Blind Date

Blind Date

Pick a bar. Pick a time. And then decide if there’s anyone there worth talking to.

Trust me, I’m a busy person. I have better things to do than meet random men from the internet, but something about that message drew me in.

Adam, the investor whose profile picture showed nothing more than his shirt and tie, may not have been forthcoming when it came to sharing photos of himself, but what he lacked in pixels, he more than made up for in confidence.

After all, you’ve got to be pretty damn good-looking to assume that in a crowded bar, a woman would pick you to speak to over everyone else.

And you’ve got to be pretty cocky. And what kind of woman can resist a man like that?

Not to mention the adventure. I feel like a Hollywood actress starring in my own movie as I cross the foyer of the Ritz.

Adam did tell me to choose the venue, and since I figure drinks are on him, why not meet in the cocktail lounge of one of London’s most famous luxury hotels?

‘May I take your coat, madam?’ the receptionist asks.

I slip off my navy trench, shrugging it quickly from my shoulders and into the receptionist’s hands, hoping she doesn’t clock the label.

When I’m wearing it, it can just about pass for Burberry; inside it even has the iconic checked lining, except the label is emblazoned with a dodgy Chinese brand: Furbelly.

Something clearly got lost in translation.

I really ought to unpick the label at some point, but that would probably look even more conspicuous.

If she has noticed, the receptionist is far too professional to let it show. Her face remains perfectly impassive as she hangs my coat and walks me to the hotel’s cocktail bar. I let her know that I’m early but that I’ll be meeting someone soon.

‘Of course,’ she says as she leads me in.

Aside from being a ludicrously expensive Mayfair bar that I’d never go to under normal circumstances, one of the reasons the Rivoli Bar appealed was the description on the hotel’s website, which claimed it had been styled to resemble the ‘inside of a jewellery box’.

Walking in now, I see exactly how spot on that description was.

The bar is incredibly cute, with a shell-like dome in the ceiling, twinkling chandeliers, gleaming dark-panelled walls, and pretty cushioned chairs that look like ring holders.

‘If you take a seat at the bar, you can have a drink while you wait,’ the receptionist says politely as she gestures towards the bar, shaped like a half-moon.

‘Thank you,’ I reply with a smile before wandering over and taking a seat.

As I wait to be served, I catch my reflection in the mirror behind the counter.

The lighting is as soft and gentle as candlelight, flattering my blue eyes, which I’ve framed with smoky eyeshadow and false lashes, and my long brown hair, which I spent the good part of an hour tweaking with tongs, spray, and serum so that it tumbles in sumptuous and seemingly effortless waves down my back.

I flick a few locks over my shoulder and arch my spine ever so slightly, and within seconds, the barman is placing a tray of empty glasses down on the bar, wiping his hands on the towel hanging from his apron and hurrying over to me, wide-eyed, a sparkly smile spreading across his face.

‘I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,’ he says, his eyes scanning my features, working their way down to my chin and then back up.

I can practically feel the effort he’s going through not to look further south, at my breasts, which I’ve deliberately bolstered and pushed up to form the perfect cleavage.

‘Don’t worry,’ I reply, glancing down at the cocktail menu.

I don’t need to flick my eyes up to know that his have probably wandered to my breasts now. In fact, feeling his gaze on them is exciting. He’s not my usual type: too young and skinny, but I’m in the mood for sex tonight, and the attention is titillating.

‘I’ll have a Manhattan,’ I tell him.

‘Of course.’ He sets about making my drink while I check my phone.

Adam isn’t due here for half an hour, but I like to arrive early.

Even for regular dates. The truth is, I don’t really get out that much.

I’m a homebody. A freelance writer who works from her laptop.

My days revolve around my little enclave of southeast London: its familiar cafes, parks, and shops.

I don’t come into the city probably anywhere near as much as a woman my age should, and so when I do venture into Zone One, particularly for a date, I like to get a head start so I can acclimatize.

It’s one thing getting used to a new man without having to get used to new surroundings as well.

