Nudge 19 The Jeans
The Jeans
Raina: Third one for sure, with the boots.
Me: I’m already wearing the jeans :(
I sent four different outfit options to the group chat this morning, with three interchangeable coat-and-shoe combos, and literally no one replied. When my phone finally buzzed late into the afternoon, I didn’t even want to look.
Raina: The jeans are so cute too!
Devi: I was actually struggling to choose between 3 and the jeans!
They’re both liars – the jeans may be cute, but the dress was better .
. . I already knew that before I left the house.
But I panicked and second-guessed myself .
. . I don’t know what the protocol is any more, and I certainly don’t know how to double that up into something I can wear to work first. Even if I’m not in the office today, I at least wanted to keep a professional vibe.
A pair of hip-hugging flared jeans were certainly a risk, but I figured paired with the right top they might be able to pass. And they probably would have if I wasn’t working with Aiden, who looked me up and down the second he met me outside.
‘Jeans on a workday? That’s unlike you,’ he said, a confused but intrigued look on his face.
‘I’m trying new things, remember?’
It looked like we both were. My jeans looked even more out of place next to the white shirt he’d shown up in. It’s the first shirt I’ve seen him in since the La La Lounge and a huge step up from his usual T-shirt-jeans combo. He nodded back at me, impressed, before we headed inside the wine cellar.
When Evie said she wanted us to hand-select the wines for the party, I imagined something similar to cocktails at the Lounge.
That was not the case. This is, in fact, far less glamorous and involves sitting cross-legged on the floor as we inspect the bottles around us and make notes on our terribly balanced laptops.
You see, Evie is a sucker for attention to detail and wants the bottles to mirror the theme perfectly.
She’s sent us to an extremely niche, international wine cellar hidden just off Camden Market that specialises in unknown bottles from around the world.
Before the sommelier guides us through our tasting next week, we must first make our way through their basement of different bottles and research which ones come from our spotlighted countries.
It’s been a trawl. We have been in this basement since 10 a.m. and not come up for air or light once.
The good news is, it’s stopped me from worrying about tonight, or my outfit.
Or at least, it did until the texts came through from the girls.
I look down at my legs again with my new knowledge of their opinions, the light-wash taunting me as it stretches tightly across my thighs.
They’re cute, but they’re basic. Way too casual.
Benji will think I don’t try. What if he’s used to girls who put an effort into their appearance?
Or girls who show up and look effortlessly cute?
He’ll see my jeans and he’ll laugh, and the date will be over before I’ve even ordered my starter.
Are jeans first-date appropriate?
I nervously type into a private browser, frantically scanning the results for a definitive answer. Before I can get too far, a chocolate bar flies through the air and slides across my keyboard, briefly shocking the breath out of my system.
‘Eat,’ Aiden says as I look up at him in confusion. ‘You skipped lunch again and you’re more jittery than normal.’
This task has been so involved that we’ve barely made conversation, which, while refreshing, is increasingly rare nowadays. For a moment, I even forgot he was here.
‘If you don’t like chocolate, I’ve got other options. Strawberry grains, protein bars, a selection of crisps . . .’
‘You keep a small pantry in your bag?’ I ask, raising an eyebrow.
‘I’ve started to, yeah. You barely eat when you get bogged down with work. Didn’t know your snack preference so had to cover all bases. I call it my Mads-Bag – like a grab-bag.’
Terrible attempt at a pun aside, the whole thing takes me by surprise.
I have sat next to Pippa and Gus for four years and neither have noticed my poor eating habits.
I barely notice myself until I’m sitting on the bus feeling dizzy and wondering why.
To have Aiden – the man who sees me two days a week and quite frankly probably doesn’t care if I live or die – notice is incredibly suspicious.
But, regardless, my stomach is growling, so I open the packet and take a bite.
‘I chose well.’ He is triumphant, watching as I wolf the bar down within a matter of seconds. ‘You want some crisps too?’
‘What flavour?’
‘What would you want?’
‘Ready salted?’
‘Knew it.’ He smirks, shaking his head. ‘Although, I did have options just in case.’
He reaches into his backpack, removing a six-flavour multipack from it like the sword of Excalibur and chucking a pack across the table.
I waste no time replying, tearing open the packet and shovelling crisps into my mouth.
The salt soothes all my worries the second it touches my tongue, and I feel my shoulders unfurl and my breath steady.
He slides a second across before I’m even done, waiting for me to snatch it before he indulges in one himself.
‘I told you I covered all bases. Isn’t that what organised people do? Have plans A to C ready to go?’
‘You bought a multipack of crisps – quite literally “small potatoes”.’
He flips his middle finger up at me, before taking a couple of crisps out of his own bag.
‘So, why so stressed?’ he asks, his tone gentler. ‘I thought you had the invite wording in the bag?’
Yes, the invite wording that I took a break from wine research to submit before close of play.
The wording that I was about to start when the FGA finally replied to me.
It’s 4.30. I promised Evie this would be with her by five and I currently have three words.
