Dominic
I’ve done some pretty experimental things in my time.
I dated a girl who liked sex clubs, so spent most weekends dressed up in costumes, trailing her around ‘dungeons’ (usually working men’s clubs with dry ice machines) trying to see if I can spot anyone famous under their mask.
I’ve been a very game third person in several different threesomes with both men and women.
At university I let a very sweet girl named Alice do a wee on me because, apparently, she’d always dreamed about doing it.
And yet somehow, being alone in Stella’s house while she’s out on a date with another man is making me feel like more of a pervert than any of that ever did.
If I’m totally honest, I was excited when I saw that she’d called and, given that it’s Thursday when her turd of an ex has her baby, I sort of assumed she’d say, ‘Hey, I know that attempt at a date went really badly but I’ve had a wine, do you want to come over and rail me?
’ So getting here and finding her clearly ready to go out, with someone else, felt a bit.
. . humiliating. I’m halfway through tidying up my toolbox (not a euphemism) when my phone rings.
It’s my sister.
‘I’ve messed up,’ she tells me, without any kind of introduction. ‘I left your address logged in on my Fresh and they’ve delivered you a load of nappies and wipes. Can you let the guy in?’
‘I’m not home,’ I say, phone wedged between ear and shoulder while I try to get the toolbox to shut properly.
‘Why not?’ Georgie demands.
‘Because it’s nine-thirty on a Thursday evening and I’m a single man in my early thirties so I don’t actually have a curfew?’
‘Where are you?’ she asks. I hear a microwave beep, which means that she’s putting a pint of ice cream in to slightly defrost, despite forbidding George or her son to eat anything that’s been exposed to harmful rays.
‘I’m at a friend’s house,’ I say. This was a mistake.
‘What friend? Why?’
‘You are really very rude,’ I reply. ‘I’m allowed to have a private life.’
‘Who is she?’
‘She is a friend.’
‘I know all your friends.’
‘She’s a new friend.’
‘A date!’
‘No,’ I say, trying not to sound like I want to smack the phone against the wall. ‘She’s someone I know who lives locally. She’s getting divorced, she has a small child and she needed some help with a plumbing problem.’
‘Is that what you guys are calling it these days?’
‘That’s disgusting and I’m going to hang up on you,’ I say.
‘Is it your baby?’
‘Goodbye, Georgie!’ I shout.
‘Wait, wait!’ she says. ‘I’m sorry. That’s really nice, I didn’t know any of your friends had kids. You’re cute to help.’
‘Thanks.’
‘It’s kind of like the beginning of a Hallmark movie.’
‘I’ve never seen a Hallmark movie because my IQ has three digits, but I assure you it’s not like that – she’s literally on a date with another man right now.’
‘Oh.’
‘Exactly. I’ve fixed a pipe she drilled into, and now I’m going to walk home and lie on the sofa in my pants playing FIFA.’
‘It’s called EA FC now,’ Georgie says dolefully. ‘George told me.’
‘So glad to hear that your marriage is thriving. See you at the weekend. Bye.’
I hang up before she can draw me further into a conversation by asking whether I think the moon landings were faked or pretending that she’s having second thoughts about River’s childhood vaccinations.
Then I pick up the toolbox and head to the front door.
On the windowsill next to the front door is a set of keys on a heart-shaped keyring.
Presumably Stella’s keys. I stop for a minute, working out what to do.
It’s not really my responsibility to make sure that she can get back in, and she’s a perfectly sensible grown-up, she’s presumably capable of looking after herself.
But if I leave and she doesn’t have her keys, and then she’s locked out, then that’ll be shit for her.
I sigh. And then I go and sit on her sofa.
Obviously, the sensible thing to do is message her, so I write a message.
Hey, did you forget your keys? I’ve finished fixing the pipe but I don’t know if you’re going to be able to get back in?
I press send, and wait. She doesn’t read it.
Presumably she’s not looking at her phone because she’s on a date.
I go into the TV room, the one where we fell asleep, and then hunt for the remote.
She’s got some massively complicated system where I have to press the right button dozens of time to get to the home screen.
Someone should really sort that out for her.
Eventually Disney+ starts playing a cartoon of two dogs who live in a house in Australia with their parents (also dogs).
I try to turn it off, but it’s surprisingly funny.
So I finish the episode. And then another episode.
They’re only five minutes long, so it’s not like I’m watching that much of it.
I try to make that feel true when I realise that I’ve watched almost half a series.
