Claire
“And then I realised.” Angus leans in like he’s about to drop the most scandalous gossip of the century. “I was on the wrong tab of the Excel document.”
Silence follows. A long one. A silence during which it dawns on me: that was the punchline. That was it. That’s the story.
I laugh, or at least I make a noise that I hope passes for laughter, though it sounds more like a cough that’s trying to escape a hostage situation. I settle for taking another generous sip of my wine and give him a weak smile.
This seems to encourage him. He pushes back a strand of blond hair, and then immediately launches into another anecdote.
This one is about the time about a meeting where he ‘completely changed the game’ by suggesting they circle back to last week’s discussion points.
Which is exactly what I wish I could do…
circle back to the moment I agreed to this date and kick myself. Hard.
I stare at my red wine like if I drink enough of it, it might teleport me somewhere.
I take another sip, but unfortunately, it doesn’t work.
Instead of being transported to a relaxing beach, minus Angus of course, I’m stuck in this restaurant, tracing my fingers up and down the stem of the glass and nodding at what I hope are the appropriate moments whilst I allow my mind the brief luxury of wandering for his next story.
A woman at the next table gives me a sympathetic eye roll.
Great, even onlookers are appreciating how boring this is.
She’s obviously noticed that I’ve yet to talk at all on this ‘date’.
At least it’s a nice restaurant. We’re sitting at a high table in the bar area, and vibrant pop art pictures line the walls around us, giving me at least one reason to smile.
Gentle music plays in the background and the lights are at that perfect not-too-bright-but-not-too-dim level that makes everything look just a tad more beautiful.
The drinks menu is also impressively extensive, thank goodness. I’m clearly going to need options.
I take another sip of my wine and then try to be subtle as I look at my watch.
How has it only been twenty minutes?
This must be some new low in the history of dating.
I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to this, but at the time it seemed like the only way to get my mum off my back about my ‘failing love life’.
It turns out that her idea of a ‘catch’ is her friend’s son: a man so bland that within ten minutes of meeting, he told me that ‘LinkedIn networking’ was a legitimate hobby.
I nod at the conclusion of his next story and look at my watch again.
It’s now been twenty-three minutes, yet I feel like I’ve aged at least two tax years since I last checked the time.
The floral fabric of my short dress rides up as I cross my legs, drawing Angus’s attention.
Damn this stool and damn his wandering eyes.
I tug it back down, lamenting that I even bothered to dress up for this date—what a waste of a fantastic outfit.
In contrast, Angus seems to have come straight from the office, and his blue shirt is much more weather appropriate for the lingering chill of an English spring.
Though he’s compensated by undoing too many buttons.
Seriously, someone should tell him that no one wants to see that much chest. Attempting to stifle a sigh, I twirl a strand of blonde hair, my telltale bored fidget, and try to keep on looking interested as, without pausing for breath, he launches into another story.
“Did you know I built a spreadsheet that calculates my macros automatically?”
I open my mouth before shutting it as he continues without waiting for me to respond.
“Let me explain it to you.”
Sitting back, I let the words wash over me. He says “macronutrient breakdown” like he’s revealing the secrets of the universe. I nod. I sip. And I continue to ponder how I can extricate myself from this situation.
I let it get to just over an hour before I roll out my tried-and-tested excuse about needing to leave because ‘my sister’s locked herself out of the flat.
’ Not that he knows I live alone. Or that my sister is, in fact, sat on her sofa watching Netflix and, if the vibrations of my phone are any indicator, currently texting me. Repeatedly.
“Let’s do this again sometime,” he says as we stand up.
I pull on my coat and the girl at the other table gives me another eye roll that makes me swallow a laugh.
Yep, the two of us could definitely be friends.
I make a non-committal noise at Angus that could mean anything from indigestion, to mild agreement, or a cry for help.
We step outside, and I’m about to give him a polite hug goodbye when he leans in, eyes shut, mouth slightly ajar. My eyes widen.
No.
Surely not?
One date. One drink. Just over an hour of conversation (well more of a monologue). Is he actually going in for a kiss? He leans closer.
Oh, wow, he is.
I turn half an inch and he misses, hitting my cheek instead. I try not to recoil. Ugh, it’s such a wet kiss. I fight the urge to wipe my cheek as I give him a forced smile.
