Stella
I was living off the charity of a friend with rich parents who had a spare room, and when that good luck ran out because her dad realised she wasn’t charging me rent, Gav offered to let me move in.
He owned his own flat because he’d chosen a sensible job in a sensible industry.
So in I went. I sand-blasted his IKEA furniture on the balcony, reupholstered his hideous chairs, made cushion covers on my sewing machine and turned what looked like a brothel-inspired Airbnb into our home.
So when other people talked about first dates, and the magic of falling for someone, and the delicious agony of not knowing if they’ll message you back, I thought, yeah, that sounds fun but this weekend we went to the farmers’ market and I baked focaccia, and that was honestly equally diverting.
The downside of having been an accidental tradwife in my twenties was that I have literally no idea how this date is supposed to work.
Worst of all I don’t know what to wear. The sensible option is to message Louella and have her tell me what to wear.
But then she’ll know that I’m going on a date, and she’ll make me tell her where and when, and then she’ll make me describe it all afterwards and, for some reason, despite having told Louella everything always, I don’t want that.
If it’s a hideous, embarrassing, awkward mess then I want to be able to take that to my grave.
Predictably, this doesn’t work out.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, standing on the doorstep, not out of breath and not looking like he’d done any rushing from the Tube at all. ‘I was working,’ he explains, as if that makes this absolutely fine.
‘Gavin, you literally don’t have a job,’ I say, giving in to the rage, sort of excited by how angry I feel. ‘How can you be nearly two hours late because you were “working” when you don’t have a job?’
‘Okay, well, it’s an hour and twenty minutes – which isn’t two hours – and it was literally for a gig. I had to go up to Stevenage for a lunch slot at a club and—’
‘Sorry, you were performing at lunchtime on a Thursday in Stevenage?’
He has the gall to look genuinely affronted. ‘That’s how people get their starts, Stella. It’s not like, day one, Live at the Apollo.’
‘Okay, but who’s watching comedy at lunchtime on a Thursday?’ I reply. Then I catch sight of the time on my phone. ‘Whatever,’ I say. ‘I’ve packed up all her things – is there any progress on getting some baby stuff at your house?’
Gavin makes a sad face and I wish I could push him down a manhole.
‘I’m keeping an eye on Marketplace and stuff, but baby gear is expensive and she’s not going to need this stuff for much longer so it’s a waste to buy loads,’ he says, in a pseudo-gentle tone.
Rather than slamming the door on his fingers, I hold Rose for a long cuddle, smelling her hair and studying her face.
There’s a slight scratch on her cheek where she caught herself last night and I feel bad for not filing her nails better.
Also probably best to make a mental note that she had the scratch when I handed her over so I don’t accuse him of damaging her when she comes home, a bit like when you take pictures of any previous damage on a rental car.
I tell Rose how much I love her and then buckle her into her car seat.
By the time she’s gone and I’ve shed a few tears (fewer than last time, personal growth) it’s 6.
15 p.m. and I’ve got to be at this date in half an hour.
I shove myself into a clean top that I had remembered as being really lovely and flattering and nice but now transpires, outside of the changing room where I tried it on, to show me for what I really am, a slightly tubby thirty-year-old woman who looks like shit and doesn’t deserve to have a nice time.
I run upstairs, throw open the wardrobe doors and yank things out, trying on different tops until my hair is static.
Then I decide that maybe the trousers are the problem, so I take them off and put tights on.
I ladder the first pair of super-sheer ones that I ordered during a 3 a.m. scroll while feeding Rose because I’d read that super-sheer was what the cool girls were doing – as if I was either cool or a girl at this point.
I’m on my second pair of tights and have now emotionally committed to wearing a skirt when I realise that I’m about to be really bloody late.
I pull on a black skirt, knee boots, a white T-shirt and a jumper, and decide that while this isn’t a great outfit, I don’t look insane.
I look like a human woman who is going out for a drink, and that’s just going to have to do.
I dash some more lipstick on because the original application is now all over the inside of the clothes I’d tried on, and call an Uber because I’ve left it too late to take the Tube.