They’re not even good ones: Dear Sir/Madam.
What was I thinking? It’s too formal. I have to delete.
‘You’re probably overthinking it. Let me see,’ he says, mistaking my silence for a cry for help and reaching across for my laptop before I can stop him.
I try to snatch it back, but I’m not quick enough. He looks over my dubious Google search, eyes scanning it twice for good measure before emitting a deep-throated chortle.
‘I knew the jeans weren’t for work,’ he manages to say.
‘It’s not funny,’ I pout, reaching for it again.
I’m nervous enough as it is – the last thing I need is Aiden mocking me before I’ve even arrived. It’s insulting at best and degrading at worse, and souring up all the goodness of the snacks.
‘Who’s the guy?’ he asks.
‘Irrelevant,’ I answer.
‘Where’d you meet him?’
‘None of your business.’
‘So, an app.’
‘No, hate those.’
His eyes light up at the morsel of information. ‘In person? What was it . . . a bar? A club? Was he at Paint That Mate? What’s his name? I probably know him.’
I can practically see the possibilities running through his devious mind.
‘You don’t know him,’ I say, monotonous as can be.
‘I could know him. What’s his name?’
‘You’re not in the same circles.’
‘You don’t know my circles.’
This goading is slightly lighter and friendlier than normal, devoid of our usual animosity. He’s not trying to attack me and I have no need to go for him. So, I retract my claws and throw him a small bone.
‘His name’s Benji.’
‘Rough name,’ he says immediately.
I scrunch my face in confusion at the unprovoked change in tone.
He shrugs casually. ‘I’ve never met a good Benji.’
‘How many Benjis do you know?’
‘Enough to know they’re all losers.’
His lip’s curling at the corner, features dancing in delight at the mildly irate look creeping up my face. He’s enjoying this far too much and it’s only irritating me more, piled on further by the ever-telling look in his eyes.
‘I know what you’re doing.’
His spine straightens at my assertion, smirk growing wider as he leans forward and takes me in.
‘What am I doing, Maddy?’ he asks, voice low and seductive.
The tone sends a jolt through me that briefly halts my breath, but I rush past it. It’s confusing and distracting – all part of his plan. But I’m smarter than he is. I know a ploy when I see one.
‘You’re trying to psych me out before my date. Launch me into overthink mode and you one step closer to winning our bet,’ I say.
‘Is that so?’
His voice is so low now it hums, vibrating through my eardrums and travelling down to my stomach. The interruption re-awakens the butterflies in their pit.
‘I see right through you.’ I ignore them as they flap.
His mouth twists into a teasing smile. ‘Do you now? How do I look?’
My cheeks flush instantly, the heat crawling up my face and washing through the rest of my body with swiftness. He can’t just say things like that. Not on a work outing and especially not right now.
‘We’re done talking about this,’ I say, hands returning to my keyboard.
I direct my gaze back to the screen, quickly closing the tab and opening the invite wording. I type furiously as I will the task to bring my heart rate back down. Out of the corner of my eye I can see him staring at me, his stupid smile still firmly intact.
‘It’s five – leave,’ he says.
I half sing in reply as my fingers tap feverishly on the keys. ‘Can’t hear you. I’m wording the invite.’
‘You’ll be late for your date; I’m sure you have a whole schedule planned out.’
Of course I do. I can’t quite admit that now, especially since he’s so curious.
Benji picked a bar in Brixton, which would have been fine if I was in the office in Clapham, but since I’m travelling from north to south, it involves having to brave not one but two hot, sticky Tubes.
I’m a Tube hater anyway, but the Tube before a date after I straightened my hair this morning is just cruel.
If I leave soon, I could get away with adding half an hour and taking two buses instead.
But looking at this blank document, I don’t think that’s happening.
I do a silent prayer that my roots withstand the Tube humidity.
‘I’ll finish the invite,’ Aiden says.
I look up from my keyboard, lips pursed as I try to decipher this new trap.
‘It wasn’t your task.’
‘You’re right. And you’ve never picked up any of mine.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘You’ve got places to be. Boring Benjis to meet. I’ll stay and finish – shouldn’t take that long anyway.’
‘You don’t stay late,’ I retort.
‘I have a bet to win too. A couple of late nights won’t kill me and I’ll track them in my new work log.’
I can’t help but release a small, near-silent chuckle at the way his eyebrows wiggle proudly at the mention of his new log. It’s almost undetectable but he picks up on it, meeting my smile tooth for tooth as he nods in acknowledgement.
‘You sure?’ I ask.
‘Positive. Go make Benjamin’s night,’ he says, returning to his laptop.
It feels weird leaving him behind in this cellar, working. I’ve never left this close to five, either. Something about it feels almost illegal and I can’t explain why. I open my phone camera, checking over my face and applying a fresh coat of gloss to my lips before I get up from the floor.
‘Oh, Maddy?’ Aiden calls and I freeze, hand wrapped round the cellar door handle. ‘The jeans are definitely first-date appropriate. He’ll be a big fan.’