Blind Date #2
I scan the faces of the men in the bar, but I wouldn’t say that any of them are particularly Heathcliffe-like.
One, sitting a few tables away, has dark hair, but his face is too narrow, and his eyes are too small, and—oh, shit, he’s looking over.
He shoots me a curious, questioning glance, and I immediately look away, turning back to the bar.
I pick up my drink and bring it unsteadily to my lips, my hand trembling with pre-date nerves.
Maybe I should go home. What was I thinking? Tall, dark, and handsome men probably do not hang out online lurking behind anonymous profiles bonding with strangers over books and cute London cafes.
I started my account a few years ago. I didn’t use it too often, but now and again, I’d post pictures of nice places I’d been to in London—adorable cafes, pretty parks, charming boutique shops.
I’d post snaps of Pumkin being adorable and shots of sunsets over the Thames.
Sharing these pictures, mainly with my family and friends, who accounted for most of my followers, was nice, and it motivated me to get out and do new things.
Since, if I’m honest, when I’m left to my own devices, I have a tendency to stay at home with my cat Pumpkin and read an unhealthy amount.
Strangers started following me too. Some were local people in Greenwich, business owners of the cafes and boutiques I was posting about. But other followers seemed to be random. Random people who’d arrived at my profile from God knows where.
I’ve never been particularly into social media, so I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, but I wasn’t complaining. It’s nice getting likes and having people be interested in my ‘content’.
It’s probably unsurprising that after a while, I started sharing book reviews too.
That’s when I first noticed Adam.
An account with the username @Adamthorpe6789 started liking my book posts and a few of Pumkin’s too.
Then one day, I posted a hot take on a book that everyone in the bookish community seemed to love, calling it out for its rambling, sloppy writing, low-key misogyny, and slow, terrible plot, and all of a sudden, I had dozens of comments from the author’s cult-like followers, tearing me down and piling onto me as if I’d written the most offensive, sacrilegious thing ever, instead of simply having shared my subjective view that I wasn’t a fan of a book.
Adam took notice of the pile-on and slid into my DMs, offering words of support and saying that he agreed with me about the novel.
We started ranting about it, and it was a relief to chat to someone who ‘got’ my views.
There’s something about reading. It can be the most life-affirming thing ever when you find a book that resonates with you and makes you feel like you’re not alone in the way you see the world, but it can also be weirdly alienating when you clash with a book that everyone else seems to adore.
But Adam got it. We started talking about other books we love and hate, and it was clear we had the same taste.
I was careful to make sure he wasn’t just agreeing with everything I said and that he had actually read the books he claimed to.
It’s easy to tell if someone is just bullshitting to impress you, and Adam definitely wasn’t.
He knew the books we were talking about inside out, and he had strong, detailed views.
The kind you can’t form from a quick scan of a Goodreads page.
I was intrigued.
I know I shouldn’t have been. Adam’s profile featured a dozen pictures: mostly ostentatious stuff.
The kind of tacky content of a jetsetter.
Or at least, someone who wanted to look like a jetsetter.
Shots of champagne in first class on a plane, sunsets from hotel balconies, exotic beaches, and skyscrapers piercing foreign skies.
It struck me as strange that this showy guy could also be a bookworm, and I pressed him about it. He said that since he spends a lot of time travelling, he churns through audiobooks to pass the time, which seemed convincing enough.
We kept talking about our lives, our interests, our views on books and other things too, and I found myself bonding with him. Liking him. Even though he didn’t have a single picture of himself on his page and could be literally anyone.
I was ashamed that after a while, I started having feelings for him. Sometimes, late at night, our conversations would get intimate and flirty, and I’d find myself fantasizing about meeting him. Wondering what he’d be like.
But as I sit on my own and look around this expensive bar at the faces of strangers, I find myself questioning everything.
Why have I taken this step?
Why have I got all dressed up to meet some random guy?
Clearly, I don’t get out enough if these are the lengths I’m willing to go to for a bit of excitement.
Adam may have good taste in books, but he could be absolutely anyone. I mean, ‘tall, dark, and handsome’? Anyone could say that. I really have to stop wanting real life to be some sort of bookish fairytale.
I take another glug of my cocktail, not really minding the sharp whisky taste anymore. I need to numb myself right now.
I reach into my clutch for my phone and look at the time.
There’s still 20 minutes until we’re meant to meet.
