Chapter 5
FIVE
‘Sorry, I think I may have misheard you, Ruth. It sounded like you said you live with your ex-husband?’
‘That’s right; I do,’ I replied, deciding in the moment it was best to be as upfront as possible as I took another bite of the burger while trying not to let my glasses fall off the bridge of my nose.
No point in trying to hide any details of my complex and not-put-together life.
Dating at twenty-nine is a very different beast to when I was twenty-one.
Back then, you could say just about anything, and your date would be chill about it.
You were a pothead living with your mum and had a collection of vintage Barbies, and occasionally sold pictures of your feet to creepy old men on the internet?
Totally fine. But at twenty-nine, you at least had to pretend you’ve got your life together, you have to know what the difference between an ISA and a regular savings account is.
Plus, the options become far more limited.
Nico’s brows furrowed instantly, and his friendly, interested body language shifted dramatically.
He went from casually slouching against the bar table, a smile fixed upon his face, to sitting upright, arms folded, as if someone had lodged one of the bar’s spare snooker cues firmly up his rectum.
Now I knew I wasn’t good at reading people, and social cues were not my forte, but I gathered he didn’t like this fact he had just discovered about me.
Ah, to be twenty-one again where a previous sexual fling with a flatmate was practically part of the tenancy agreement.
‘That’s… interesting,’ was all Nico managed to say.
I had realised some time ago that ‘interesting’ was one of those words that rarely conveyed the genuine sentiment of what someone meant to say.
It was like when someone says, ‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ when they are not in the slightest bit sorry for whatever they’ve done.
I noticed Chlo, whose hand and attention had been in the iron grip of Oscar’s all night, glancing over to assess the situation.
‘But it’s just until you get back on your feet, isn’t it, Ruthie?’ she interjected, trying to salvage the disastrous situation unfolding before her. ‘It’s not a permanent thing. Is it?’
I shrugged and took a sip of the extraordinarily weak margarita in front of me, admiring the ambient lighting of the dark and dingy bar, illuminated by the low Kelvin lamps I was sure I’d once spotted in a HomeSense in Milton Keynes.
Look, I’m a big fan of Chlo, but since my divorce, she loved, nay, was obsessed with trying to set me up, always eager to throw me into the arms of some man who she’d tell me I would absolutely love and fall head over heels for.
But if I’m being honest, even before Ben, I only ever had a cursory interest in males, like a tourist glancing at museums on the ‘things to do’ list: nice if you’re in the area, but hardly a pressing priority on your trip.
But Nico did seem nice and polite, maybe I should make a little bit more of an effort to be pleasant.
The first thing I had noticed about him was how architecturally and structurally impressive his nose was; I wanted to compliment him on just how impressive the scale of it was without taking up his whole head but it was quite possible that it could be taken the wrong way so decided to stay shtum.
‘Surely that can’t be healthy, though, right?’ Nico asked, his face turning back to me, clearly realising there were no other women around to hit on in his immediate vicinity, so he’d have to settle for me. ‘You have to see your ex-husband in the same house as you?’
‘Not healthy mentally, but very healthy economically,’ I said nonchalantly, taking another bite of the burger. ‘But after a while, you realise it’s probably not as bad as living with your mum and dad.’ Nico’s expression still looked like a slapped arse, but he did manage a humoured snort at that.
‘Where do they live?’ he asked, with the smugness of someone who was currently assuming my upbringing. ‘Surrey?’
‘No, she’s actually the British High Commissioner to the Maldives.’
Nico let a small chortle escape at that. I imagine he was probably wondering why I had passed up on what sounded like such a good gig.
‘I mean, I won’t lie; I’ve heard worse than that on dates,’ Nico said as I examined his expression changing, his body drawing ever so slightly closer to me again. ‘Once dated a girl who was convinced the moon landings were fake.’
‘They are fake,’ I said bluntly, taking a sharp inhale and widening my eyes with fury at Nico. I noticed his mouth drop slightly, just long enough for me to crack into a wide grin as I saw his face physically lighten with relief.
‘Oh, shit,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I thought I’d done it again.’
I laughed with him a little. ‘No, no, sorry, I couldn’t resist. But I do believe pigeons are government drones and Finland doesn’t exist, just so you know.’
