Chapter 22
22
GRETA
‘ That’s the one,’ says Tiggy, nodding vigorously from the bed. She’s stretched out and munching on pickled onion Monster Munch. I can smell its pungent aroma from here.
‘Are you sure?’ I ask, turning this way and that in front of the mirror. ‘You don’t think it’s too “business-y”?’
‘I don’t know. I lost interest after outfit number four.’
‘Oi, no fair. I need your honest opinion.’
She props herself up and swings her legs over the edge of the bed. ‘Okay, what are you going for exactly?’
‘I don’t know! That’s why you’re here.’
She gets up and crosses to the wardrobe, dusting her fingers off on her jeans. She points to outfit number one, a floaty, chiffon dress I wore to a wedding last summer. ‘Too formal,’ she declares.
‘Right, okay. And what about this one?’ I ask, looking down at the dress I’m wearing.
‘Yep, too “business-y”.’
I immediately unzip it and step out of it, then hang it up and return it to my wardrobe. ‘And any of the others I’ve tried on?’ I ask, hopeful.
Her eyes scan the array on the bed. ‘Hmm. You want to look sexy and confident, but not like you’re ready to skip off to the registry office after dinner.’
‘Yes, exactly.’
‘How about this?’ she says, reaching into my wardrobe. She holds up a jumpsuit in black crepe with bell sleeves and wide legs. ‘I’ve only ever seen you wear it once.’
‘That’s because I look ridiculous in it.’
‘You absolutely do not.’
‘Tiggy, I’m petite and curvy and petite, curvy girls should not wear jumpsuits,’ I say.
She rolls her eyes. ‘You’re being daft – you’d never guess you work at a fashion magazine . You wear it with these,’ she says, taking my highest heeled boots off the shoe rack, ‘and cinch the waist with a belt.’ She thrusts the boots at me. ‘At least try it all on.’
I cross my arms across my chest.
‘Humour me.’
Now I roll my eyes, but I do change.
‘See?’ I say, holding my arms out wide.
‘All I see is a hot woman wearing a sexy-but-not- too -sexy outfit.’
I look back at the mirror, trying to see myself through Tiggy’s eyes. ‘My boobs look good,’ I admit, running my fingers over the V-shaped neckline.
‘Your boobs look amazing. And your waist. And your hips. I’m telling you: this is it. This is the one.’
‘Five minutes ago, you didn’t give a hoot what I wore.’
‘I did give a hoot, honestly… It’s just…’
She sits on the edge of the bed and looks up at me.
‘What? Just say it.’
‘Are you sure you should be going on this date?’
I flinch. ‘What do you mean? I’ve had Harrison’s bloody photo stuffed in a bloody drawer for weeks – just so I wouldn’t stare at it for hours on end. Of course I’m going on this date!’
‘Okay, okay.’
‘Besides, Poppy said I should. And she’s a professional matchmaker.’
‘I said okay.’
‘Why are you asking that anyway?’
‘Babes, you haven’t dated – properly, I mean – since forever . And now, in the space of a month, you’ve gone out with a who’s-who of odd bods, have accidentally started dating your coffee-shop friend, and now you’re going out with a man you’ve been obsessing about for weeks . Do you see why I’m concerned?’
‘No, I don’t,’ I say, digging in my heels even though I do see. I’ve been worrying about the same thing.
‘How about this: what if you’ve built Harrison up in your mind so much that he’s a disappointment? Or worse, he’s everything you’ve dreamt of and then you have to choose between him and Ewan?’
I haven’t told Tiggy about Poppy’s caveat to tonight’s date. Out of respect to both men and the agency, I get this one evening with Harrison, then I have to choose. A knot twists in my stomach and I inhale deeply to breathe through it.
‘Besides, I like Ewan for you,’ she adds.
‘What?’ I ask, my thoughts swinging back to the conversation. ‘You haven’t even met him.’
She shrugs. ‘Doesn’t matter. I see how you are when you talk about him.’
‘This isn’t helping,’ I say. ‘Now you’re just making me nervous – more nervous.’
‘I don’t mean to—’ She sighs again. ‘Okay, if you want to go on this date, I fully support that decision and I’ll be here for you afterwards.’
‘What, so you’re going to sit in my flat all evening?’
‘Greta! I mean metaphorically . God, you really are in a tizz.’
‘I guess I am – sorry. Just… Am I doing the right thing?’
She laughs wryly. ‘Look, I love you – you know I do – but that’s exactly why I brought it up. I want you to consider this from every angle.’
