no, no. Don’t jump, don’t be serious, don’t respond to every point, it’s too anxious. And don’t ask so many questions. You’re in control, remember?’
‘OK,’ I say, and take a long drink of wine. I like the way that Robert doesn’t make me feel too stupid for not knowing this stuff. ‘Like . . . umm . . . Are you asking me out? Before I recommend anything, I want to know which area, and when . . .’
‘No, no, that’s still jumping.’
I bury my face in my hands and squeal. ‘This is hard! I can’t play this game . . .’
‘You keep saying that, but you seem to be learning quite fast,’ says Robert drily.
I peer at him through my fingers. ‘What would you say, then . . .?’
‘I’d wait for a bit, then say something like: I’m flattered to be your drinker of choice. Mention my name at Negozio Classica on Portobello Road and they’ll look after you.’
‘That’s so arrogant! And I’ve never even heard of that place. And shouldn’t I say what time?’
‘Arrogance is good. Keeps him on his toes. Let him take care of the details. Don’t be obvious. It’s needy.’
‘But . . .’
‘Send it.’
I obediently tap it in, reading aloud as I go, and press ‘send’ before I can think about it. Goodbye little text. God speed.
‘Tell me more about Antonia.’
Robert sighs and rubs his eyes. ‘I met her in Croatia last summer. She’s beautiful. And crazy . . . We had a hedonistic week drinking and sleeping and swimming all day, staying on her dad’s boat . . .’
‘Seriously. What happened?’
‘That’s exactly what happened,’ he says in surprise.
Wow. That’s unlike any holiday I’ve ever had. Peter and I went on a boat trip off the coast of Majorca once, but Peter was seasick and I got a headache and we were only out for six hours, anyway. Then he went to bed and I lay by the hotel pool and watched other people having a good holiday. God! Enough about Peter.
I pause, as a dark-haired girl in a tiny black dress and huge black boots walks past us to the bar. She’s trying to give Robert some intense eye contact as she passes, but – unusually – he’s oblivious.
‘Do women always just present themselves to you on a scent-spritzed platter?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing. So, you fell in lust with her, then what?’
He shrugs. ‘We’ve been stealing weekends together here and there, but it was never going to last, was it? She lives in Milan, for God’s sake . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m surprised she’s surprised, if you know what I mean.’
‘I don’t think women think like that.’
‘Well, guys do.’
‘Do you want to know what I think?’
‘If it’s anything other than that I should end it, no.’
‘You don’t have to be such a bastard about it. I think you need to make her feel better. Did you tell her you’re sorry?’
‘Never apologise, never explain.’
I’m about to retort when my phone beeps.
‘Ooh!’ I read the text aloud. ‘For my safety, you should probably escort me. Negozio Classica, tomorrow, 8 pm? What should I say?’
Robert reads it. ‘Short notice. Do you want to see him?’
‘Yes . . .’ I say, thinking about Skinny Jeans’ blue eyes and engagingly bold manner. ‘I think so. Yes.’
‘Leave it for twenty minutes. Then text him back “sounds good, see you there”.’
‘Shouldn’t I say something funny?’
‘Leave him wanting more. And don’t use an exclamation mark or a smiley face.’
‘Like I would!’ I exclaim. We sit in silence for a few moments. I might have used an exclamation mark, actually. ‘I wonder if I’ll ever date someone I actually like,’ I say. ‘Instead of just saying “yes” to any random man I meet.’
‘Course you will. But you have to slay a lot of dragons to get to the princess, that’s what my mother always says.’
‘What a peach.’
‘She is,’ he agrees.
‘I have to use the euphemism.’
‘You know, “loo” isn’t a dirty word. You can even say “bathroom” or “toilet”.’
By the time we finish the wine, I’ve sent the second pre-agreed text to Skinny Jeans, and receive a reply as we’re contemplating getting a second bottle.
‘Ooo! Another text!’ I say excitedly. Robert grins. It says . . . “I’ll see you there. You lucky girl.” What should I reply? Something about him being the lucky one?’
‘No,’ says Robert. ‘Don’t reply. Remember, always leave them wanting more.’
‘Yes, master. Any other advice?’
‘Make this one work hard. He’s slick.’
‘What if I need help? Like once I’m on the date?’
‘Text me,’ he says, grinning. He seems to find my dating panic highly amusing.
‘Thanks,’ I grin at him. Maybe having a male flatmate will work out after all. His phone beeps again. ‘OK. I have to go, I’m afraid. Lady Caroline. Here are my keys. I’ll be home at 6.30 am, will you be there?’
‘Yep. I’ll make us breakfast,’ I say. Yay! I hate eating breakfast alone. I get up and put my coat on.
‘Don’t all your tips kind of defeat the point of dating?’ I wonder aloud as we walk towards the door. ‘You know, to get to know each other and see if you like each other?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ he replies. ‘The point is to have fun.’
All the way home, this thought plays over and over in my head. Dating is supposed to be fun?
‘Appetite for Western brands is undiminished, and contrary to early-recession reports, China’s millionaires were largely unscathed by the global downturn. The overall economy and the diversification of wealth will continue to grow—’
I clear my throat. I loathe presenting.
