Chapter 6
JAKE
‘Well, fuck me,’ I say eventually.
‘No, thank you,’ says Freya extremely politely, which to my surprise makes me smile.
Freya doesn’t smile; she just rolls her eyes slightly.
We sit there in silence for a long beat, and then Freya says, ‘So. Taking it in turns. We should decide who gets to go first in choosing the date.’
‘Toss a coin?’ I suggest. Usually, I’d be polite and ask if she’d like to go first, but politeness has no place in a serious contest.
Freya nods and I pull my wallet out.
‘Got no coins,’ I say, a moment later.
‘Me neither.’
I ask the bartender if he has one.
‘Only if you buy something else,’ he tells me. ‘Can’t open the till otherwise.’
‘Honestly,’ says Freya. ‘Everything about this situation is ridiculous, including the fact that apparently it’s really hard for two adults to find a coin.’
‘What about using a nut instead of a coin?’ The bartender picks one up from a little bowl on the bar and puts his hands behind his back. ‘Which hand?’ he asks Freya.
‘Right.’
‘Left. Sorry.’ He puts the nut back in the bowl and licks his hand. I glance at Freya to see how she’s reacted to the lack of hygiene and see that she’s just staring at him.
I snigger a little internally and then say, ‘Well, thank you. I guess I won, then.’
Freya drags her gaze from the nut bowl and says, ‘Enjoy this tiny victory while it lasts.’ Then she smiles. I don’t like that smile. It’s too confident. I don’t want Freya to be confident about this. Although… with confidence does often come failure, so… yeah, maybe this is good.
I return her smile, and then realise that I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to get Freya to fall in love with someone. I need time to prepare.
‘As the winner of the nut-hand choosing—’ I do a confident smile of my own ‘—I’ll allow you to go first.’
‘You’ll allow me?’
‘Yep.’
‘How extremely kind of you.’ Freya stretches a hand out in the direction of the nut bowl before obviously recalling what the waiter did and withdrawing her hand.
She smiles at me. I’d have to describe it as a complacent smile.
‘You have no idea what to do next, have you?’ She’s obviously right, which annoys me.
I do my best scornful laugh. ‘I have every idea of what to do next. I just want to see what you’re going to do.’
Freya looks right into my eyes for a moment, and then smiles.
‘I’m going to win,’ she says. ‘And on a more granular level, I’m going to organise an evening out for you next week. Are we thinking the same evening every week, or more random ones?’
‘Tuesday every week?’ I don’t want to give up a Friday or Saturday to this ridiculous challenge.
Plus it’ll be easier to arrange dates on evenings on which people aren’t usually busy.
Although. What if one of us finds something like speed-dating to help things along the way?
That might be a weekend thing. ‘As a general rule. But I’d suggest that we ought to agree that we can change the evening by mutual consent.
And that we both – obviously – have to be reasonable.
If the other has a very good reason and gives sufficient notice and we’re free. ’
‘Of course.’ Freya’s laughing, and – irritatingly – I think she’s genuinely amused.
She has this dimple that appears when she laughs, which makes me think of my friend Dan, a self-confessed sucker for a cheek dimple.
Objectively, it’s what a lot of people would call very cute.
Subjectively, she’s far too confident about this challenge and it’s incredibly annoying.
I decide that I would like to go home. ‘Next Tuesday, then? And you’ll let me know what time and where?’
‘Yep.’ She picks up her bag and slides off her bar stool. The way she does it irritates me. It’s too obviously graceful, almost like a choreographed slide would be.
‘Will you be okay getting home by yourself?’ I feel I should ask, even though I really don’t want to.
‘That’s a very kind thought. Thank you.’ She’s sounding sarcastic again. ‘Yes, I will. I’m going to get a cab to Waterloo and then a train. Quicker than a cab all the way, however much I’d like to spend Wake Up Britain’s money.’
‘Great. I’ll wait to hear from you then.’ I’m not going to choose to spend any more time with her than I have to. ‘I’m just going to finish my drink.’ I am not. It’s far too sweet. I’m going to give her a few minutes and then go home, do another hour’s work and then go to bed.
‘Okay. Night.’ And there’s that dimple again. Frankly, I feel she must do it on purpose, to disarm people.
Well, I will not be disarmed.
I watch her walk gracefully across the room and out of the door.
Objectively, she looks very attractive in her wide greenish trousers and cream silky shirt.
