Robert: Unless Josh From HR is your soulmate, of course.
Bastard.
To Robert: OK. Thanks. I’ll call you later . . . ps any advice for me, o dating sage?
From Robert: Act like you don’t care.
His tips are getting annoying. Isn’t that kind of the same as ‘act detached’, anyway? I check my watch. It’s 8 pm! I’m going to be a few minutes late. What a novelty. Time to go.
The Albannach is a dark, masculine bar, with deer antlers on the wall giving it a slightly creepy look, and it’s full of business types having a post-work drink. I hope Josh sees me before I see him. I was tipsy when I met him last weekend, and yes of course I remember what he looks like but, well, I don’t want to have to gaze into the face of every man between 25 and 40 to make sure . . .
‘Abigail,’ says a voice behind me, and I turn around with a smile. It’s Josh. Slim build, slightly oversized pink shirt that gapes around the collar, pukish-taupe tie, little wire-rimmed glasses.
‘Josh!’ I say, and we kiss hello. No aftershave. Cheeks very warm.
‘I got us seats over here,’ he says. Following him, I look down and see that his trousers are about three inches too short. ‘Want to look at the drinks menu?’ he says, handing it over. He’s drinking a pint of beer.
‘Sure thing,’ I reply easily.
My nerves disappeared the moment I saw him. I can’t believe I snogged him . . . He’s not quite how I remembered, ahem. I’m not sure he’s much more than 25 and he looks even younger. I study the cocktail menu for a few seconds, and automatically start reading the names aloud thoughtfully à la Bam-Bou.
‘Pea—’
I stop.
‘I’ll have a Pear Sour, I think,’ I say. He smiles back and I realise that he has no intention of going to the bar for me. Of course! HR. Equal opportunity. ‘Back in a sec,’ I say, and walk up to the bar. What an awkward start.
I get back to find him absent-mindedly squeezing something on the back of his neck.
‘I’m back,’ I say, slightly pointlessly.
‘Did you have any trouble getting here?’ he says quickly, taking a large sip of his beer and spilling a little on his tie.
‘Um, no,’ I say. ‘Did you?’
‘I did,’ he says earnestly. ‘I thought Trafalgar Square was near Leicester Square and, well, you can imagine!’
It is near Leicester Square, I think, but don’t say anything. It’s not nice to make someone feel stupid. Even if they might be stupid. (Is he stupid?) Instead I smile. ‘Central London is designed to confuse. Perhaps next time you should bring a compass and some sandwiches in case you get lost.’
Josh From HR continues, completely missing the compass/ sandwiches thing. ‘I know! I hate it! I never come here if I can help it. I never leave Wandsworth if I can help it, actually, except to go to work.’
‘Wandsworth is delightful,’ I agree, as it seems like something to say, though actually I have never been there. And why live in London if you hate the place? Move somewhere else. It’ll bring rent prices down for the rest of us. Gosh, I’ve got a feeling he’s a dweeb. I didn’t think I was that tipsy on Saturday. Perhaps I shouldn’t make dates after more than three drinks.
‘Isn’t it?!’ he exclaims, smiling and revealing a large piece of food lodged between his teeth.
Oh God, he is a dweeb.
For the next ten minutes, the conversation continues like this. Question, answer, comment. I realise I’m acting like Robert told me to – I’m cool, detached, offering a funny/teasing comment here and there (that he never picks up on), and generally acting friendly. It’s easy to act like I don’t care with Josh, because – yup – I really don’t care. At all.
Despite not caring, I discover that he works in Croydon for Nestlé, studied geography at university, grew up in East Anglia, loves his mum’s Sunday roast more than any restaurant meal and has every episode of Little Britain memorised. He, in turn, discovers that I studied Medieval French, work in a bank but find it boring, love reading, live in Primrose Hill and have never, ever, watched a single episode of Little Britain.
I finish my drink quite quickly, and though he’s finished his, he doesn’t offer to go to the bar. So I do instead.
As I stand waiting at the bar, it finally hits me: I don’t want to be here. And that sounds obvious, but really, it goes against every stick-it-out, wait-and-see, have-you-thought-this-through? instinct I’ve ever had. It’s a revefuckinglation.
I order our drinks, and get out my phone to text Robert. He’s the only person who seems to be able to provide textual healing tonight.
To Robert: Please help. Give me an excuse to get out of here.
Robert replies: He could be your soulmate.
I narrow my eyes at the phone. Nice one, smartarse. I reply: Seriously. Should I fake a burst appendix?
From Robert: I’ll call you in ten minutes. Have your phone out.
I head back with our drinks and sit down with a bright smile.
‘Saturday was fun, huh?’
‘I know! We got the overland to Victoria and then the train to South Kensington, and got off there by mistake instead of High Street Kensington, and—’
Hurry up, Robert, I think. Please hurry up. I’m trying to engage Josh on the marvellous subject of Wandsworth (‘When the shopping centre was opened, it was the largest indoor shopping centre in Europe! That was 1971, of course . . . but it has all the shops I need now: Burtons, JD Sports, Primark . . .’ ‘Oh, I adore Primark!’ I say, grateful to finally have something to say about Wandsworth), when my phone rings.
‘It’s my flatmate, I’m so sorry, I must get this,’ I gabble. ‘Hello?’
‘Abigail, I’ve locked myself out of the flat,’ says Robert.
‘You’ve locked yourself out of the flat?’ I repeat, very loudly and clearly.
‘Yes, I have. And I need you to come and let me in.’
‘You need me to come and let you in?’
‘Yes. Fast. I’ll be in the pub.’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can!’ I say, and turn apologetically to Josh. ‘I’m so sorry, I have to go . . .’
‘I had a great time,’ Josh says. ‘I’d love to see you again,’ he stands up awkwardly and moves towards me. Cripes, he’s not going to try and kiss me at 8.20 pm in a Central London bar, is he? I make myself all elbows putting on my jacket, and turn away whilst picking up my bag.
‘That’d be great,’ I lie, and smile at him. ‘Don’t worry about walking me to the tube. I’ll be fine. No, no. Bye!’
Walk
