Chapter 11
11
GRETA
I know instantly Marcus isn’t for me: overbearing aftershave, too-tight dress shirt, and slicked back, eighties-banker-style hair. Definitely not my type.
We’re at Dalla Terra, a restaurant in Covent Garden with an abundance of natural finishes: wooden floors, leather seats, and a bar made from granite tile and a single plank of highly polished wood. I’ve never been before, but I didn’t want to meet Marcus someplace I frequent, taking dating advice from Tiggy: don’t sully your favourite haunts with bad dates.
Her other advice: only ever commit to an hour and only stay longer if it’s going well. With this in mind, I interrupt Marcus ordering a three-course dinner, saying I have a ‘big day at work tomorrow’ and time for just one drink.
His expression sours instantly at that. ‘Right, okay. I wish I’d known,’ he says with a pinched expression. He doesn’t elaborate on what he would have done differently if he had known, so I smile politely then order a gin-based cocktail from the bartender.
‘Vodka soda,’ he adds gruffly. Charming .
The bartender starts making our drinks and Marcus takes this as a cue to launch into a monologue about his fitness regime. Even though Poppy warned me this might happen, it’s still quite affronting – like a TED Talk but far less interesting. And it’s obvious why Marcus’ shirt doesn’t fit properly – he spends two hours a day in the gym lifting weights. Who gets up at 4a.m. every morning? To exercise ?
When the bartender slides our drinks across the bar with a smile, I thank him. Marcus doesn’t – he’s still monologuing – or is it lecturing?
‘It’s all about discipline. The body is a temple and when we take care of it, it takes care of us.’
I nod along as if I’ve made any sense of that, and he continues – blathering on about intermittent fasting. Tuning out, I sip my cocktail in silence and start counting out the seconds in my head: one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi … Unfortunately, this does not make the time go faster. When Marcus looks away, lost in his own little world of the tenets of self-discipline, I glance at his smart watch. Eighteen minutes have passed. Eighteen!
I signal to the bartender to bring me another cocktail.
‘You know, there are a lot of empty calories in that,’ says Marcus, nodding towards my nearly empty glass. ‘Soft drinks and fruit juice are essentially liquid sugar, and you know what they say: sugar is the new smoking.’ His gaze momentarily lands on my waistline.
Wonderful, now he’s fat-shaming me. What a total arse.
‘Oh, I know. But as a reformed smoker, I’m betting on sugar being the lesser of two evils. And life’s no fun without at least one vice, right?’ I have no idea where that retort came from. I’m not usually so sassy. I’ve also never smoked a cigarette in my life.
Marcus blinks at me as if I’ve grown two heads.
‘Right,’ he says, his brow furrowing. From his expression, it’s obvious he’s grappling with what to say or do next. Perhaps he’ll acknowledge this date is going terribly and make an excuse to leave. I’d leave right now if I weren’t on assignment.
I finish my drink while he decides what to do next, girding myself for another instalment of ‘This is How Much of a Wanker I Am’, which I’m sure would be the title of his podcast if he had one. Actually, he probably does, he’s so vain.
‘Oh, shit,’ he says abruptly. ‘I’ve just remembered I’m supposed to drive my sister to the airport tonight.’
His performance so over the top, I need to stifle a laugh. And what a creative lie – I’m almost impressed!
He downs the rest of his drink in one gulp – I don’t mention that he shouldn’t finish it if he’s driving – and stands, leans across to smack a dry kiss on my cheek, and says, ‘Nice to meet you, Greta. We should do this again sometime.’
I watch him leave with great amusement and even a hint of satisfaction.
Date from hell number one: tick. And even though it only lasted twenty minutes, I’m sure I can get several paragraphs out of it.
The bartender arrives with my second cocktail, a Fizz 43, which is made with Liqueur 43 and ginger ale.
That’s when I realise Marcus departed so suddenly, he’s left me with the bill. While he was a self-obsessed, fat-shaming arse, I wouldn’t peg him as a cheapskate. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he was just flustered by my shocking revelation that I used to smoke .
I chuckle to myself. There’s something rather enjoyable about this dating-the-wrong-bloke endeavour.
Poppy did say this assignment could be fun – though she was referring to proper dating. I’ll admit – at least to myself – I still have trepidation about that. The stakes are just so much higher. It’s easy to dress up and play a part when I know I won’t end up with any of these blokes.
I suppose this part of the assignment is essentially dating practice, bringing me to something else Poppy said about kissing frogs and how dating the wrong men will help me narrow down what I do and don’t want in a partner.
‘Please don’t think I’m stalking you.’
The voice draws me away from my thoughts and I turn to discover Ewan standing next to my bar stool.
‘Oh, hello, you,’ I say, cheering up instantly. ‘What are you doing here – besides not stalking me?’
‘I met a friend for a drink after work, but his wife just called and he had to rush off – sick toddler.’
‘Oh no. Poor little mite.’
