The Date

Prologue

Caira waits, by the window. She sips her second small glass of Sauv, and watches for movement outside.

The view from the living room of her basement flat is dominated by the stone stairway that leads up to the street.

But when she stands next to the window, she can see a slice of the outside world above – enough to make out the tops of vehicles and the lower legs of passing pedestrians.

If a passer-by’s chosen path takes them close enough to the iron railings, she can see their shoes.

It’s possible to infer a great deal about someone from their choice of footwear.

Sometimes, when Caira stands here and looks out, she can decipher a whole life story from a pair of battered old boots or shiny Mary Janes.

The next pair of shoes she sees might belong to her date. He will be here any second, assuming he’s not another flake. He’s a few minutes late, but that’s okay; anyone flawlessly punctual would only grow frustrated with a person as chaotic as her.

Caira wouldn’t normally let someone pick her up from her flat for a first date.

But they’ve been chatting for a while. She’s stalked the hell out of him on social media, and this guy seems as harmless as they come.

That said, he’s not what you’d call a first-tier dating candidate.

He’s too young for her, really. But this is the stage she’s at with internet dating.

To begin with, it seemed like an endless digital parade of bachelors.

But that all changed once she filtered out the obvious red flags.

First she got rid of the carp-holders, the shirtless narcissists, the straight-to-Snapchat adulterers.

The gym-in-lieu-of-a-personality bros. The smileless men hiding their features under a cap and shades.

The ones who list traits they don’t want to see in a ‘female’.

When she ruled out the ‘apolitical’ (extremely right-wing), the ‘purebloods’ (anti-vaxxers) and the ones demanding ‘no drama’ (gaslighting bastards); and she weeded out the car selfies, the gym selfies, the bathroom mirror pouters .

. . it became quite a small talent pool.

More of a puddle, if anything. It only takes a couple of ghostings, a handful of disastrous dates and a few false starts before it all begins to look quite bleak.

Caira’s nearly had it with dating apps, anyway.

Using them feels soulless and transactional.

She’d much rather meet someone organically.

But that isn’t happening either. And so, with her options dwindling, she lied about her age – only by a year, and she’ll be upfront about being forty on the date – and widened the age criteria to fifteen years either side: twenty-four to fifty-four years old.

That’s a lot of life, right there. And that’s how she ended up matched with Miles, who seems perfect if she discounts the fact he is – gulp – the tender age of twenty-nine.

Some movement. Okay, this might be him. A man has stopped directly outside her place.

A smart pair of Oxfords – promising. The ample broguing on the wingtip speaks of a man at the bolder end of traditional.

The newness of these shoes tells her he’s got disposable income and takes pride in his appearance.

Caira likes these shoes. And now they’re making their way down the steps to her flat.

She suffers a micro panic about her own choice of clothes. Are they too old? Too mumsy? She’s wearing a simple black outfit, albeit paired with a leopard-print scarf to prove she’s not a complete bore. It’s fine, she tells herself. It’s fine.

Caira’s heart flutters as she goes to the door.

But the nerves ballooning inside her burst and disappear at the sight of him.

He’s holding a rose – that’s a first. It makes her laugh.

She suddenly feels far too old to be dating this sweet summer child.

But also, really, who cares? They’re both adults and they can do what they bloody well like.

She’s allowed to have fun. God knows she needs it after the week she’s had.

Caira grabs her warmest coat and walks with him to the Olive Tree, a restaurant just around the corner.

She’s had dates here before. The waiting staff have probably noticed, she suspects.

They sit Caira and Miles at a table by the window.

It’s busy in here – noisy and warm – and a sheen of condensation has gathered where the glass meets the freezing December air outside.

Caira asks Miles what he does for a living and pretends to look surprised when he tells her he’s an actor.

Of course, she knows this already. Of course, she googled him as soon as he WhatsApp-ed her and she found out his full name.

According to his IMDb profile – which Caira has pored over several times – his credits are mostly for minor roles in TV dramas.

She wonders if he’ll oversell himself in an attempt to impress her, but he’s modest if anything, explaining that he’s just starting out, and taking on any job he can to gain experience.

According to his profile on Starlight Casting, he has also modelled.

But he doesn’t mention that. It’s easy to believe, though – he is too pretty in the candlelight.

His skin is boyishly unblemished and smooth, and his brown eyes are sparkly and brand new.

Being with him would be like making the first cut into a perfectly iced and beautiful cake – and that always feels wrong, however satisfying it’s meant to be.

Curiously, though, Caira doesn’t want the night to end. It’s her who suggests going across the road for another drink. And closing time sneaks up on her like a fun-spoiling teacher clanging a bell to mark the end of break.

She lets him walk her home. There’s no harm in that; he already knows where she lives.

And he’s done nothing tonight to change her initial assessment of him as completely harmless.

This one was fun. Really fun. In many ways, it’s been the perfect first date.

But it’s difficult to imagine it leading anywhere.

Even in a late-night haze, it’s impossible to escape the fact that he is practically – and noticeably – too young for her.

They stop on the street outside Caira’s flat. Miles wraps his arms around himself. The soft curls that hang over his forehead tremble in the cold wind.

‘Will you be all right getting home?’ Caira winces inwardly as soon as the words leave her mouth. God, she sounds like his mother.

‘I’ll get an Uber.’ His teeth chatter on the words.

She feels a need to wrap her arms around him. It’s not a sexual urge, it’s more nurturing than that – a simple desire to warm him up. ‘Why don’t you come inside?’ Her words are out before she’s had a chance to consider if that’s a good idea. ‘Just while you wait for your Uber.’

He flashes a smile. ‘Okay, thanks.’

Caira descends the stone stairway, with him following close behind. Normally, she wouldn’t dream of inviting someone in on a first date. But it’s freezing, and it’s only for a few minutes. And, honestly, what’s the worst that could happen?