Chapter 3
TOM
Saturday morning, and Tesco is already auditioning for Dante’s next circle of hell.
The automatic doors swoosh open to unleash a wall of humanity. Trolleys clatter, children shriek, and the man at the entrance is attempting to hand out leaflets for “Tesco Mobile” with the same enthusiasm as a hostage reading a ransom note.
I shoulder a basket and sigh. I had imagined the morning differently: maybe a little brunch, a little flat white action, a little quiet reflection. Instead, my inbox coughed up a cheery email over porridge:
Thank you for attending Bristol Speed Dating! We’re sorry to inform you that you had no mutual matches this time. But don’t give up — love is just around the corner!
They may as well have added: Please try again once you’ve grown a personality.
So now, here I am. A man on a mission to buy salad and distract myself from the fact I’m statistically less appealing than a CrossFit obsessive and a man with fourteen gerbils.
I push past a display of doughnuts, their sugar-glazed eyes begging me to adopt them, but I resist and head into the fray.
The supermarket is chaos.
A toddler wails near the frozen peas, parents negotiating like UN diplomats. An old man blocks the cereal aisle, studying boxes as if they’re ancient manuscripts. Somewhere, a trolley wheel squeaks like a tortured hamster.
I weave through it all, narrating to myself. “This is fine. Civilisation is intact.”
I toss items into my basket: olives, hummus, sourdough bread. God, when did my inheritance turn me into a middle-class cliché? I reach for a bottle of wine, think better of it. Too early. Even for me. I take two.
My phone buzzes, this time with the familiar pop of Grindr. Against my better judgment, I open it.
A new message: Hey, how’s your morning going?
The profile picture is disarmingly wholesome—strong jawline, kind eyes, the sort of smile that looks like it could carry my shopping bags and still ask about my day.
Other pictures: walking in the forest, laughing at a coffee shop, not an ounce of flesh on display.
Even the bio feels like a breath of fresh air: Dog dad.
Loves Sunday roasts. Can actually cook risotto.
For a moment, my chest lifts. A man who doesn’t open with anatomy shots? Revolutionary. I start to type a reply — something light, something witty — but then my eyes flick to the fine print beneath the profile.
In an open relationship.
I stare, thumb hovering. Of course. The wholesome ones are always attached, like a limited-edition collectible you can admire but never actually own.
Why is everyone in an open relationship these days? Is monogamy now retro?
I drop the phone back in my pocket and round the corner into fruit and veg.
As I’m looking around for a bag of spinach, a voice comes from my side.
“Any idea how to tell if these are ripe?”
I look up to see a man holding up the avocado like a green grenade. Dark hair, stubble, light blue jacket thrown over a white T-shirt. Effortlessly attractive in a way that says I woke up like this without the Beyoncé irony.
I blink. Words. I know words. I just have to pick some. “Um, I think it’s something about earlobes,” I respond as if I’m talking in cryptic code.
“Earlobes?”
“I mean…” God, what do I mean? Think of normal person words. “… If it feels like your earlobe, apparently. That’s what Nigella said once.”
He laughs, warm and easy. “Any earlobe in particular?”
I feel my heart start pacing. The internal panic or a handsome stranger starting avocado-based small talk with me sends me into a spiral. I make an odd laughing sound, kind of like a startled donkey clearing its throat, then try to disguise it with a cough.
Like James Bond levels of smooth.
“Yes. Though, ideally, don’t test against a random stranger without asking them first.” I finally say. “That gets you looks.”
“Well, consent is sexy,” he says, a twinkle in his eye.
I laugh nervously, the mention of the word sexy from this delectable stranger sending an adrenaline surge through me, immediately followed by me choking on my own saliva, because nothing says date me like mild asphyxiation over avocado chat.
“Well… yes…” I manage to say.
He chuckles, presses the avocado gently, then holds it to his ear like he’s testing for a heartbeat. “This one’s saying I’m in luck.”
I aggressively smile, kind of akin to Jack Nicholson’s Joker, before reeling it in. “Well, the avocado support hotline is always on hand,” I reply.
“Excellent, it’s just what I needed this morning,” he says with a grin.
Is this flirting? It feels like flirting. In Tesco. With a man holding produce like it’s foreplay.
He tosses the avocado into his basket; I pretend to need tomatoes and grab a packet in front of me, along with a bag of lettuce.
He gestures to my basket. “Spinach, lettuce, tomatoes… are you one of those people who actually enjoys salad?”
And he’s extending the conversation.
My anxiety levels are now through the roof. I laugh again. Too hard, again. So much that a passing toddler turns and stares at me.
“I’m…one of those people who buys salad and then throws it out two weeks later because it liquefies in the fridge,” I say.
He laughs again. His laugh calms me somewhat. God, it’s a nice laugh. I feel it in places salad has never reached.
“Ah well, the good intention is there. I had to use all available willpower to walk calmly past the doughnuts.”
“The pink ones with the white sprinkles?” I fire back.
“Yes!”
“I had the same exact thought. All I want is to murder a six-pack of those over a cup of tea.”
“Sounds like heaven.”
Our eyes catch. For a moment, the chaos of Tesco fades: no screaming toddler, no squeaky wheels, just us and the smell of fresh bread.
“I’m Pete,” he says, offering a hand.
“Tom.” I shake it, noticing the rainbow image on the display of his Apple Watch.
Relief unfurls in my chest.
For a split second, I think about it. I want to ask. My throat goes dry, my hand still warm from the handshake. The words almost tumble out: Can I get your number? Coffee sometime?
But nerves clamp down. It’s Tesco, for God’s sake. I imagine myself blurting it out between the avocados and the spinach, looking desperate, forty-two and pathetic. So instead, I smile, too quickly, and say, “Well, good luck with the avocado surgery.”
Pete grins. “Thanks. Enjoy the liquefied salad.”
And just like that, we part. He heads down the aisle, basket swinging. I linger, watching his back retreat into the crowd.
I kick myself immediately. The moment was there. An organic, romantic connection. Served up on a platter, and I bottled it.
By the time I leave the store, Pete is gone. Outside, the car park glitters with exhaust fumes and overheated bonnets. I scan instinctively, just in case, but no luck.
I stand there, dazed, clutching my shopping like it’s evidence. Did that just happen? Did I just flirt in Tesco? Meet someone organically, in the wild, where romance usually goes to die?
I’m forty-two. I thought my romantic life had been reduced to apps, awkward coffees, and rejection emails. And now — this. A stranger with kind eyes and a laugh that feels like summer.
For the first time in years, however fleeting, a real connection seems… possible.
My phone buzzes. Heart leaping, I grab it — only to freeze.
Daniel.
A message, short and sharp: I need to see you.
The brightness of Tesco, the warmth of Pete’s grin — it all feels a million miles away.
I stare at the screen, chest tight. I don’t reply.
Not yet.