‘He’s adorable – Oscar, he’s called. Obsessed with trains. I’ll call over tomorrow and take him something for his Thomas the Tank Engine collection.’
‘Aww, how sweet. Sorry,’ I say, realising he’s still standing, ‘did you want to join me?’
‘Oh…’
‘Only if you want to,’ I hasten to add.
‘I’d love to. It’s just… I’m really not stalking you.’
I laugh. ‘I know. And I’d love some company.’
I don’t explain it’s because I want to expunge ‘Marcus’ vibes from the atmosphere.
He climbs onto the stool next to mine.
‘So, what brings you to one of my favourite spots in London?’ he asks.
I cast my eyes about, properly taking in Dalla Terra’s ambience. It’s cosy – so cosy, I’m amazed I didn’t see Ewan before he came over, but perhaps he and his friend were sitting outside on the terrace.
‘It’s lovely,’ I say. ‘And I just googled restaurants close to the office, so I—’ Oops, I was about to reveal the real reason I chose this restaurant.
I shrug. ‘I just wanted to try something new.’
‘Well, you’ve made a good choice. Their duck ragu is to die for. I was just about to order and… Did you want to stay and have dinner with me?’ he asks shyly.
My stomach rumbles loudly on cue, answering for me, and I laugh – from embarrassment more than anything else. Ewan joins in, but not mockingly, setting me at ease. I agree to join him, and we move to a table on the terrace near a topiary. When the waiter brings the menus, he seems to recognise Ewan and they share a brief but friendly exchange. Ewan must come here a lot.
‘What looks good to you?’ he asks, his eyes on the menu. I scan it, each menu item more tantalising than the last.
‘Everything?’
He laughs. ‘Well, yes. It’s all delicious. I can suggest something if you like?’
I look up and meet his eye, realising the stark contrast between Marcus, who showed zero consideration for me during our brief date, and Ewan.
‘That would be lovely.’
‘Great,’ he says with an enthusiastic smile. He goes back to the menu, a small furrow of concentration forming between his brows. ‘And wine?’ he asks, looking up again. ‘They have an incredible cellar – not overblown… carefully curated… especially if you love Italian wine.’
I glance at my half-drunk cocktail. ‘Well, I’m already nearly two drinks in…’
‘So, just a glass then?’ he asks without judgement. ‘They’ll bring it with our mains, if you like.’
‘Perfect.’
I sit back, relaxed, as I watch Ewan navigate the menu and converse with the waiter about the specials. He orders focaccia and the burrata to share as our starters, the ragu for me, and the tagliatelle for him.
By the time the focaccia hits the table, bringing with it the heady scent of rosemary, I’m ravenous.
‘After you,’ he says, gesturing at the generous slab of bread.
I tear off a small piece and set it on my bread plate.
‘It’s so good,’ he says, tearing off a much larger chunk. ‘I have to remind myself every time not to fill up on it before the rest of the food arrives.’
I take a bite and stop myself from groaning in pleasure. We exchange smiles as we eat, which would ordinarily feel awkward, but doesn’t.
‘So,’ I say, after I’ve swallowed. ‘You know what I do for work. And I know I should have asked before but what about you? What do you do?’
An odd expression scuttles across his face but is gone in an instant.
‘Sorry. It’s a dull question, isn’t it?’ I say with a grimace.
‘No, not at all. I work for myself but it’s a reasonably new venture – that’s why the hesitation. Sometimes I have to remind myself that I’m no longer a consultant at a multi-national. Probably because I worked in finance for years – since I finished uni, in fact. Most of my former colleagues think I’m mad, striking out on my own, doing something completely different.’
‘The friend you were meeting… was he a colleague?’
‘Yes. I suspect he was going to try and lure me back – it wouldn’t be the first time.’
The burrata arrives and we pause our conversation to cut into it – I’m salivating as it oozes onto the plate – then slather generous portions onto grilled crostini.
‘So, you’re definitely not going back to finance then?’ I ask. I take a bite with a satisfying crunch – it’s heavenly.
He shakes his head. ‘I’ve given myself a year out of the finance game. If all goes well…’ He shrugs good-naturedly.
‘And how far into the year are you?’
‘Oh, about four weeks,’ he says with a slightly apprehensive smile.
‘Wow, so it really is early days.’
He nods.
‘And so far?’ I ask. I don’t know many people who’ve drastically changed careers. Most people I know are like me, with their careers firmly locked in. Even Tiggy, who’s a freelancer, has always been in the same field.
‘So far, it’s been brilliant,’ he says, a thoughtful expression on his face. ‘What about you? You seem to enjoy what you do.’
‘I do. I absolutely love it. Well, mostly…’ I say, alluding to my current writing assignment, which I do not love. Though it does have at least one silver lining – unexpectedly running into Ewan and being invited to dinner.
‘And do you think you’ll ever want to do something else?’ he asks. ‘Maybe write a novel or…’ He leaves the rest of the thought unsaid.
