Chapter 1 One year later
The Pen and Pencil is Isaac’s idea. There’s nothing wrong with it exactly, if you like bars where you are continually jostled by groups of drunk friends who look so young they could be pupils at the school you’ve been teaching in all day.
Nothing wrong if you don’t mind waiting thirty minutes to get served, all the while trying to ignore the smell of vomit coming from the toilets.
But it doesn’t exactly scream perfect first-date location.
It’s not the sort of place you want bringing up at your wedding when your groom stands next to you at the top table ready to recall the moment you first met.
I don’t want to hold it against Isaac before I’ve even met him but as I sit on a barstool waiting for him to arrive, trying and failing to get the barman’s attention, I find that I kind of do.
There are endless options for good dates.
Summer evenings in a beer garden when the air is warm and swarming with possibilities.
Late November afternoons in the city centre where fairy lights sparkle off every surface and bodies huddle together for warmth.
Saturday mornings in the park, the early morning light cutting through the trees and catching the three copper shades of my highlighted hair.
I’ve been on so many dates this last year I should know what a good one looks like by now, and it’s not this.
I breathe deeply a few times and try to recall the tingly nerves I had on the train on the way here. Those nerves are important, and I need to get them back. They tell me there’s still hope, that I still believe I can go out and meet someone for the first time and it can turn into everything.
‘Lizzie?’
There’s a tap on my shoulder, and I turn to find Isaac smiling down at me.
Wow.
He’s tall like he said he was, the messy brown hair that made me swipe right on the dating app is on full display, but the pictures I’ve studied failed to show the dimples in his cheeks. Online, Isaac is handsome, but in person he’s spectacular.
I couldn’t care less about the shitty choice of venue now that my mind is distracted.
He could have arranged to meet me in McDonald’s or for us to play a game of laser tag with a group of nine-year-olds – two dates I’ve actually been on this last, woeful year – and it wouldn’t have mattered because this lack of catfishing is unheard of.
Disappointment comes so frequently when meeting online dates, I’ve started to expect it.
This is the opposite. Not only is Isaac better than his pictures, but I already know we could be great together.
This last week, we’ve had so many conversations getting to know each other, he joked last night we’d have nothing to say when we actually met.
He’s funny and self-deprecating and seems kind.
I can’t believe that finally I’ve had some luck.
First-date nerves flood back into my system as our eyes meet, and I’m quick to look away, an uncharacteristic shyness taking hold that I consider a hugely positive sign.
‘Isaac?’ I check, although I know it’s him.
‘Hey, I’m so sorry,’ he shouts over the noise. ‘I had no idea it got like this. Shall we go somewhere else?’
‘Oh my God, yes, please.’
He laughs, and as he turns for the door, he takes my hand to lead me out. An excellent start. Once we’re outside, he continues to hold my hand until the street quietens and he slows down before turning to face me.
‘Hi, Lizzie,’ he says, voice soft and full of warmth. ‘It’s so good to meet you at last.’ He bends down to give me a kiss on my cheek, lingering in my space a few seconds longer than a peck usually needs, but I don’t mind. He smells amazing.
‘Hi. That was quite some place back there. I’m impressed we made it out in one piece.’
‘I’m so sorry about that. When I’ve been there on other dates, they’ve had candles out and it’s been really romantic. I hadn’t thought about it being a Friday at the end of the month. Forgive me?’
‘Oh, right. Yeah, of course,’ I say, sure I recall him saying he never finds anyone online that he’d actually go on a real date with. ‘Let’s find somewhere else.’
‘Come on, this way. You look beautiful by the way,’ he says, his eyes roaming from my platform shoes all the way up my green mini dress to my long, curled copper hair. ‘I love how petite you are. You make me feel huge.’
‘Er, thanks.’
He takes my hand again and I grimace inside.
When it was to help me through the drunken throng in the bar, it came across as caring, but now he’s leading me off on a quiet, open street.
I free myself from him when he starts to pull me along, feigning checking inside my bag for something.
Instead of slowing down to match my pace, he carries on, making me rush to keep up with him.
It’s fine, I tell myself, pushing down any oncoming doubts before they take hold and ruin this for me. We need to get into the date now, that’s all. Once we’re settled in some nice bar, glasses of wine in our hands, we can relax.
‘That place looks nice,’ I say, pointing to a tapas bar on the corner of Tipp Street. ‘I don’t think you have to order food. Shall we go in for a glass of wine?’
‘I’m not really a wine fan. Keep going?’
‘Sure,’ I agree. Also fine. So what if he doesn’t like wine? I can like it enough for the both of us.
‘Go on then, Lizzie, tell me – am I what you thought I’d be?’ he asks as we’re walking past the lovely, fairy light-lit tapas bar.
I look up from the uneven pavement I’m trying not to trip up on (these shoes were designed for elongating legs, not half-jogging to keep up with a man whose stride is double my own) and am met with an expectant expression, a slight smugness to his grin as he waits for a positive answer.
It’s such an out of place question. It belongs at the end of the night, after hours of talking and laughing.
‘I don’t know yet,’ I say, honestly. ‘Give me a few hours, and I might give you an answer.’
‘O-K,’ he says, putting his hands up in mock surrender. ‘But I will ask you again later. Or maybe tomorrow morning,’ he adds with a wink.
Shit. There’s nothing fine about that line.
‘Let’s start with a drink first, shall we?’ I offer him a pacifying smile so we can move on, but inside I’m not smiling. Inside, my hopes for tonight are shrivelling up and dying.
