Five
An hour later, I’m back in the kitchen. In deliberate rejection of Mum’s advice, my hair is carefully tousled à la “I’ve just fallen out of bed… a bed which, by the way, is frequented by ocean waves with the perfect amount of salt in,” and a dress which I hope makes Malcolm think I am attractive and makes him want me, but doesn’t in any way indicate that I may be dressing to impress or have any interest in him. It’s a complicated balance. He is a lout, but I want to be very clear on having the upper hand.
Given the date was with Malcolm, I wasn’t inclined to change out of my jeans and comfy sweater, but with the ever-present threat of Adam contacting my mother, I was grudgingly persuaded to make an effort.
To be fair, I started to get into the swing of things after about three outfits, enjoying twirling around in front of my mirror like Marilyn and feeling a bit princessy. I’m starting to feel excited about the concept of a man finding me desirable enough to want to have dinner with me until I remember that it’s Malcolm. Still, though, maybe this is a sign that I’m finally ready to go on a real date. I make a mental note to download Hinge when I get home tonight. Adam has just put the kettle on when the doorbell rings. Usually, I value good time-keeping ability in a man, but not when it’s something I’m about as excited as Furcifer Labordi Chameleons are about losing their virginity (thanks, Reptiles Monthly ). I don’t move, and Adam starts hissing, “Door!”
I studiously ignore him and stare at the kettle until he reluctantly gets up to answer the buzzer.
“Malcolm! Mate, come on in!” Adam reaches towards Malcolm and pulls him into a man hug. I can sense them meandering towards me, and I have never been so fascinated by my nails. Adam prods me in the ribs, and I jump. “Malcolm, you remember Alex?”
“How could I forget such beauty?” he murmurs, in what he probably thinks is a seductive manner, and I slightly die inside.
Malcolm is dressed like a student circa 1999 but shaped like a darts player circa 1989. Externally, I give a wry smile.
“Well! You two lovebirds, enjoy yourselves!” Adam simpers and bounds out of the kitchen.
“Shall we go?” I say to Malcolm, standing up awkwardly. I decide to make myself as physically and vocally unappealing as possible.
He makes a show of draping my coat around my shoulders and rushing around in front of me to open my own front door for me. In fairness, if I were the slightest bit interested in him, I’d probably be loving this. Maybe I’m being slightly too harsh. Then his eyes linger a distressingly long time on my cleavage, and I revert to my original dismay.
My expectations improve when we arrive at the restaurant. Malcolm’s chosen an amazing French riverside restaurant, which I’ve always wanted to go to but could never afford in a million years. My stomach tenses as I wonder whether he will want to split the bill, but what with his faux chivalry and pomposity, that surely won’t be the case?
When we step inside, Malcolm clicks his fingers and summons the ma?tre d’, “Garcon! My good man. The lady’s coat?” My insides contract and I’m not sure I can survive the evening. A waiter smirks as he takes my coat and leads us to our table. It’s far too intimate and secluded for my liking, and I suggest to the waiter that maybe we’d like a more central one.
“The gentleman specifically requested a quiet table, Madam. I’m afraid all our other tables are booked. It’s a popular table, I assure you. Our most romantic, in fact.”
I’m beginning to dislike the server.
Once seated, I take a moment to survey the restaurant. It is stunningly beautiful, but I really wish I was with pretty much anyone else… even my parents, who always take forty minutes to choose, having grilled the waiter over everything from the soup of the day to his marital status. I distract myself with the wine menu. Christ, it’s expensive. I hand the wine list to Malcolm, thinking that if he’s paying, he should at least get to set the bar. He selects one of the more expensive ones, and as the waiter goes to get it, I squirm. I’m starting to feel a bit bad. I don’t like the guy, but he’s clearly pulling out all the stops. The waiter comes back with the wine and takes our order, and I order the crab to start, followed by the halibut. Malcolm orders foie gras, followed by venison, and I feel my disgust beginning to rise again. “Foie Gras? Do you know how cruel that is?” I say with disdain, glad that I cancelled those lobsters and could retain the moral high ground.
“Tasty, though,” he shrugs, and I suddenly don’t care if tonight bankrupts him. I take a large sip of wine and look impassive.
“So, how are things?” he says like it’s the start of a business meeting.
I give my best gallic shrug. “Oh, same old, same old.”
He continues, “I heard about you and the ex. That’s too bad! But good for me!”
I can’t help it. I visibly shudder as he clinks the motionless glass in my hand.
Unfortunately, he takes this as sadness on my part rather than horror before he leans in lecherously and whispers, “I can think of a way to cheer you up.”
I scream inside but confine myself to saying, “Yes, more of this,” indicating the wine and taking several large gulps. Malcolm, misreading my every queue, seems to take this as an invitation to reach for my hand. His fingers curl possessively around mine just as my soul slowly curls into a ball. I snatch my hand back, and he looks temporarily taken aback but quickly rallies and decides to slide his arm around my waist instead. His fingers hover dangerously low. As he’s leaning in to kiss me, he starts to slide his hand up my dress. With a mind of its own, my hand reaches up and slaps his hard. He looks stunned and pauses briefly before, unbelievably, putting his hand back on my leg and trying again. I slap it away again.
“No, no. I’m not a chew toy to slobber over. I’m sorry, but I’m going to make tracks.” Before he can say anything, I’ve scraped my chair back and am fumbling around for a coat just as my crab arrives. I can feel dozens of eyes boring into my back, and I can hear Malcolm swearing, but I don’t care. I run until I reach the street, stopping only briefly to grab my coat from the cloakroom, and then I dart out into the street. I pull out my phone and order an Uber I can’t afford, quickly pulling my coat around my face lest the driver ask me concerned questions. He doesn’t. I huff loudly. He keeps a dignified silence. I blow my nose. Three times – with an additional huff to be sure he can hear me. “You alright, miss?” The driver finally looks up.
Ten minutes later, I’ve just finished sharing the full account. He hasn’t actually asked me anything, but he has nonetheless been updated on everything I deem essential background knowledge for my current situation. He doesn’t say anything, which I take to mean he is rapt, but at that point, he interjects with, “You’d want to get a life, mate. Plenty more fish in the sea.”
I dutifully launch into the reasons why fish stocks are actually pretty damn low, thank you very much. The driver looks unconvinced and just nods politely. I can’t help but think he looks ever so slightly relieved when we reach my front door, but he seems cordial enough as he wishes me good night.
As I add a tip on the app, I feel the guilt pang over the mismanagement of my meagre resources.
I lurch into the sitting room, disconsolate, to find Adam sitting, slightly melodramatically, there in the semi-darkness – having muted a re-run of You’ve Been Framed . He has his thunderous indignation face on. Shit , I think. Malcolm must have texted him.
“Adam, wait!” I begin as he opens his mouth.
“I don’t want to hear it, Alex. You at least owe Malcolm your half of the bill.”
“What?” I ask, horrified. “I can’t do that! You know I can’t afford it.”
“Too bad. I can’t believe you just walked out because you didn’t fancy him.”
“But that’s not why I left! He was…”
“You’re meant to be the polite grown-up one. I’m going to bed. I’ll send you his bank details tomorrow.”
“Adam!” I’m aghast. “You have to hear my side!”
“Alex, all I know is that you never wanted to go on this date, and you sabotaged it. That’s all I know.” With the flair of a drama major at Fame Academy , Adam flounces out without even a backward glance at the fainting bridegrooms’ compilation rolling across the screen.
I sink onto the sofa and have a lonely little moment as I unmute the TV, hoping I can take some solace in the misery of other people making an arse of themselves.