I could bail. I glance nervously at the door as a tall guy walks in, with dark hair, dark eyes, and broad shoulders.
Jesus. He’s quite hot. Could that be Adam?
! I look up and smile sheepishly. His face lights up and he grins back.
My stomach lurches. Oh my God. Oh my God!
It’s him. I beam back at him as he approaches until he gets closer and I realise he’s looking over my shoulder at the girl tapping at her phone at the table behind me. For fuck’s sake.
Cringing and sinking into my seat, I click into my DMs and bash out a message.
Look, I need you to send me a photo. I’m smiling at random men and embarrassing myself.
I stare at my phone screen, hoping to see a read receipt. But nothing happens. Sighing, I pick up my drink, take another sip, and scroll blankly through my feed. Then my phone vibrates.
You’re already there? Lol, ok. Here’s one.
Finally! I hold my breath, my grip tightening around my screen. Is Adam finally going to send me a photo!? After all this time, is he going to put me out of my misery minutes before we meet? A picture comes through, and I tap on it immediately. But it just shows his shirt and tie and a suit jacket.
At least now you know what tie I’m wearing, he writes. You can look out for me.
I scoff as I zoom in on the tie: a purple one with polka dots. Hmmm. A bit feminine. Not really the sexiest or sultriest of looks. But if Adam has Heathcliff vibes, he could be wearing a bin bag for all I care.
I type back.
Nice tie!
I click send, my fingers clammy with nerves. I watch the screen for a minute to see if he replies, but he appears to have gone silent.
Placing my phone down on the bar, I glance around when all of a sudden, a man I hadn’t noticed before catches my eye.
He’s sitting on a table in the corner of the bar, reading The Financial Times.
He places the paper down on the table, giving me a full view of his tie. Holy shit. It’s purple with polka dots.
Our eyes meet. He has brown eyes and dark hair (even if it is a bit salt-and-peppery), and I suppose he’s handsome-ish, but he looks a lot older than thirty-four.
He’s pushing fifty, and I feel no attraction.
None. Swallowing my disappointment, I plaster a smile on my face, pick up my drink, and head over.
Just have a drink, be friendly, and go home, I tell myself as the butterflies in my stomach die down. I reason this’ll make a good story at the very least. One of those crazy dating tales my friends and I share in the pub, trying to make light of the frankly quite unamusing London dating scene.
I approach the table.
‘Hi!’ I say in a deliberately upbeat voice as I pull out a chair.
‘Erm, hello!’ the man replies, looking me up and down.
‘So...! Nice to meet you!’ I reach across the table to shake his hand. He looks surprised but pumps it anyway.
‘Likewise…’ he replies.
I sit down, a little put out that he couldn’t even be bothered to stand to greet me.
‘Soo… Umm, having a good day?’ I ask as I settle down, placing my clutch bag on the table.
I really shouldn’t have come here tonight.
The man gives me a sidelong glance from an article about interest rates.
‘Yes, pretty good. And you?’
‘Great!’ I let out a high-pitched, awkward laugh. ‘Nice tie!’
‘Umm…’ he glances down at it. ‘Thank you.’
I smile weakly. This is like pulling teeth. And why’s he drinking an espresso? I thought the plan was to order champagne?
I take a few sips of my cocktail, trying to think of something to say. The man smiles tightly and looks back at his paper. Rude.
‘Rachel?’
A voice interrupts my thoughts. I turn around and my heart skips a beat.
There’s a man standing behind me, giving me a playful half smile.
He’s tall, dark, and fucking handsome. His eyes are charming, brown, and twinkling mischievously; he’s got dimples and dark hair that’s slightly shaggy but in a nicely cut, sexy way, rather than unkempt.
He has Hollywood good looks. Is this really happening?
I feel like I need to blink just to make sure he’s real.
‘Am I interrupting something?’ he asks in a deep English gentleman voice as he glances between me and whoever the hell I’ve been sitting with.
I look at his tie: purple with polka dots. For God’s sake!
‘Tie mix-up!’ I grumble, turning to face whoever the hell I’ve been sitting with.
‘I’m so sorry, I, erm, thought you were, well, him.’
‘It’s fine,’ he says curtly, frowning at his paper.
I turn back to Adam, who’s lips are twitching with the effort of trying to suppress his laughter. I take my near-empty cocktail glass from the man’s table, apologise again, and hurry to the bar with Adam.