‘I mean, of course, right?’ Nico playfully affirmed. I could feel Chlo’s eyes briefly glance in our direction and begin to soften, slightly satisfied that the courting situation had been somewhat recovered for the time being.
‘So, what do you do, Nico?’ I hated small talk but Chlo insisted it was vitally important for first dates, so I had googled some questions beforehand and wrote them as notes on my phone.
‘I work for Transport For London.’
‘What part?’
‘Security and Operations. I basically look at a lot of CCTV footage.’
‘Oh, I was hoping you would be able to make the Northern Line less noisy.’
‘No such luck, I’m afraid,’ he teasingly remarked.
I felt like I was doing well, Londoners love a few jokey jabs at the different Tube lines: how gross and old the Bakerloo was, how busy the Central was, it always worked a treat as an icebreaker.
‘And what do you do?’ he asked, quickly, barely missing a beat.
‘You’re not going to like this one bit.’
‘No? Try me,’ Nico goaded, looking far more interested.
‘I work at a funeral directors.’
‘Oh wow. That’s… interesting.’
There it was again. But maybe it was a little more authentic this time.
It looked a little genuine, not loaded with an intense glare, a pregnant pause and vigorous nodding, like you’re trying to sound interested in your company’s new expenses policy.
Maybe he was actually curious to know more about my job.
I suppose it was quite unusual, and surely it was better than saying I was the regional paperclip auditor assistant for Slough or something.
‘Isn’t it?’ I said, finally starting to feel that while Nico was maybe not second-husband material, perhaps he would at the very least make for some interesting conversation tonight.
This felt like the social equivalent of eating my vegetables, I wasn’t exactly loving it, but it was satisfying to know it was probably good for me.
Plus, it gave me a bit of mental distance from obsessing over whether the recorder had been delivered and picked apart by the police already.
It was still hogging most of my brain’s RAM, but at least there was something else running in the foreground now.
‘And tell me, do you have any hobbies or interests, Ruth?’ he asked with a soft smile. Funny, had he also read Buzzfeed’s ‘50 first date questions that guarantee a second’?
‘Well, if I had to be honest, I guess my main one would probably be serial killers.’
Chlo’s eyes snapped back to me, What in the Lord’s name are you doing? I could hear her telepathically shout into my mind. Abort, Abort.
‘Right?’ Nico said, really extending the vowel as he spoke. ‘Like, what are we talking about here? A fan of serial killers and their work, or…?’
‘Oh no, no,’ I quickly interjected. ‘I’m not a serial killer, or even really a fan of serial killers. It’s just that after my… well, our–’ I corrected myself for Chlo’s inclusion, even though she joined Greta and my friendship group a bit late. ‘… close friend, Greta…’
I paused, debating whether to mention the fact that she was murdered, until I realised it was actually relevant.
‘… was killed by the TellTale Killer, I realised that society has this strange fascination with serial killers, you know?’ I said, stumbling over my words as Nico’s face grew slightly aghast. ‘I mean, don’t you think they’re interesting?
I guess it’s the horror of it? How could anyone ever do what they do?
How could anyone be that depraved? There’s something interesting to dissect there, right? ’
Yet again, not the best choice of words, I know.
I could tell I was losing Nico, at least I think I was; I had to reel him back in – not for my sake, of course, but for Chlo’s. There’s nothing like a double date mood killer than one party looking like they’re absolutely repulsed by the other.
‘Like, get this, there’s a myth that most serial killers have above-average IQs? Ted Bundy had 136, Edmund Kemper had 145, and Jeffrey Dahmer too, but those are just the highly publicised cases, most serial killers actually have below-average intelligence, if you can believe it.’
That was a really interesting fact, I was sure it would win him over.
‘How do you even know about this?’ Nico asked. There was a look on his face I couldn’t quite decipher. I was 61% sure it was disgust.
‘Ruthie, come on, that’s enough now,’ Chlo pleaded, but I wasn’t done. Nico had put the silver dime in the jukebox; he had to let me play. I had to prove to him I wasn’t that crazy.
Nico’s eyes were almost squinting, his rather marvellous nose crumpled up and his upper lip had curved up to reveal one of his ever-so-slightly crooked front teeth. He was actually a very pretty man, I realised.
‘It also takes on average about seven years to catch a serial killer, don’t you think that’s quite interesting too?’ I asked, hoping that the more facts I threw at him, the more I could win him back.