Well, she is very (physically) attractive, which is a good thing for my mission.
I just need to find someone who only cares about looks and doesn’t mind about how incredibly annoying she is.
I’m still nursing my oversweet prosecco when I suddenly realise that I’ve been thinking about this entirely the wrong way. It isn’t about finding someone who finds her attractive. It’s all about her falling in love.
Which is fine. Easy. I know who I’m looking for: her perfect romance hero. Except, in practice, how the hell am I going to manage to find that person?
I mean, what’s her type? How can I find that out? Can I somehow wangle an invitation to meet her friends and ask them? No. Clearly not.
I down the rest of the prosecco in preparation for leaving, and then wonder why I did that. I could have just left it and had less of an aftertaste. I need to eat something salty (and not those nuts) to clear the sugary sensation.
My mind continues to whir on the subject of the challenge as I make my way through the bar and out of the hotel.
I know that I’m not going to lose the challenge, because Freya cannot possibly convince me that I’m never going to find lasting love.
I mean, romance isn’t for me right now, because I did not enjoy my divorce and one of the reasons that our marriage fell apart (I think) is that I was working too hard, which I’m still doing.
Also, as my parents get older, I need to help them more with my brother, who was seriously injured a few years ago in an accident and can’t live alone, and not every woman (certainly not my ex-wife) is up for that, plus again it means I’m even busier.
So I’m not currently ready to begin serious dating again.
I will be one day, however, I’m sure. And there is no reason that romance will not then turn into lasting love. Freya cannot convince me otherwise.
Freya. I really don’t want to have to spend too much time talking to her but I would very much enjoy beating her. I do not want to draw with her.
I step outside the hotel and nod a thanks when a doorman asks if I want a cab. Yes I do, since Wake Up Britain are paying. Kind of the least they can do when they’re subjecting us to this torture.
How am I going to find love for Freya? Maybe I can introduce her to my single male friends and colleagues.
I might – probably will – also need to go down the Tinder route.
Although… how? Can I sign up for it on her behalf?
I mean, obviously I can, but is that legal?
As a fairly high-profile lawyer, I really can’t be doing illegal stuff, however minor.
‘Nice evening?’ the taxi driver asks me. ‘It’s fancy in there.’
‘Yes, it is,’ I agree politely. ‘And yes, great evening, thanks.’ Shit evening actually.
I continue to think about the challenge as we make small talk, until I realise something. I think that – just like some of her readers – Freya’s fallen in love with her own romantic protagonists to such an extent that no-one in real life matches up.
Okay, so all good: I’m going to win this stupid challenge. I just need to find the right romantic hero personified and introduce her to him. And – brainwave – I just need to read one of Freya’s books, get to know the kind of heroes she’s created.
And then find a similar man.
I’m going to win.
I decide that I’d like to get the book out of the way as soon as possible so it isn’t hanging over me, so I download her most recent one as soon as I get home.
As I buy it, I wonder what proportion of the money will go to Freya.
Probably not that much, but any amount is too much, as a matter of principle.
I’m paying good money to read a book in a genre of which I thoroughly disapprove, written by a woman who really annoys me. It doesn’t feel like money well spent.
She’s dedicated the book to her friend Lizzie, ‘who’s always there for me’. Yeah, whatever. Does Lizzie even exist, given that the ‘I believe in love’ persona that Freya created for herself was fake?
I begin the first page with great reluctance. I’m gutted, frankly, when a laugh is surprised out of me within the first paragraph. A great first paragraph does not a great book make, however.
Okay, it’s actually, as it turns out, a great first page, insomuch as from my perspective at least it’s very well written, it’s made me laugh and I do actually want to read on. Just to see exactly how the two main protagonists are going to meet.
When I get to the end of the first chapter, I read on again.
I’ve got to know the female protagonist, and, if I’m honest, I like her.
But that’s not why I’m reading this book.
It’s the male protagonist I want to get to know.
We’ve met him, but only through the eyes of the female protagonist. It would be nice to know what he’s thinking.
By the end of the second chapter, which is written from the male protagonist’s perspective, I’m feeling a little gloomy. He’s great. I really like him. He’s really great.
I’m so engrossed in the story that I don’t do any of the work I needed to get through this evening; I just carry on reading, until way past the time I should have gone to sleep, until I’ve finished the story.