Chapter 4
When are you going to grow up? My mother’s words resound in my head the next day as I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, remembering with a sinking feeling that I have a date today.
Why did I agree to a date the day after my birthday party?
I’ve not been on a date in months—this is surely the worst moment I could have chosen?
Why did I agree to said birthday party at all?
I guess that brings us back to question number one.
Only children are told what to do. I’m just a big, grotesque child that’s allowed to drive and have raging hangovers.
Not that I can drive.
I have a bunch of messages from Max, Dami, and Angie, all asking what happened to me last night. I haven’t replied yet. Another one from Dami pops up.
Babe, we’re a bit worried. You ok? X
Bless Dami. She is sweet. I stare at the words. Am I OK?
Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I was OK. I think it was the week before Max left. I was in his house share and we were packing all his stuff up, painting over Blu Tack marks, wrangling with the insane jungle of a garden, and drinking beers with zero thought for the future.
Before I can reply she says:
Come meet me and Ang tomorrow? 6pm at the Grapevine? x
I agree, then hear the front door slam downstairs.
My stomach lurches. Oh God. What time is it?
I look at the clock. It’s midday. Shit. Mum must be coming back from her water aerobics class.
She hates when I’m still in bed after nine.
I jump up and scrabble on the floor for some clothes, but all I can find are more pajamas.
The sound of Mum’s footsteps on the stairs tells me it’s too late anyway.
She enters my room without knocking. This time it does annoy me.
“Honestly, Becky.” She shakes her head. I stand up.
“Sorry, Mum,” I mumble.
“The weekend’s nearly over. You’ve slept it away,” she says.
I don’t point out the fact that I’m still in bed because of a party that she made me have.
It will only start another argument and it won’t change her mind.
Even after a late night, she’s always somehow up and dressed at seven, probably having done all her chores and devoured a novel the size of War and Peace.
Mum was a lawyer—she used to work incredibly hard for ridiculously long hours—and her frenetic efficiency lasted into retirement.
This means my dysfunction is even more distasteful to her than it would be to a regular human.
I do try to please her. I really do. I set an alarm for 9 a.m. I must have shut it off in my sleep.
“What are your plans today?” she asks.
“God . . . ,” I reply, accidentally putting a sock on my hand. My brain’s not switched on yet. “I have a date.”
Why do I keep doing this to myself? I suppose in the vain hope that I might meet somebody. That this next person, in all the eight billion people on the planet, might be my person. One day it’s got to happen, right?
“You sound thrilled,” Mum remarks. “What’s their name?”
My mind blanks. I frown.
“What do they do?”
I purse my lips.
“Honestly, Becky.” Mum turns and leaves the room again.
At least my miserable dating life distracted her from the fact I left her party to eat Doritos in bed and cry. Silver linings.
I don’t have long to get ready before meeting my date, whose name, it turns out, is Vera.
Did I really agree to go on a date with someone called Vera?
In the afternoon? I don’t generally organize dates before 7 p.m. because why would you meet new people at a time when it’s socially unacceptable to consume alcohol?
I check back through my thread with Vera.
She’s very pretty—plus. Likes hiking—minus.
She wanted to show me Primrose Hill before it got dark, hence why we’re meeting during the day.
She seemed determined that I couldn’t possibly live in London without seeing it and I must have gone along with it, even though drinking in the dark is much more my scene than strolling in the sun.
I glance through my uninterested responses.
She must be hard up if she’s keen to meet after that.
I consider canceling—it won’t be any different from any of the dud dates I’ve had over the past few years—but it’s a bit late now.
I throw on something half-acceptable and reluctantly make my way to the tube station.
The journey passes in a blur of caffeine, pain killers, and hangxiety.
Apart from worrying about how tragic it is to leave your own birthday early, I’m going over and over every conversation I had last night, analyzing whether I said something stupid before I left in a blur of tears.
(Did I ask enough questions about other people’s lives?
Was it obvious that I couldn’t remember the name of Gail’s second child?
Or, shit, is it her third child? Did I offend Sara when I called her dress maroon and she thought it was burgundy?) So I’m nice and relaxed when I show up for my date.