Dom has told me to meet him at a wine-shop-cum-bar a ten-minute drive away.
I googled it to make sure that it wasn’t some kind of crack den or human trafficking location and it showed a very pretty French place calling itself a ‘cave’, on the corner of a tree-lined street.
It must have opened while I was pregnant with Rose and therefore actively avoiding places serving the wine I really wanted to drink but couldn’t.
It apparently does French wines and small plates, and has delighted reviews from dozens of people.
Only when I arrive, it looks like they’re hosting a premiere because there are crowds and crowds of people standing outside.
I pause, trying to work out what the hell is going on, when Dom comes up behind me.
‘Jesus,’ he says. ‘What the fuck?’
‘Hi,’ I say, looking up at him through my eyelashes because I read once in a teen magazine that it’s sexy. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ he says, clearly slightly distracted.
‘Sorry – I just can’t work out what’s going on – why is every single person in London here?
Can I get you a drink? You look great, by the way.
’ He kisses me on each cheek, still looking slightly dazed.
We battle our way towards the door and he holds it open for me.
He catches the attention of the very pretty waitress with a septum piercing. ‘Hi,’ he says, leaning in so she can hear him. We have a table for 7 p.m.?’
The waitress looks guilty. ‘I’m so sorry but we’ve gone viral so we’ve stopped doing reservations.’
We both look blankly at her. ‘Someone made a TikTok about us,’ she explains slowly, realising that we’re out of the loop. ‘So now we’ve got too many people trying to get in and we’re doing first-come, first-served. You can take a drink outside if you want?’
Dom and I exchange glances. I’m very ready for a drink, and clearly so is he.
Eventually the waitress gets us a bottle of Macon-Villages (we’re not risking having to come back in here again) and we go outside.
He holds the glasses between his legs while he rebalances all our stuff, and arranges it on the little table attached to the side of the building.
‘Are you sure it’s not too cold?’ he asks.
‘No, no, I’m fine,’ I say.
‘I can ask them to turn that heater on,’ he offers. ‘Though I’ll probably be there for about three hours.’
‘Don’t,’ I say. ‘I like being outside. I stood outside with my husband on our first date and that was January.’ Why the fuck have I said that?
Why is, like, the fifth thing I’ve said to this man in our entire experience of each other the words ‘my husband’.
What is wrong with me? This is why I wasn’t supposed to go on a real-life date.
Dom looks surprised. ‘Husband?’
I’d given a lot of thought to how I was going to raise the concept of being a mother. Some terrifying article I read at four in the morning last week told me that predatory men will target single parents.
But while I’d spent all the time deciding how I would broach the topic of Rose, it had totally escaped me that I might need to mention that I’m still legally married and in the process of getting divorced.
‘Yeah,’ I say, focusing on the rim of my wine glass. ‘I was married. I mean, technically, on paper, legally I’m still married. I’m getting divorced but it’s this, like, insanely time-consuming process so it’ll be literally ages until I’m technically single.’
‘I’m not feeding you a line,’ Dom responds. ‘But you seem pretty young to be divorced.’
‘Well, again, not divorced, getting divorced, and also thank you, and also, yeah. I got married at twenty-five.’
‘Fuck me.’ Dom whistles. ‘Well, that’ll do it.’ He looks at me for a minute, like he’s considering whether to say something or not. ‘This is a nightmare. I was, too.’
‘You were what?’
‘Married.’
This is a genuine shock. I look down at his left hand which doesn’t have a ring, or the indent of a ring. My finger is still narrower at the base than anywhere else, where my wedding and engagement ring trained it to be smaller. His isn’t.
He sees where I’m looking. ‘It wasn’t very long. We got married really young, like you. We met at school, got married out of uni, everyone said we were mental and it turned out they were right because it was a disaster.’
‘How old were you?’ I ask.
‘Twenty-three,’ he replies.
‘Oh, fuck you.’ I laugh. ‘I was twenty-five and people are usually like, so impressed with me being a child bride.’