‘Mum says you only ever regret the things you didn’t do,’ I say quietly.
‘Then that’s your answer. Go on the date. We’ll have brunch tomorrow – no, make that lunch because I plan on staying out very late,’ she says with a waggle of her brows. ‘And we’ll debrief, okay?’
I nod, relief flooding my veins.
‘And wear that. If he doesn’t fancy you in that outfit, he’s either not attracted to women or doesn’t have a pulse.’
‘Thanks, Tiggy.’
‘Hey, I got you.’ She glances at the clock. ‘Bugger, I’ve got to go.’
‘Hot date?’ I ask.
‘ Two hot dates,’ she replies.
‘At the same time?’ I ask, confused. She replies by waggling her eyebrows again.
‘Oh, of course,’ I say, realising she’s off to have a threesome.
She stands, chuckling, and smacks a loud kiss onto my head.
‘Not the hair,’ I say, smoothing my deliberately messy up-do. Her cackling laughter follows her out of the flat.
Harrison is taller and even more handsome than I expected him to be. The Uber drops me off across the road from Le Mercury in Islington and he’s already waiting outside. When I get out of the car, I take a moment to compose myself, while Harrison looks along the road in both directions, presumably for me.
It suddenly occurs to me that he may not know what I look like. I did provide a photo along with my client questionnaire, but I’ve never thought to ask how things work from a potential match’s point of view. Was he given my biography, like I was given his?
‘How much does he already know about me?’ I mutter to myself. ‘And what if he prefers tall, slender blondes?’
Though, if he did, I doubt Poppy would have matched him with me .
An older woman passes, catching me talking to myself. She gives me an odd look.
‘Good evening,’ I say, but she scurries away, shaking her head.
I glance back at Harrison and now he’s looking across the road, right at me. He’s squinting slightly as if he’s trying to decide if I’m the person he’s supposed to be meeting. Or he just witnessed me scaring away an elderly woman and he’s plotting his escape.
‘Hello!’ I call out, lifting my hand in a wave. ‘Harrison, it’s me.’ He doesn’t react right away, so I wave my arm and shout, ‘It’s me – Greta .’
He waves, his smile faltering.
‘Oh my god, you right bloody idiot,’ I say through my teeth, which I realise too late probably reads as a grimace from thirty feet away. I step into the road, and the immediate blare of a horn stops me in my tracks. A car whizzes past so closely, I can see the white of the driver’s horrified eyes, and I leap back onto the kerb.
‘Are you all right?’ Harrison calls.
I meet his eye with a fake smile. ‘Smashing. Just forgot how to cross a road without getting run over,’ I call back.
His deep laughter is audible from here, but my heart is still racing when I look both ways, then to the right a second time, and safely cross the road.
‘Hi,’ I say, a little breathless.
‘Hello, Greta,’ he says, flashing me a warm smile.
After only a handful of syllables, I’m already in love with his richly timbered voice. With those dulcet tones, he could easily be a full- time voice actor – none of this part-time nonsense.
He bends down to kiss my cheek, but I’ve stupidly stuck out my hand for a handshake and my hand collides with his chest – more specifically, his right nipple.
Good grief. Is it too late to go home and start this again?
‘Sorry about that – touching your nipple,’ I say. ‘And saying “nipple” three seconds after I’ve met you,’ I add, my mouth operating without permission.
He chuckles again, his russet-brown eyes alive with laughter. At least he finds me amusing.
‘Shall we head in?’ he asks, turning towards the entrance. ‘And thanks again for coming out to Islington. Normally, I’d have suggested somewhere more central, but my private students had a recital this afternoon not far from here.’
‘Oh, no problem at all. My best friend lives in Islington, so I’m a frequent visitor to this hood.’
I have never said the word ‘hood’ in my life. I am officially losing it.
‘Have you been here before then?’ he asks as he holds the door for me.
I cast my eyes about the cosy, French-style bistro; it has almost as much greenery as The Daily Grind, an unwelcome thought I dismiss immediately. It’s also the type of place couples go for romantic dinners, so, no, Tiggy and I have never been. The Indian restaurant down the road? Absolutely! Our names are carved into our favourite table (JK, not really).
‘First time,’ I answer cheerily.
We’re shown to a table by the window and when we’re seated facing each other, my nerves kick into high gear. This is Harrison, the man whose face has been indelibly inked on my brain for almost a month now. He smiles, then his gaze drops to the menu, so I look at mine.