My phone buzzes and I expect it to be Stella, but it’s Florrie.
What’re you doing?
That is a truly extraordinary use of words. I’m at a friend’s house, I write.
Friend? Or ‘friend’. . .? She writes back.
I feel defensive, which is genuinely insane because this is about the most platonic thing I’ve ever done and actually, even if it weren’t, Florrie has been intensely clear that she’s in earnest about this ethical non-monogamy thing.
She tells me every time she goes on a date with someone else, and then tells me whether she’s slept with them or not.
Honestly, I’d probably prefer not to hear about it, because if the date is great then I’m slightly perturbed and if it’s terrible or they’re not decent to her, I want to kill them.
But she says radical honesty is the only way this works, and she’s been inscrutable on that front.
In fact, I think she might be starting to find me something of a disappointment on that front.
She keeps asking whether I’ve met anyone, hooked up with anyone or if I’m even making an effort to meet anyone.
Last week we were lying in bed – my bed, she has housemates therefore her house is deeply unappealing as a location for shagging – and she ran her hand over my body. ‘I wanted to have a check-in,’ she said, her hair soft across my chest. ‘I’m concerned that you’re not embracing your options.’
I made some excuses about being busy at work and not sparking with anyone on the apps, which she seemed appeased by.
Then I stupidly didn’t know when to stop and said, ‘Anyway, maybe you’re enough for me,’ which then sparked a long conversation about how if I don’t see other people it will create an ‘imbalance in our dynamic’. So I promised that I’d do more.
A friend, I type back. Then I pause, concluding that I can probably be totally honest here, while making her feel better about my ability to see multiple women at the same time. We met on Tangl a while back, and I slept over just before I met you.
I watch the dots on my screen bounce as she’s typing, feeling slightly sick. I’ve just told a girl I’m seeing that I’m at the house of another girl I met on a dating app. In what world was that going to go down well?
I’m so glad you were able to receive what I said last week, she writes. Have fun <3.
The irony is not lost on me that most lying men pretend that they’re not seeing other women behind their girlfriends’ backs, whereas I’m pretending to Florrie that I am.
But whatever. She feels better, I feel better, no harm, no foul.
And I guess it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that Stella might reconsider our just-friends status.
Maybe. Probably not, realistically, but, yeah. It could happen.
Eventually, around half eleven, the door opens and I realise that I still haven’t heard from Stella. I jump to my feet and immediately shout, ‘I’m still here!’ in an attempt to stop her from being terrified that there’s a stranger in her house. It doesn’t work. She screams.
‘Jesus FUCKING CHRIST!’ she yells.
‘I’m sorry!’ I shout. ‘I’m so sorry!’
‘Why are you still here? You said you were leaving when I left?’
I look at the key on the side. ‘I thought you’d left your house key and I was worried you’d be locked out.’
She looks at the key. Her chest is rising faster than usual, presumably because I’ve just terrified her, but she looks very pretty. ‘That’s a spare.’
There’s a pause. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘No, no – that was really nice of you.’
‘I think maybe it was a bit weird.’
‘It can be nice as well as weird,’ she says, taking her shoes off and sitting on the sofa. ‘Also, you literally saved me with the pipe earlier so, even if you were very weird, I’d still be fine with it.’
‘I did message you.’
She looks embarrassed. ‘I didn’t see it.’
‘Oh my god,’ I say in horror. ‘Did you block me?’
‘No!’ she says. ‘You’re just in my archive folder on WhatsApp.’
‘What?’
‘The archive – it’s where you put conversations if—’
‘Yeah, no, I know what the archive is. What did I to do deserve that?’
She looks embarrassed. ‘I felt, like, a very deep sense of shame about what happened last time you were here and I wanted to pretend that nothing had happened.’
‘You? I made you cry when we tried to have sex, insisted on staying all evening and then accidentally met your husband and your kid.’
‘Ex-husband.’
‘I thought you weren’t legally divorced.’
‘Yeah, okay, technically you met my husband,’ she snaps. ‘Anyway. That’s why I didn’t see your message, not because I blocked you. And for what it’s worth I don’t think you have anything to be embarrassed about.’
‘That’s a relief,’ I say. ‘So. How was the date?’
She looks surprised at the question. ‘It was good.’ She considers me for a minute. ‘Do you want a glass of wine?’
‘Sure,’ I hear myself say. ‘Why not?’
She pours us both a drink and tells me that this bizarre millionaire she’s just been out with took her on a private guided tour of an art gallery and then to some mega-fancy restaurant.