main issue with staring at a man’s pert bum, is that if he spins round you find yourself staring at his crotch.
I once looked up ‘crotch’ in the dictionary. Don’t ask. I think I was in the waiting room at the dentist’s and read it in some countryside or gardening magazine. It was an article about tree pruning, with photos of some very masculine looking types hanging off branches dangling chainsaws. I was confused, and bored, so I Googled. Anyway, it means (if you ignore the obvious) a fork in a tree, road, or river. As in the trunk where it splits into two branches, get it? This fork was very snugly encased in the jeans that are also caressing his rear.
‘Oh fork.’
Sarah splutters crumbs. Christ, did I really say that? And in that way?
‘Fork indeed.’ Her eyes are watering as she spits the words out between what sounds like a cat coughing up fur balls, but I think it’s a mix of laughter and tears, and trying not to make too much noise. At least it stops the suggestive breadstick sucking.
I glance upwards, just to check he’s not looking at us because of the noise she’s making, and he is. Looking at us. Well, he’s looking straight at me, and he has got the dirtiest grin I have ever seen on his face. All Hugh Grant and awfully British, but awfully naughty. It is way, way sexier than the grin he had on his Facebook profile.
Then he winks. And my face is on fire, along with several other parts of my body.
Shit. ‘I can’t do this.’ After I’ve been caught ogling him like that, he’ll think I’m sex-starved. He’ll turn me down.
‘He is seriously gorgeous.’ Sarah is now licking the end of the breadstick in a way that could get us thrown out.
He is. ‘He thinks I’m some sort of perv before he’s even met me. He’ll probably say no.’ I stare at the very interesting tablecloth and try and peek through my eyelashes to see if he’s still looking our way. He isn’t, he’s got his arm round a woman who’s brought more bread to the table.
‘Honestly, what a flirt, what a chauvinist, I’m not sure I’d want to be seen with him.’ Does he hug everybody? I mean, I want him to hug my mother, but not spend all his time embracing other women while I look on.
‘What does it matter?’ Sarah shrugs, and stabs a piece of penne pasta. I hadn’t even noticed our meals arriving. I really, really hope she doesn’t start to suck on that. ‘He’s probably used to women staring, and he’s not going to think you’re that normal anyway, is he?’ She laughs. ‘Anyway I know you don’t mean it, you can’t stop looking at him.’
Exactly. What normal woman would think of doing this? But thinking I’m not normal is one thing, thinking I’m some kind of sex-starved not-normal is another.
‘He’s probably very big-headed, and shallow.’ I don’t think my face is glowing quite as much now, it’s calmed down to a simmer. My red blotchy chest is another matter though. Why didn’t I wear a high necked top? Embarrassment, lust and heat always make my chest blotchy. Not that this is about lust. Now he’ll think I’ve got some strange disease, as well as being sex-starved. He’ll turn me down even if (and it is an ‘if’) I do offer him the equivalent of a down payment on a bachelor pad.
How excruciating would that be to admit to? Even worse than admitting I didn’t have a new fabulous boyfriend and having to spend a week in Scotland trying to ignore pitying looks. ‘We won’t have anything in common.’ Oh gawd, now he has a little girl on his knee, and she’s giggling and looking at him adoringly as he balances a breadstick on his upper lip and I don’t mind him hugging her at all. He’s not at all self-conscious or flirty. I admit it, I wouldn’t mind at all being seen with him. Spending a whole week with him. But will he feel the same about me?
‘Methinks you doth protest too much.’ Sarah is watching me now, not him. ‘You fancy him don’t you? Go on, admit it!’
He laughs, a full-throated kind of laugh that makes me feel tingly, and I forget to take a drink from the glass I’m holding up to my mouth.
She’s right. I do fancy him. Who wouldn’t? I fancy him even more as he leans down and picks up the napkin that his mother has dropped, then leans in to replace it and whisper in her ear. He really would be the perfect date, the type of man who would have my mother in raptures and my father’s nod of approval. Even if it is all just pretend.
Sarah is still staring. Openly. ‘And anyway just think of loser Liam and up the duff Delia or whatever she’s called; he will totally buy into you two as a couple, you’ll look great together.’
To be honest, I’ve stopped caring about Liam. I can’t take my eyes off Jake. If anybody could prove to me what a total waste of my life Liam was, he’s sitting right across the room.
I grab my mobile phone.
‘What are you up to now?’ Sarah whips away my last bit of chocolate brownie before I get a chance to object. To be honest, I’ve hardly noticed the food, I’d be hard put to say what I’ve eaten.
‘Texting Amy. I want to do this, I need to do this. Taking Jake to the wedding is a brilliant idea!’
Sarah grins, then raises her glass. ‘I couldn’t agree more!’
I get a return message from Amy just after I’ve got home. Jake is up for it. He’s suggested we meet on neutral ground so we can discuss details. The address is a bit weird though. Waggytails Wescue, sorry Rescue, Centre.
Jake is a volunteer dog walker, and he’s suggested that I either join him or meet him after his shift. Rather rashly I have agreed to be a dog walker as well, and Sarah has insisted on joining me for moral support, because she loves dogs, and because she’s nosey. She has also promised not to spy on us when I’m chatting to Jake – this is weird enough without having an audience. I think her main reason for coming is to make sure I actually go through with it because she thinks this is such an ace idea. Personally, after seeing Jake in the flesh I tend to agree, but it’s still a bit awkward, isn’t it, hiring a date? It has to rate as the most embarrassing thing I have ever done.
***
‘Amy said Jake will meet us here.’ I’ve still not corresponded directly with Jake, so I hope Amy isn’t having me on. How disappointing will it be if I don’t get to look into those lovely eyes of his close up? And of course, I have to remember the important bit, I will be back to square one as far as the wedding plans go. ‘She said to go to reception and give our names, they’ll hand over the dogs and then we’ll meet him on the walk.’
Simple. What could be more perfect than a nice stroll in the fresh air, with some happy dogs and a gorgeous man?
So why do I feel all wobbly inside, and have fingers that are incapable of doing the simple things like my shoelaces? It took me an hour to get dressed this morning! I only had minor butterflies in my stomach at that point, but they have started to flap harder as the day has progressed. Now they are a tsunami of insects.
I don’t know whether it’s anticipation, excitement or just fear. I imagine this is how I’d feel if I was about to bungee jump off a big cliff. I want to jump, I need to jump, but the sensible bit of me is saying it might be a little bit dangerous.
Anyway, I started off with jeans, Converses, T-shirt and hoodie, then tried every combination of vaguely sensible (and some not so sensible) dog-walking outfits, and ended up back where
