interested and nice and pretty, all at the same time.
‘I work for a branding agency,’ he says. ‘I’m head of account management.’
‘Oh, how interesting!’ I say. Wow. I really do sound like my mum. ‘Where is your office?’
‘Farringdon.’
‘How long have you been doing that?’ But I can’t seem to stop.
‘About seven years. I started my own company straight out of university, managing chalet bitches, as that was what I loved,’ he pauses, and grins to himself for a second. ‘You know. But that got tired after a couple of years, so here I am.’
‘Golly,’ I say brightly. ‘That does sound interesting.’ Why do I feel like I’m at a job interview?
‘It was,’ he nods, his smile faltering slightly.
‘Where was the chalet company based?’ Is this normal?
‘Verbier.’
‘Do you speak French?’ Stop asking questions.
‘I can hold my own.’
‘Are you from London originally?’ But what if there’s an awkward pause in conversation?
‘I am,’ he says. ‘Though I left when my parents split up. My mum moved to Devon and I moved with her. I haven’t seen my dad in twenty years.’
‘Oh, I’m . . . sorry . . .’ Shit.
He smiles at me, slightly less enthusiastically than before. Perhaps talking about his mum and dad makes him sad. I’ll change the subject. Is it hot in here? My face feels so flushed.
‘So, have you eaten here before?’ I ask. I wonder if he can see me sweating.
‘Yeah, it’s great,’ he nods. ‘The pork belly is historic. In fact, our booking isn’t for another 45 minutes, but I bet we could get settled early. Shall we?’
‘Yes!’ I exclaim, getting up and following him down the stairs. ‘I’m so hungry! I had a sandwich from Pret for lunch and I swear they’re basically carbs and air, I am always hungry mid-afternoon, so then I had a chocolate bar, which I know is . . .’ Oh, my fucking God, I’m babbling absolute shit, and he’s not even listening. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up, Abigail.
‘Oooh! What shall we order?’ I ask, as we sit down at our table. Paulie doesn’t say anything. Shit, we can’t just sit here in silence. Without even thinking, I start reading the menu out loud. It’s not something I’ve ever done before, but nerves are enough to make a girl a little, you know, antsy.
‘Steamed edamame! They’re lovely. Saigon-style crepe, hmm, not sure about that . . . Har gau, they’re a favourite of mine. Soft-shell crab! I love crab, my sister hates it, she once had food poisoning in Singapore. I’m not—’
‘Excuse me, I think we’re ready to order some wine,’ interrupts Paulie, gesturing towards the waitress at the door.
‘Wine! Great,’ I say, and take a deep breath. You’re being a dickhead, Abigail, I think firmly. Sort it out. But I can’t. I’m a rolling snowball of nerves and stupidity, gathering momentum every second. ‘I seem to be impervious to alcohol recently, since I left my, uh, in the last few weeks. I mean, I drink, you know, a lot, but I don’t get hangovers lately. It’s like I’m an alcoholic goddess!’ Did you just say that Abigail? You absolute idiot.
‘Cheers to that,’ says Paulie, and drinks half his glass in one gulp.
I take a deep breath and smile, and drain half my martini in the next sip. Please God. Let this be over soon.
Two hours later, I crash through the front door, staggering a little to take my heels off. My flatmate, Robert, is stretched out on the couch, legs up on the coffee table, watching TV.
‘Honey, I’m home!’ I say.
‘Hey,’ he replies, glancing at me and back at the TV.
I shuffle into the living room, carrying my shoes, and plop down on the other couch.
‘I just had my first date, ever, in my whole entire life,’ I say chattily. I close one eye to focus on the TV. It’s an old The Simpsons, the episode with the monorail. ‘They use the M as an anchor to get the doughnut and then there’s an escalator to nowhere,’ I say helpfully.
‘Thanks for the heads-up.’ Robert runs his hands through his hair absent-mindedly. It’s longish and dark, and sticks up in the most gravity-defying way I’ve ever seen. I wonder if he uses product and if so, which one. ‘Beer?’
I look down and see a small bucket next to the couch, filled with ice and beer. The fridge is exactly nine feet away.
‘That is supremely lazy.’
Robert glances over again and grins. ‘Well, aren’t you chatty tonight?’
‘I’m a little drunk,’ I confess, sliding down the couch and manoeuvring my foot to pinch a beer bottle between my toes. Those last two martinis were goooood. We finished the wine, and Paulie switched to beer, and I thought hell, why not?
‘Good date?’ he asks, not taking his eyes off the TV.
‘Yeah,’ I say, moving my foot to bring the bottle up to my hand. Good eye-foot coordination. ‘He seems really nice. A bit reserved. He’s getting up early for a conference call so we called it a night after dinner.’
‘Oh, so it was a bad date,’ Robert says decisively, throwing me the bottle opener. I catch it perfectly and smile to myself. I cannot play any sports, at all. In fact, team sports make me panic – what if I let people down? (The pressure!) Yet I can always catch anything thrown at me. If only I could market this talent in some way, I’d never have to analyse results again. I could work in a bar, like Tom Cruise in Cocktail, and just throw bottles all – wait. I focus on what Robert just said.
‘Bad? No!’ I say. ‘It was fine. I was a little, uh, nervous, but then the conversation was easy. I found out lots about him, he seems very nice.’
‘Did you ask him lots of questions?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he ask you any questions?’
Pause. ‘No . . .’
‘Did you laugh a lot?’
Even longer pause. ‘We had a few . . . light moments.’
‘Bad date,’ he says again. ‘No kiss, right?’
I admit, that part confused me. When the hell are you meant to kiss? How can you tell if they want to? I tried to look at Paulie meaningfully, but I couldn’t catch his eye, and then he opened the cab door and kind of stood behind it, so I just got in and waved goodbye.
God. That is a disaster, now that I think about
