Chapter 8
Don’t get me wrong, I know that JJ’s unsolicited dating services are free, and that beggars shouldn’t be choosers, but I feel like I put in an order for a romcom leading man, and what she has delivered is exactly what she threatened in the first place: a reality TV star.
She did tell me upfront who I would be meeting – Max Hart, best known for his stint on Welcome to Singledom, you know, that reality dating show where a bunch of sexy singles have to survive on an island together and find love, because nothing makes for the basis of a strong relationship like emptying the shared loo bucket.
I wasn’t going to look him up, because you don’t normally get to do that ahead of a date, do you?
But as I was doomscrolling in the bath, putting off getting ready, I thought why not?
I was expecting a bunch of vapid shirtless selfies but instead I was surprised.
Max seemed quite human, from photos of him doing charity work with his friends to the video of him hugging his gran and thanking her for always supporting him.
I thought he’d be like all of the other reality TV types, so I was surprised to see a human.
I actually allowed my hopes to edge up, just a little.
So now I’m here, standing in the entrance of a fancy Mayfair restaurant, waiting for Max.
The place is all glass and gold accents, with a discreet door and a sign so minimalist it might as well not be there.
There’s a queue of very glossy people waiting to get into the bar, and a gaggle of paparazzi waiting outside, but bizarrely for a place with so much glass, you can’t see beyond the waiting area (which only has me waiting in it, and no one is interested in me).
I smooth down my dress, my boobs higher than I’m expecting them to be thanks to the bra I let JJ talk me into buying earlier.
It’s almost like a jump scare, when I can’t find them where they usually chill, but JJ assures me dates go much better when your tits are closer to your chin, so we’re humouring her on that one.
She kept telling me to sell myself – adding ‘not like that’ when I rolled my eyes.
She’s making it seem like it’s a job interview when really it’s just dinner…
right? These things always go much better when I’m more casual about them.
The last thing I need is myself getting in my head – if that makes sense?
The host looks over at me like I might be lost.
‘I’m waiting for Max Hart,’ I tell her, pre-empting her questioning. I can tell by the tightness in her jaw that she wants to throw me out already. I don’t look like their usual clientele.
‘Mr Hart is already here and seated at his table – he used the preferential guest entrance,’ she informs me. ‘Who shall I tell him is here?’
‘Whitney,’ I reply. ‘He’s expecting me.’
‘One moment,’ she says simply, her expression never changing.
She wanders into the dining room before returning, still with that same aggressively blank vibe.
‘This way, please. Max is ready for you,’ she informs me.
Well, great.
She leads me through the main part of the restaurant to a slightly raised section at the back, semi-screened off by plants and frosted glass panels. A private area in an already private area.
And there he is.
Max Hart is exactly what you’d expect a man made on a reality TV show to look like.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Hair that has clearly seen more salon time than my own.
He’s in a black shirt, open at the collar – two buttons, very slutty of him – sleeves rolled up.
He’s smart casual in the sense that some parts are smart, some parts are casual.
I suppose they would let someone like him wear anything in here, whereas I have the kind of profile where if I so much as thought about deviating from the dress code, they would show me the door.
He has two waiters, one either side of him, one pouring wine, the other chatting to him. Max looks so easy-going between them, sitting at the table, one elbow rested on top while he uses his free hand to gesture as he talks.
He spots me while he’s mid-conversation and lights up, standing to greet me. The two waiters dutifully scarper.
‘Whitney?’ he says, walking around the table to greet me.
His voice is lower than I expected. Warmer even.
‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, offering him my hand to shake. Of course, as I do this he goes to kiss me on the cheek, so I end up awkwardly pushing my hand against his trousers while he winds up with a mouthful of my hair. Thankfully, he laughs.
‘You look great,’ he says easily, not making me feel awkward about what just happened by swiftly moving on from it. ‘I’m really glad you could make it.’
‘So am I,’ I lie, because that’s what you say… Then again, with each second, I have to say, I’m kind of warming to the idea of having dinner with him. Perhaps I can dare to dream for more than simply ‘not a serial killer’. Perhaps this date could even be… dare I say it… good.