‘Maybe… I’m not sure about writing a novel – I’ve almost always written non-fiction – but I do miss the writing aspect of the job. I get to do so little of it now. When I started at Nouveau , I was staff writer – writing was my entire job. Now, as a managing editor, there’s so much more I’m expected to do: marketing, reporting, far too many meetings… Even editing – my actual job title – only comprises about half of what I do.’
‘That’s always the way, though, isn’t it? You can be in your dream job, but there are always some aspects that feel like a chore.’
It’s odd that I’ve never thought about this in these terms before. This is exactly how I feel about discussing Nouveau Life’ s fiscal performance.
‘That’s an astute observation,’ I say.
‘Well, it’s something I’ve been contemplating for some time. When the majority of my job started feeling like a chore, I knew I had to re-evaluate my career. Hence the change.’
‘Actually,’ I say with a laugh, ‘now that I think about it, my boss, Anjali, constantly moans about doing the quarterly statements. “I’m an editor,” she cries, “not a bloody accountant!”.’
Ewan sniggers.
‘I hope my new role doesn’t get taken over by chores,’ I say, voicing the thought as it pops into my head. ‘At the moment, my plan is to work in magazines until it’s time to retire – it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do, and I absolutely love this industry. Though, what it will look like by then will be vastly different, I imagine. That actually excites me,’ I add in a stage whisper.
‘Well, you’re already forging ahead with Nouveau Life – transitioning from print to digital,’ he says. It highlights what a great listener he is and how much he remembers from our previous conversations – yet another contrast from Marcus the Monologuer.
‘Thank you for recognising that,’ I reply. ‘I’m aware it’s not for everyone, the digital side of publishing. Some of my colleagues are burying their heads in the sand, practically clinging to print.’
‘Well, I can relate to that – not print , per se, but clinging to the more traditional modes and methods of a profession – and outdated definitions of success.’
‘Yes!’
Ewan is not only a good conversationalist, he’s so insightful. I also have a lot of admiration for him, leaving a high-powered job – and likely, a high-paying one – to follow his passion.
‘So, what does Remy have to say about your change of careers?’ I ask, mentioning his dog. From Ewan’s descriptions of his antics, he’s very sweet – super affectionate – but also a little cheeky.
Ewan laughs. ‘Remy likes having me around a lot more than when I worked in private equity. Less doggy daycare, more home time.’
‘I’d like to meet him.’
It’s only after the words are out of my mouth that I realise what I’ve said – and worse, what it implies .
‘I’m sure he’d like that,’ Ewan replies, not making too much of it.
Our mains arrive along with two glasses of wine, and conversation stalls as I take a bite of the ragu. It’s so delicious, I can’t restrain myself this time and I groan loudly.
‘I told you,’ he says, his eyes twinkling with a hint of self-satisfaction.
I swallow. ‘Sorry, I’m not usually so vocal about my dinner.’
He laughs. ‘No apologies needed. I’m sure the chef would love to hear you groaning with pleasure over the ragu. I’m certainly okay with it.’
As I take in his words, my mouth gaping open, the atmosphere around us crackles with energy – like the moment right before a flash of lightning. Ewan watches me intently and I can tell he senses it too.
I drop my eyes to my plate and busy myself by twirling pasta onto my fork. In all other ways, this feels like the start of a friendship, but that moment? That was something else.
‘So, I hope you don’t mind me asking…’ he says, drawing my gaze again.
The moment of frisson has died, leaving me both relieved and disappointed – something to unpack later – and Ewan now seems to be hedging. After one aborted start, he says, ‘That man you were with earlier at the bar…’
Oh no, he saw me with Marcus.
Think, Greta!
‘Oh, just a work thing,’ I say deflecting with a half-truth. ‘Possible subject of an article I’m working on.’
Okay, that’s enough information.
‘About obsessions. For that man, it’s fitness and exercise.’
Stop talking, Greta.
Marcus may have been an arse, but I shouldn’t be spouting his business all over London. Although isn’t that exactly what I’m expected to do by writing about him?
‘I suppose it’s like anything really,’ Ewan replies, as if we’re having a normal conversation and I’m not shouting at myself inside my head. ‘Obsession, I mean. It’s odd how often moderation gets a bad rap, how it gets labelled as “boring” and “safe”. My obsession with work was… unsustainable. That’s why I’ve given myself this year. My year of moderation…’ he says with a head tilt.
I regard him thoughtfully. He really is an insightful person. And I sense there’s some insecurity humming under the surface, perhaps him wondering if he’s done the right thing with his venture.
I lift my wine glass. ‘To your year of moderation,’ I toast.
He smiles easily and clinks his glass against mine. ‘To my year of moderation,’ he echoes.
As we sip, we lock eyes over the rim of our glasses.
I’m so glad I ran into Ewan. It’s nice to have a new friend.