I think I’ve scrubbed up reasonably well this evening, I think amazing is pushing it.
But fortunately, we’ve just reached the pub, and he’s holding open the door for me, and we’re heading in, which brings to an end this slightly awkward line of conversation.
We find a table, a surprisingly nice corner one given that it’s already pretty packed in here, and then I hang on to it while he goes and gets a bottle of wine from the bar.
‘Red?’ he asks, a couple of minutes later, as he reappears with a bottle and two large glasses. ‘I realized when I got there that I hadn’t actually asked you what you prefer. It’s just a Merlot. Is that OK?’
‘Joel, honestly, it’s fine. Please don’t worry! I’m not fussy.’
Though it has to make you wonder a little bit about the sort of woman he’s used to dating, I suppose: the precise punctuality, the flowers, the checking about my happiness and preferences at every turn. Not that I’m complaining, because obviously his manners are pretty much as exquisite as that flawless skin of his. I just hope he relaxes a little as the evening goes on.
I’m not used to being the chilled-out one, that’s for sure.
‘Good.’ He sits down opposite me and pours us each a well-judged glass: not so big that it looks as if he’s trying to get me drunk, but not so small that it looks miserly. ‘Cheers. And I know I said I wouldn’t apologize again—’
‘Then don’t,’ I say, firmly, ‘because I’m absolutely fine. I mean, I’m pretty well padded.’
The image of me and my well-padded body linger, mortifyingly, in the air for a moment.
Then he chinks his glass to mine again. ‘Bottoms up, I suppose?’
The ice, thank God, has been broken.
I laugh, he smiles, and then he takes a drink from his glass and starts looking – thankfully – a little more relaxed.
‘So,’ he says, ‘tell me a bit more about yourself. I mean, all I have so far is that your name is Libby, and you’re a jewellery designer. A well-padded jewellery designer.’
‘Well, for starters, I don’t think anyone wants to know more about my well-padded body.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that,’ he says lightly, and softly, into his wine glass.
I won’t deny, this gives me a bit of a thrill.
I mean, I got so accustomed to Dillon’s barrage of seductive charm – full-on, no-holds-barred, innuendo-laden verbal foreplay – that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to indulge in some proper, grown-up flirting. No, scratch that: I’ve never actually known what it’s like to indulge in proper, grown-up flirting. Everything I know about proper grown-up flirting, I’ve gleaned from the movies. Gregory Peck, Cary Grant, Fred Astaire. To name just three of the men I’d have given my eye-teeth to be dating rather than the sorry assembly that makes up my past. I’ve never been wined and dined. I’ve never been wined or dined, come to think of it. All my past relationships have taken a direct path from 1) Drunken Snog At Party through 2) Vaguely Ending Up Sleeping Together to 3) Saying We’re Going Out With Each Other Just To Avoid The Embarrassment Of Actually Having To Address The Fact We Only Have (Unsatisfactory) Sex Because We Don’t Have Anything To Say To One Another. Followed by 4) Hasty (but never quite hasty enough) Break-Up.
Seriously, my ‘love life’ has pretty much looked like the icky, embarrassing bits Taylor Swift has never wanted to chronicle in one of her hits.
All of which makes it even more ironic that during all those years of relationship failure, I could – should – have been settled in blissful harmony with Olly.
And dammit, there I go.
I’m not thinking about Olly tonight. I’m not. In fact, I’m putting a total ban on it. A total ban I’m going to have to tighten up pretty quick-smart if I want to enjoy the evening.
‘Libby?’ Joel is looking at me across the table, and looking mildly concerned about the fact I’m (probably) gazing into space like an idiot and not giving him an answer to his perfectly polite question. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Yes! More than OK! Gosh,’ I say, in a super-enthusiastic, jolly-hockey-sticks sort of style, to make up for drifting off, ‘well, yes! What can I tell you about me? Er … well, I’ve been running my jewellery company for almost two years now. It only started out as a hobby, really – I mean, I was an actress before that, and a pretty unsuccessful one – but it’s really taken off, way more than I ever dreamed it would, really. I’m working with some … um … really great people.’ Best not to sit here and whinge about Elvira’s Official Warning, I think; it might lend a bum note to the evening. ‘And I’m just concentrating on building the brand at the moment,’ I say, which I’m rather pleased with, as an off-the-top-of-my-head statement, because it makes me sound purposeful and dynamic, both of which are things I suspect Joel is impressed by.
‘Amazing.’ He nods. ‘What’s the name?’
‘Libby Goes To Hollywood. I’m a huge fan of old movies, and my stuff is sort of inspired by Old Hollywood glamour … you know, Marilyn Monroe, Ava Gardner … er … Grace Kelly …’
‘Oh, well, now you’re talking …’ He puts a hand to his chest. ‘Grace Kelly was my first love. Not that she knew it, unfortunately. But still … what I wouldn’t have given to have met her in her prime.’
‘Yes. I, um, imagine that would have been something.’ I take a large drink from my glass. ‘Truly.’
‘Hey, if you love the movies, we should go to the cinema for our next date. I mean, always assuming there is a next date,’ he adds. ‘You might decide against it.’
‘You might decide against it.’
‘I can safely say,’ he says, ‘on the basis of everything I’ve experienced so far this evening, Libby, that no, I won’t be deciding against it.’
I smile at him. He smiles back. And we just sit there, for a couple of moments, beaming at each other like a couple of idiots.
‘Anyway!’ I say, breaking the spell, ‘that’s quite enough about me. Tell me about yourself. I mean, a surname would be nice!’
‘Perreira,’ he says. He turns ever so slightly pink. ‘Sorry,’ he blurts, inexplicably.
‘Why on earth would you be sorry about your surname?’
‘Just because … well, I know it’s a bit of an odd one. Brazilian, as it happens.’
‘Oh, you’re Brazilian.’
‘Half. My dad. My mum was born in Slovakia.’
‘Wow, so you’re … Brazilian-Slovakian.’ His vanilla-fudge skin and mysterious accent are making a bit more sense. ‘That’s quite a mixture.’
‘Yeah, I’m just an old mongrel,’ he says, with a short laugh. ‘Well, maybe not that old, thirty-nine next birthday. And you’re … what? Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?’
‘Nice
