school, can you?’
Emma smiles kindly and pats my hand. ‘You know you don’t have to pretend to be excited, don’t you? I can read you like a book! School wasn’t the easiest time for you, was it?’
No, it wasn’t, I want to say, and that was largely thanks to Amanda Best. Instead, I shake my head and smile. What’s the point in raking over old ground? Plus, I have bigger and better things to focus on now.
‘That was ten years ago,’ I say, picking up my drink. ‘I’m over it.’
If my best friend isn’t convinced, she doesn’t show it. She raises her glass and smiles. ‘Good, I’ll drink to that! Now, let’s see if we can find ourselves some hunky blokes in here tonight, eh?’
I chuckle as I down the last of my drink. ‘Emma, it’s the Bell and Candle! I don’t think there’s a guy in here under the age of fifty tonight.’
‘You never know until you try! Who knows, your dream guy could be sat a few feet away from you right now.’ She gets up and grabs me by the hand, pulling me from our secluded little corner of the pub to the main bar area.
Within seconds, Emma’s hopes of a manhunt are dashed. As I predicted, there are a few clusters of old men enjoying a convivial pint, some middle-aged women and a couple of people I recognise from Carb Counters. There are no hunky blokes for Emma to get her hands on, that’s for sure. I can’t pretend I’m not pleased; when it comes to guys, I’m usually left chatting about the weather with some bloke whose friend is interested in Emma.
‘See, I told you there wouldn’t be anyone. Now why don’t we head back to the booth before someone else nabs it?’ I suggest.
Just as we’re about to go back the way we came, the door swings open and Scott – or Mr Gym Gear, as I named him earlier – walks in with a small group of men trailing behind him. He sees me, lifts a hand and smiles. I do a clumsy sort of wave and can only imagine how ridiculous my attempt at a smile looks.
Emma nudges me. ‘And just who is that? He’s definitely under fifty, Cleo!’
I shake my head and shrug, as though guys who look like Scott walk into the Bell and Candle every day.
‘Oh, he’s just a bloke. You know… a bloke.’
That’s not enough for Emma, however. ‘Oh yeah, and how does this guy who’s “just a bloke” know you?’
‘He doesn’t!’
She frowns. ‘But he waved at—’
I grab her by the hand and drag her back to the booth, which, as luck would have it, no one has nicked yet. The last thing I need is Emma mounting a full-scale assault on poor, unsuspecting Scott.
‘He’s just a bloke I met at the gym today, that’s all,’ I say when I’m sure we’re out of earshot. ‘He helped me when I got my feet stuck on the rowing machine. Nothing else to it, I’m afraid.’
Emma arches her eyebrows and folds her arms. ‘Well, well, well, Miss Jones, you are full of surprises! Why don’t you go over and chat to him? Before you dragged me over here, I saw him heading towards the bar.’
I roll my eyes and grin. ‘Oh yeah, he’s really going to want to talk to the absolute lemon he had to rescue today, isn’t he? He’s just here for a quiet drink, so let’s leave him alone, eh?’
It’s too late now; Emma is in full-on fantasy mode. ‘I can see it now; we’re at your wedding and at the point of the speech where I tell everyone how you first met…’
‘So I’m getting married now?’ I chuckle. ‘Dear God, I only met him today! Now, I’ll buy another round of drinks if you promise we can change the subject when I get back. How does that sound?’
I lift the empty glasses and wave them tantalisingly at her. If I know Emma as well as I think I do, she won’t be able to resist the lure of a gin and tonic.
She purses her lips, pretending to seriously mull my offer over. ‘Hmm, OK, you’ve got yourself a deal!’
I mosey on over to the bar, hoping there isn’t too much of a queue and that Scott’s nominated one of his mates to get the first round in. I cringe as I remember saluting him then running off earlier today. Not exactly the elegant, graceful impression I’d have liked to create.
Sure enough, there he is, leaning on the sticky bar top as he waits to be served. He runs a hand through his thick, dark hair and strokes his stubble as though he’s in deep thought about something. For a second, I consider approaching him and saying hello, but change my mind and stand at the opposite end of the bar. I might’ve been brave enough to start thinking about dreaming again, but talking to a guy I made a fool of myself in front of is stretching things a bit.
I feel Scott’s eyes on me, but I don’t look back. He’s probably recalling my embarrassing rowing-machine incident today and laughing to himself.
Except he’s not laughing, and he’s walking over to me.
Shit, shit, shit.
Be cool, Cleo, and think before you speak!
‘Well, hello again!’ He leans one elbow on the bar and looks at me with an amused expression. ‘I almost didn’t recognise you without your rowing machine and sparkly trainers.’
I try to hide a smile, but totally fail. ‘Here I am, in my natural surroundings!’ I gesture around us to the cosy little pub. ‘At least I can’t get stuck on any exercise equipment here. So um… who are you here with?’
So far so good, I say to myself, at least I haven’t said anything stupid yet.
‘That bunch of nutters over there.’ Scott points to where the group of guys he walked in with are sitting. One of them has a Post-It stuck to his forehead. ‘We’re here for my mate Chris’s birthday. He’s the one with the Post-It stuck to him because we’re playing “Who Am I?” Somehow, I don’t think he’s going to know who Olaf from Frozen is!’ He pauses for a second and narrows his eyes at me. ‘Hang on a minute. I’ve just remembered you didn’t even tell me your name earlier! All I know you as is Rowing Machine Girl and I think we should change that, don’t you?’
I chuckle and feel my cheeks begin to burn. ‘I’m sorry, you caught me at a bad moment earlier,’ I reply. ‘I promise I don’t usually run off before telling someone my name. I-it’s Cleo.’
I risk a glance at him and smile. To my surprise, he returns it and I feel my stomach do a world-class backflip. I can’t help feeling a little surprised at myself; for the first time in years, I’ve put myself out there and actually interacted with a guy who, it has to be said, is quite good-looking. The barman comes over and, after a bit of to-ing and fro-ing, I place my drinks order first.
‘As in Cleopatra?’ Scott raises his eyebrows and smiles when the barman leaves. ‘Like the nineties girl band?’
I laugh so hard that a snort comes out. Oh, very attractive, Cleo.
‘I usually get the Egyptian queen, but yeah, the girl band too! Cleopatra comin’ atcha.’
‘We’re