He pulls out my chair for me – which wins him some points, if you’re keeping score – and I sit, placing my bag by my feet, doing my best to have an air of the kind of person who often frequents such eateries, although looking down at the table, I can’t say I’m at all used to places where you have six forks each.
Six knives too, and five spoons – if you count the teeny-tiny one too.
This place is nice, metric fuck-ton of cutlery aside. Crisp white tablecloth. Real candles. Soft lighting clearly designed to filter your skin in photos. Everyone looks so smooth – unless they all use the same surgeons and/or aestheticians, in which case, I’m the only crusty-looking one here.
‘Can I order you a drink?’ he asks, gesturing to the wine in front of him. ‘Or I’ve got a bottle of red on the go. It’s decent.’
‘Wine would be lovely,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
He nods to the waiter who has reappeared at our table. He pours me a large glass, so obviously I like this place already.
‘So,’ Max says, once we’re alone. ‘JJ tells me you’re a writer.’
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Do you know her through work?’
‘She’s trying to get me to write a book,’ he says, rolling his eyes. ‘I keep telling her: who wants to read a book written by me? Apparently, I don’t even have to write it.’
‘Yeah, she has a lot of high-profile clients. She gets them book deals, finds them good ghostwriters,’ I explain.
‘I don’t know, that doesn’t seem fair,’ he points out – I’m a little taken aback by his response. ‘I much prefer doing TV stuff, I think that’s more my forte.’
It’s refreshing to talk to someone who could easily get a book deal but doesn’t want to take it because they don’t feel it’s their area of expertise.
‘What kind of stuff do you write?’ he continues. ‘JJ said you do biographies?’
‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘I’m working on a novel but it’s the non-fiction work that’s the day job.’
‘Well, I’ll know who to come to when I need mine doing,’ he says with a smile. ‘So that’s the job. What’s the dream? You said you’re writing a novel?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, slightly embarrassed, because isn’t it a cliché that a writer always says they’re writing a novel? Like we all think our work is so much bigger and more important than every other book that already exists. ‘I’m trying to get a romcom published. JJ is working on selling it for me.’
‘Well, she seems great,’ he replies. ‘I’m sure she won’t have any trouble. So you’re a romantic, huh?’
Hmm. I wouldn’t necessarily call myself a romantic, although maybe I am, given how unwilling to settle I am.
I just love writing love stories. There’s so much going on in the world, so many big stories to tell, few of them happy.
Finding love is tough… it’s a small story in the world but huge for the person who finds it.
Reading about people’s little glimmers of happiness gives us more hope than the bigger things. At least that’s what I think.
‘Something like that,’ I say with a small laugh.
I’m not sure that is or isn’t what he wants to hear.
‘We’re all looking for romance,’ he replies, sensing my embarrassment. ‘Take it from someone who flew halfway across the world to live on a deserted beach for six weeks, all the while with cameras in his face, just to try to find love.’
‘Yeah, I was going to say – have you not heard of Matcher or Tinder or Hinge?’ I jokingly check. ‘There has to be an easier way…’
‘To be honest, it wasn’t so bad. Most of it was lying around, flirting, and failing to catch fish. Not like this year’s series, where it all went wrong – did you watch?’
I shake my head. I didn’t watch, although I did hear about the storm that almost took it off the air – and of course about the forthcoming books that JJ has a couple of the contestants writing about their time on the now infamous season.
‘I ordered us the tasting menu,’ he says as a waiter places food down in front of us. ‘I hope you don’t mind. I just wanted to do something special for you.’
‘Sounds fantastic,’ I reply. ‘Looks fantastic too!’
Our first two plates are tuna tartare and then a burrata dish with roasted tomatoes for me.
Given that it’s a tasting menu, it’s those impossible little bites, where the servings are so small they always leave you wanting more – I guess that’s why you tend to get twelve tiny courses instead of three regular ones.
As dates go, honestly, this one is kind of a dream.
I thought dating a reality TV type would be obnoxious, that he’d think he was a mega star, that he’d be showing off.
Max is funny, sharp, self-deprecating. Not at all like the cardboard cut-out I’d expected.
The date somehow feels both incredibly special but completely normal – in the best possible way.
‘Did you actually think you’d find love on the show?’ I ask eventually.
Max smiles.