When I see Vera, I note, happily, that she is one of those people who is more attractive than her pictures.
Her tanned, freckly skin has a kind of natural, golden glow and her smile has an energy that a camera can’t capture.
Her honey-colored hair flows past her shoulders in natural waves that make it look like she just stepped off a sailboat. I actually . . . fancy her?
My heart sinks. What’s the catch? There must be something wrong with her. I’m sure, shortly, I’ll discover that she irons her knickers or takes baths with her brother.
“Becky!” She throws her arms out and pulls me into a hug. “It’s great to meet you.” She beams like she’s genuinely pleased to see me.
OK. No one is that happy to see someone they don’t know. Definitely a sociopath.
“Nice to meet you too,” I reply, already plotting my escape. Could I say I need to return home for something? I need a wee?
“I need a wee,” I say.
Vera bursts out laughing. “All right, there’s your bush.” She points to a shrub.
“Err . . .”
“Not an outdoorsy girl, I gather?” she jokes.
“Come onnn, you’ll be fine. Holding it in is good for you.
Maybe. Helps exercise bladder control, anyway, so when you’re eighty and in a care home and everyone around you is pissing themselves you’ll look back and think, Thank God for that nice lady who took me on that very long walk and taught me to strengthen my bladder muscles.
” She takes my arm and, reluctantly, I am dragged alongside her.
It doesn’t take long to realize she’s chatty.
I’m normally irritated by excessively talkative people, and write her off immediately, but somehow as we walk she worms her way back into my affections.
She’s not talking in a boring, blathers-at-you way; she just seems to have a lot of opinions.
And it’s not like she’s only interested in espousing about herself.
She also asks questions about what I think like she sincerely cares and properly listens to my answers.
And her favorite film is Cocoon, which is a weird, weird choice but intrigues me.
This will go wrong any moment now. Even if I like her, she won’t like me. The older I get, the more I realize the odds of two people both actually liking each other on a date only get slimmer and slimmer.
“So, Becky, where do you live?” she asks as we walk through a patch of trees. It’s a gray, gloomy day, and there aren’t too many people around. For London, anyway.
“North West, and you?” I ask quickly, even though she already told me. I’m trying to dodge the inevitable “who do you live with” question, but she doesn’t buy it.
“What’s your setup?” Ah, there it is.
I pretend I don’t know what she’s asking to buy myself a few more moments where she thinks I’m functional. Or at least, that I could be functional.
“Flatmates? Cat?” she presses.
“My mum,” I admit, my cheeks flushing. “I’m saving for a flat. Well, trying to,” I garble.
Well, that’s done it. She might as well order her Uber and play Royal Match while she waits.
“That’s cool,” she says, without so much as a blink. I feel myself relax, which makes me deeply uncomfortable, so I immediately unrelax.
“What about your dad?” she asks.
Oh God.
“Uhhhh. I . . . he . . . ,” I start.
“Don’t go there. Don’t worry, it’s cool.” She grins.
She’s so . . . open and uninhibited? And unfazed by my awkwardness? She’s, like, actually a nice person, without being nauseatingly boring?
We keep walking, and talking, and eventually stop at a bench.
I glance at my phone and am surprised to realize a few hours have passed without me noticing.
She sits down and gestures for me to join her.
It occurs to me that, miraculously, during the course of the date, she still hasn’t said or done anything to physically repulse me.
How can this be? I cast my eyes over her ears.
Ears are weird, right? They’re bound to disgust me.
But no. Her ears are solid. Nice, well-formed lobes.
We don’t say anything for a moment and just admire the London skyline. I feel her watching me from the corner of my eye. I look back and she doesn’t glance away for a moment too long. Is this . . . sexual tension?
“Do you iron your knickers?” I ask.
She bursts out laughing.
“Erm, no, but I can if it’s your kink?”
I laugh. I can’t be sure, but I think this might be a “good date.”
Except, with a familiar, heart-sinking feeling, I realize it can’t be. Because I’ve thought about whether Max and Fran have had sex today at least twice. And now I’m wondering what they’ll be making for dinner this evening. Perhaps they’ll get a takeaway?