dish out keys like we’re the Holiday-fucking-Inn.’

  ‘So he’s your boyfriend, is he?’ Nick asks. Interesting that he picked up on that detail above all others. ‘Two dates and suddenly he’s your boyfriend?’

  ‘When you know, you know,’ I tell him confidently.

  ‘Don’t you think you’re rushing into things?’ he persists, much to Heather’s disgust.

  ‘What do you care?’ she asks. ‘Let her move in with the sap, then I can move in here with you like we talked about.’

  My eyes widen. I glare at Nick who seems to wince. I know he hates awkward conversations, and I know he hates confrontation, but I hope he’s prepared for a fuck-load of both because…

  ‘What the actual fuck?’ I squeak. ‘You want me out so you can move her in? And you have conversations about this behind my back?’