‘In here?’ he asks, pointing to an old-fashioned pub a few doors up the street.
In this maze of trendy bars and pubs, it would be the exact choice my dad would make for a Guinness and a game of pool with me when he comes to visit half a dozen times a year.
I say a silent farewell to the thought of drinking a crisp Sauvignon Blanc in a serene setting and agree.
If our date doesn’t properly begin soon, I’m not sure I’m going to want to go anywhere with him.
We order drinks at the bar and take them to a booth at the back of the pub.
At least it’s quiet in here, and we’ll be able to hear each other talk.
I run over my tried and tested conversation openers, trying to select the one I think will work best. Something tells me a conversation with Isaac about the last books we read, or our favourite restaurants isn’t the way to go, so I fall back to the failsafe option of complimenting him.
‘You know,’ I begin, after taking a massive gulp of my drink.
‘I’ve really enjoyed talking to you this week.
Your whole outlook on life, on getting the balance right, has been so refreshing to hear.
After the week I’ve had at work, it’s definitely made me think.
’ I fan my hair out so it sits prettily over my shoulders and smile at him.
‘Yeah, you’ve got to limit the time you’re being told what to do, where to be. It’s not good for you. Working twenty hours a week is my maximum. After that, my time is my own.’
‘God, twenty hours a week. I’d kill for that. I reckon I hit at least sixty, and you wouldn’t believe the amount of work I’ve got to do while I’m off to get me through the next half term.’
Isaac doesn’t reply, just smiles and takes a sip from his pint, killing the conversation.
OK, then. Some people can be funny about teachers’ hours, thinking we’re off half the year and doing bugger all when we’re in school.
Maybe I shouldn’t be talking about work on a Friday night, anyway.
What am I after? His commiserations? Isaac is probably someone who likes compartmentalising his life, so work doesn’t spill out everywhere like mine does.
‘What are your plans this weekend?’ I go for, hoping it’s a better line of conversation.
‘I’m glad you asked,’ he says, sliding over so our thighs are touching and putting his arm around me. ‘My plans hopefully involve waking up in bed with you tomorrow.’
I slide away.
‘Listen, I probably should tell you now, that’s not going to happen.
First dates for me are all about getting to know each other better before any of the other stuff comes into play.
Sorry,’ I add, but immediately wish I hadn’t just apologised for not having sex with him.
Besides, what I said wasn’t strictly true.
I’m not averse to the occasional one-night stand, but Isaac isn’t meant to be someone I’ll sleep with and never see again.
Before I met him, I really liked him. I’m not here for a few hours of sparks and excitement, I’m here for the long version.
I’m looking for the person I’ll still be holding hands with decades down the line, sparks that will still exist when we’re old and wrinkled.
‘Seriously?’ Isaac asks. ‘It’s like you just said – we’ve been talking all week, getting on great. How much more do you need to know about me before we hook up? Do you want references? My National Insurance number?’
‘No thanks, that’s not necessary,’ I say, smiling through gritted teeth. ‘Why don’t we just have a drink and a chat and see what happens?’
His eye rolling rivals some of my most dramatic thirteen-year-old students. ‘No offense, Lizzie, but I’ve plenty of people to chat to. If I wanted a chat I wouldn’t be here.’
I nearly choke on my gin and tonic. It’s not like he made out he was looking for a wife and kids or anything like that, but he seemed nice, decent, not the kind of guy who would tell someone how much they were looking forward to meeting them and how excited they were about where this might lead when, in fact, their sole intention was to get into their knickers.
‘You know, I’ve got to hand it to you, online, you play a good game. I was excited about tonight. I actually thought you were interesting and smart and funny. Shame I got it so wrong.’
Both of us widen our eyes in surprise that I’ve just said that. Out loud. A strange smile creeps over his face that brings to mind the smiles of serial killers or those people in Tesco that try to sell me Sky TV on my way out.
‘Fuck you,’ he says quietly enough that none of the other drinkers around us can hear him – but making damn sure I can.
‘What was that? Fuck me? Fuck you!’ I shout.
‘I’m leaving. Now I’ve got to know you for all of ten minutes, I can safely say I wouldn’t shag you if my life depended on it.
’ The group of men at the next table turn to look at me, drinks held in mid-air.
Furious, I stand up, knocking over the rest of the gin and tonic as I squeeze between Isaac and the table to get out, wanting to be as far away from him as quickly as possible.
I can hear the men at the next table sniggering into their pints. Good.
Outside, I walk quickly to put space between me and Isaac.
Anger propels me through the throngs gathering at the start of their nights out.
All I want is to be away from here, but that anger soon runs out, and I slow down.
I start to notice the couples sitting by windows in the restaurants I pass.
I sidestep people holding hands, couples sneaking in a quick kiss before walking into pubs to meet up with friends, and I see it all, everything I want.
I’m so busy watching other people, that I’m not looking where I’m going and nearly fall over in my heels on the uneven pavement.
I glance down at myself, at the stupid, uncomfortable dress I’ve put on, at the stupid heels I’m stumbling in.
A few hours ago, it all seemed worth it, but now I’m desperate to take it all off.
Before I can do anything to control them, tears start to fall. They’re not just for Isaac. They’re for all of them. Every bad date, every dashed hope I’ve had since I signed up to the dating apps so wide-eyed and certain I was going to find my person.
I take out my phone and go to the app that had ‘gifted’ me Isaac, but not to look for my next potential date. Instead, I press delete.