‘I won’t lie,’ he smiles, ‘I do automatically dislike anyone who beats me on the getting-married-young front.’
‘So what happened?’ I ask. ‘Apart from the fact that you were too young to rent a car, let alone get married?’
He looks up at the sky, then takes a deep breath.
‘I cheated on her. And then she cheated back, which I guess she had every right to do, and then we cheated on each other, until eventually she’d shagged my best friend and I’d slept with a load of women I didn’t even like, and we took a look at each other and realised we were ruining our lives.
’ He takes another sip of wine. ‘Sorry, that’s a lot.
I don’t usually tell people that. Actually, I never tell anyone that. Have you put something in my drink?’
I laugh. ‘No. I’m sorry though, that sounds really hard.’
‘Yeah. Largely my own making. But not an easy time. I kind of realised towards the end of it that I wasn’t ready to be anyone’s husband, so I’ve tried to avoid it since.’
‘I get that. The idea of my clothes in the same washing machine as someone else’s, or my books on the same shelf, makes me feel like I’m going to throw up.’
He laughs, and I sense that I’ve said the right thing.
‘Yeah,’ Dom says. ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like the idea, for one day. I’d love to use my DIY skills to play house with someone but I just don’t seem to be there yet, on any other front, apart from putting curtain rails up. Is this your first date since you became single?’
I decide that I’m in for a penny, in for a pound at this point. ‘This is technically the first first date I’ve ever been on,’ I reply.
‘This? Me?’ He looks genuinely aghast. ‘It’s your first ever first date and I’ve brought you to the outside of a TikTok-trendy wine bar? Shame on me. Absolutely dreadful.’
‘Well, maybe if there’s a second you can do something more impressive,’ I suggest. There’s a flash of something across his face, something like concern. ‘Don’t worry,’ I add. ‘I meant what I said before. I’m not looking for anything serious.’
‘It’s not that,’ he replies, refilling both of our glasses. ‘I was just internally panicking about what I could do to impress you on a second date.’
I smile. ‘I’d be happy with something really simple, just like jaunt over to Paris, a quick browse around Harry Winston, a night at the Plaza Athénnée, that kind of thing.’
‘Phew.’ Dom smiles. ‘I was worried you’d want to fly long haul.’
We both laugh at this only medium-funny exchange, I think at the relief of having diffused a moment of tension.
‘The “not looking for anything serious” thing is also helpful,’ he adds. ‘Because I know how this sounds, but I just—’ He breaks off. ‘I know my own limitations, you know. I’m really over accidentally hurting people.’
‘Ready to hurt people on purpose?’ I quip.
‘Yep, yeah, just really hoping to do some deliberate emotional damage going forward.’ He smiles.
‘It says that on your profile though, right? That you’re not looking for anything serious or long term?’ I say, frowning. Have I mixed him up with someone else?
‘Sure,’ he says. ‘But sometimes people think that might change, or it’s just a temporary thing, or—’
‘I’m inclined to believe people when they say they’re not in a position to get into a relationship,’ I say. ‘Possibly because I’m not in a position to offer anything meaningful. My life is an absolute shitshow.’
He laughs. ‘At least you’re self-aware.’
‘Yeah, well, I think about myself almost non-stop,’ I say.
I’m surprised by how much I like him. In the last half-hour he’s taken me to an overfilled bar where we don’t have a reservation and then told me that he cheated on his wife, and that he doesn’t ever want to commit to anyone, and yet somehow – maybe it’s just how totally honest he’s been – it’s endearing.
He leans down, brushes my fringe away from my face and then very gently presses his lips to mine.
I freeze for a moment, trying to remember how you do this.
I kiss him back and he takes my enthusiasm as an invitation, meeting my tongue with his.
I feel it as much between my legs as I do between my lips, and, for a second, I worry that my knees might actually unlock and leave me lying on the cold, grey pavement.
I pull back, grinning. ‘First first kiss in a decade,’ I say.
‘You’re welcome,’ he replies.