“I hope the rest of your evening’s good.
” I hike my handbag up my shoulder like a protective shield.
Then I turn and walk as fast as I can in my three-inch heels down the street.
It’s the wrong way to the tube station, but I don’t care.
I’ll take the longer walk over any further time spent listening to Angus talking about himself.
I open my phone to call my sister, who luckily answers on the second ring.
“That was dire,” I tell her before she can say anything.
She cackles. “I told you it would be. The blind dates mum sends you on are always the worst. How many questions did he ask you about yourself?”
“Drumroll please…” I pause for dramatic effect. “Two. And one of them was ‘which Microsoft Office product do you prefer?’”
She lets out a low whistle. “I think that might be a new record. That’s bad. Sorry, Claire. I’ll buy the drinks next time we go out.”
I laugh and tug my coat tighter around me. I’m freezing. I definitely dressed for the weather I wanted, not the reality of April in London.
“Anyway,” I continue, “I told him that you’d locked yourself out of the flat and that I had to go back to let you in. So, if you ever meet him, please pretend you were having building work done and had to stay with me.”
“Building work again? Honestly, I seem to love living with you. I had no idea I was such an interior design enthusiast.”
“You’re the queen of fictional home renovations.” I skirt around a couple who look annoyingly happy walking hand in hand down the street.
“Of course I’ll go along with the story,” she says. “I’m just about to have dinner. But we can debrief properly at brunch after mum’s left.”
Ugh. I’d almost forgotten about that.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “Looking forward to that part at least.”
We chat for a few more moments until I reach the station and say my goodbyes.
As I sit on the Tube scrolling my phone, I realise that at least it’s a good story: yet another failed date that I can laugh about with my friends whilst they secretly sigh in relief that they’re all happily coupled up.
But even as I think that, something twists a little in my stomach.
I didn’t exactly think Angus would be ‘The One’.
I’d rather marry one of the spreadsheets he’s obsessed with, but still, I’ve lost track of how many first dates I’ve been on in the past few years.
At twenty-seven, I thought at least one or two of my friends would still be single, but they’re all in serious relationships, and I’m the one who is either on a string of awkward first dates, or with someone just long enough for it to get mildly promising before they quietly disappear.
It’s nice, being the one with the good anecdotes.
I like making people laugh. But sometimes, when I’m walking home alone in heels that pinch my toes, pretending I’m fine, it stings a little.
I can already see how I’m going to spin this one: “Oh, he referred to chicken breast as ‘a lean lifestyle solution.’” and “he kissed my cheek like he was trying to seal an envelope”.
When I finally get home, I kick off my shoes and head straight to my room.
Bra off. Oversized sweatshirt. Leggings.
Sorry, Angus, but elastic waistbands are my one true love.
I head to the bathroom, reaching for the makeup remover, and erase the evidence of the last hours before pulling my shoulder-length hair up into a bun. I let out a sigh. That feels better.
But almost immediately on getting to the kitchen I realise I have a problem.
There’s no food in the house. I’d assumed we might eat something on the date, but there was no way I was going to expose myself to a whole dinner worth of that conversation so we only got drinks, and the only thing I now have left in the fridge is a pint of milk and half a block of cheddar cheese.
I pull out my phone. I guess it’s a pizza night. And I’ll buy a tub of ice cream from the corner shop on the way to collect it, because if I’m going full Bridget Jones, I might as well commit.
On the way to Belillo’s pizzeria, I send my friend Kath a quick text update about my tragic evening.
I’m still looking down when I crash into a person leaving the restaurant and reel backwards.
My shopping bag drops to the ground. The ice cream rolls into the grass, the Oreos land near this stranger’s shoe, and the box of Maltesers takes a dive toward the street.
Shit, that was definitely my fault, and it serves me right for attempting to text whilst walking.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I chant at them as I reach down to pick up my things.
“Planning a party, Buttercup?”
I freeze. I know that voice. I know that nickname. Only one person calls me Buttercup, and given my large, longstanding and unrequited crush he’s not the person I want to bump into whilst eating chocolate and wearing sweatpants with a hole in the knee.
Great. Just great.