‘It’s my first time too,’ he admits. ‘My sister recommended it. Perfect for first dates, apparently. Although …’ He says this in a way that makes me look up, and he meets my eye, his brow creased. ‘How she knows that is a little baffling. She’s been married for sixteen years.’
I doubt he’s actually concerned his sister is stepping out on her spouse but just in case, I respond with, ‘She probably googled it. You know, “Romantic restaurants, Islington”.’
Romantic? Ugh. Presumptuous much?
Harrison appears unbothered by the ‘romantic’ part and laughs.
‘You’re right. Emily’s so fixated on my love life – or lack of – she’s probably mapped out a whole slew of perfect first-date locations across London.’ He laughs again.
I inhale sharply and keep my gaze fixed on my menu.
His laughter stops abruptly.
‘Oh… I didn’t mean anything by that,’ he says, frowning.
I nod, faking another smile, then swallow the enormous lump lodged in my throat. Which is ridiculous. I’ve only just met this man and the thought of him dating half of London shouldn’t have this kind of impact on me. He’s not mine .
‘You’re actually the first first date I’ve been on in ages,’ he continues, ‘which is why I’m cocking this up so spectacularly.’
I look up, my mouth falling open. He grimaces at his faux pas, adding a shrug, and we both start shaking with laughter.
‘You are quite terrible at it,’ I say as our laughter subsides. ‘But at least you didn’t nearly get run over crossing the road.’
‘How do you know? I could have had a near-miss with a lorry before you were dropped off.’
‘Did you?’
‘No.’
‘So, we’re both rusty,’ I say, realising what I’m admitting.
‘Looks like it.’
The waiter comes over. ‘Can I start you off with something to drink?’ she asks.
Harrison and I both return to the menu. ‘Wine?’ he asks me.
‘Wine… Er, yes…’ I reply, quickly reading down the wine list. The waiter excuses herself to give us more time.
‘To be honest, I’m rubbish at choosing wine,’ says Harrison and (of course) I’m instantly reminded of Ewan, who isn’t.
‘Shall we go with the Pinot Grigio?’ I ask, referring to the first bottle on the list.
‘Perfect,’ he replies, ‘and dinner? What about the prix-fixe?’ he asks. ‘Though just two courses for me. I never eat dessert.’
Never? I think.
‘Sounds good,’ I lie, even though the dark chocolate tart would have gone down a treat. But there is no way I’m having dessert if he’s not. I shift in my seat, hoping I’ve done a decent job of masking my disappointment – it’s just a chocolate tart.
But what about all the desserts to come if you keep dating him? Bollocks, have I just set a no-dessert precedent?
Harrison catches the waiter’s attention, and we order the wine, then give our choices for starters and mains. When we’re alone again, I’m left wondering what to talk about.
‘So, your students had a recital today?’ I ask, latching onto something he said earlier.
‘Uh, yes. The ones I teach outside of school. You know I’m a secondary school teacher, right?’
I nod.
‘Well, my privates—’ He stops himself, a blush rising from his neck. ‘Wait, private students , not my privates… Oh god.’ He runs a hand over the back of his neck. ‘Can I start again – without putting my foot in my mouth?’
I giggle. ‘You know, I gleaned from the context that “privates” meant private students and not your genitals. You did mention them when I got here. Oh! Not your genitals – your students !’
I start sniggering and his eyes light up with mirth.
‘I knew what you meant,’ he says, chuckling. ‘I must be rubbing off on you already.’
‘Rubbing off on me,’ I say through breathless laughter and he joins in.
When the waiter returns with the wine, she clears her throat to get our attention, then show the bottle to Harrison, who tells her to show it to me, as I’m the one who chose it.
I check the label and agree it’s the correct wine, even though I can’t remember the name of the winery on the menu, then once she has poured a splash into my glass, I take a sip.
‘Yummy,’ I say without thinking.
The waiter smiles – I can only imagine what she’s thinking – then pours two generous glasses and leaves.
‘Yumminess being the primary characteristic of a Pinot Grigio,’ I say, and Harrison grins.
‘I like that you can laugh at yourself,’ he says, regarding me closely.
‘I find it’s best to get in first before other people can.’
I have no idea why I said that – it makes me sound like I have low self-esteem, which I don’t.
‘Well, at least you aren’t casually chatting about your penis on a date.’
‘Harrison,’ I say deadpan. ‘I don’t have a penis.’
This kicks us off again and when the laughter dwindles, we both reach for our wine and take a sip.
While our shared laughter has chased away my nerves, I’m left wondering, Now what do we talk about?