The waiter places my amber-coloured cocktail down in front of me.

He asks if I’d like to pay now or open a tab.

I decide to pay now. It’s probably better that I don’t start draining Adam’s wallet before he’s even arrived.

Not that I suspect he’d mind. From our conversations online, he’s happily given me the impression that money isn’t a concern.

Insisting we’ll order champagne when we meet.

Dropping in casual mentions of high-end hotels, jet-setting travel, and diverse business investments.

Although that could be an act. He might stand me up for all I know.

The waiter discreetly slips a bill on a silver dish, and when I take a look, I almost wish I had opted for a tab, but instead, I blithely open my clutch, take out my purse, and place my card down.

I may be paying a lot for a cocktail, but I shouldn’t complain.

Especially since this drink is hopefully going to be the only expense I’ll be incurring tonight.

The waiter takes my payment and hands my card back with an easy smile before turning his attention to an older man approaching the bar.

I catch the man’s eye and smile awkwardly.

Could he be Adam? He looks around sixty, with a sagging jawline and a potbelly protruding over his belt.

Adam said he was thirty-four, but he could have been lying.

The man smiles politely back at me, looking a little perplexed, before reeling off his drinks order.

Five pints of Stella and a Laphroaig. No, clearly not Adam.

I take a sip of my Manhattan and try not to wince at the sharp medicinal taste of whisky.

It’s pretty disgusting, but I need the Dutch courage.

God knows what Adam’s going to be like. I begged him to send me a photo, but he point-blank refused.

I couldn’t understand it. Why would anyone be so against sending a selfie?

In the end, I came up with a few theories.

My first (and personal favourite) was that he might be famous.

I mean, how cool would it be if a regular woman like me ended up going for a blind date with a stranger from the internet and they turned out to be Bradley Cooper or someone like that?

I know it sounds far-fetched, but it didn’t seem entirely out of the question.

Surely for some famous people, it might make a nice change to go on a date with a regular person for once?

A person who hasn’t been lured in by your celebrity status.

But Adam flat-out denied he was famous, which I have to admit was a little disappointing.

My next theory was that he was hideously ugly, which didn’t really seem to fit given his cockiness. But he played along with that idea for a while, joking that he’d been hit with a shovel as a child.

‘Mother could be so cruel’, he’d said.

I even dubbed him ‘shovelhead’ for a bit. But that was only banter. I’m pretty sure he’s not going to be that bad.

My third, and slightly less fun theory, is that he’s married and doesn’t want to share his photo in case he gets caught.

He didn’t outright deny this one, which I suppose is kind of worrying.

He just sort of skirted over it, changing the subject, in a way that I couldn’t be sure was accidental or deliberate.

My third theory should probably be the strongest contender, but I’m still not sure I buy into it. Maybe I just don’t want to believe it.

I also toyed with the idea that Adam might be a criminal who’s worried that if he shares his photo, I might recognise him from the papers.

But that didn’t feel right either. In the end, I decided to stop speculating and just meet him face to face.

I’m in a public place, so what’s the worst that can happen?

I have a drink with someone I don’t want to see again and go home.

It’s not like my plans of staying in and watching Netflix can’t wait.

I sip my drink and glance around the bar.

A middle-aged Asian couple polish off a bottle of red at a table surrounded by Selfridges shopping bags.

A woman around my age sits on her own drinking what looks like a G&T while tapping away on her phone.

A group of corporate-looking guys are gathered around a larger table by the wall.

They look like they’ve had a meeting that’s gone a bit rogue.

Papers are spread over the table, but they’re swigging hungrily at their drinks, clearly having abandoned all thoughts of business.

The man in his sixties from the bar heads back to their table with a fresh round.

Even though he refused to send me a photo, Adam once claimed he was ‘tall, dark, and handsome. Like, for real’.

Confident and cocky. I guess that’s my type.

‘A bit like Heathcliff’,’ he’d added, knowing I’d appreciate the literary reference and, like many bookish women, probably harbour a bookish crush on Bronte’s quintessential heartthrob.