by Abigail Mann
Oh no. Reading between the lines, this means we’ve barely got anyone signed up to the app. I thought that at the very least I’d be choosing the guys? I’ve seen some of the slicked-back, silk-pocket-square stockbrokers she’s been out with. Maybe I could get Suki to fiddle with the system to generate me a friendly, slipper-wearing, Sunday-afternoon-film enthusiast. I’ve really spent too much time at Evergreen Village, haven’t I?
I think someone’s asked me a question, because everyone is staring.
‘Sorry, what?’
‘Your first date. It’s tonight. You wanted this, so it’s all systems go now, sweetheart.’
Chapter 19
It was a stupid plan. I thought ‘owning my idea’ would mean, like, publicising the community dates, not actually going on them. You know, weekly meetings with tea and a plate of digestives where I interview users about the process, the app, whether the ‘experience’ was experiential enough, that sort of thing. Maybe I could use a pseudonym? But that would only work if I was disguising my face as well as my name, which I can’t do because Bismah’s already uploaded my profile onto the bloody website and Rhea has written my bio. It currently reads:
I’m a 26-year-old pottery enthusiast with a big heart and a penchant for slow walks along the Thames.
Of course I bloody like slow walks. What other kind of walk is there?
I was being truthful in the meeting when I said I hadn’t thought about the details of the pitch too much. I really hadn’t. But, there’s something about living with Annie that has made me feel close to content for the first time in … I don’t even know how long. I want more of that, in other areas too. Last week I didn’t do a single quiz on the internet like ‘which European city is most like your teenage self?’ Not one! I even bought a red notebook and have written night-time affirmations in it all of three times whilst Annie watches University Challenge. We hide in the kitchen when creepy Craig wanders past the front lawn. Well, I hide, Annie shuffles behind the coat rack as fast as her dodgy back can cope with. She asks me about ‘that horrible boss’ and ‘lovely Maggie the teacher’. We say things like ‘You made the last one, I’ll put the kettle on’. Annie is undemanding. Annie squeezes my fingers to say thank you. Annie still won’t talk to me about why her bloody son won’t speak to her, but I’ve got a plan to help with that.
It’s pushing six o’clock and I’ve got to meet my first match – David Meldrew – at eight. Considering it takes me thirty minutes to get up to the Village and then another fifty over to Knightsbridge, I barely have time to get ready. I break my self-imposed rule of ‘never run unless your life is in danger’ and jog every other step on the hill up to Evergreen. I look like a drunk gazelle hobbling over cobblestones slick with rain and soggy blossom. When I get in, a clump of mud lands on Annie’s thick rubber-soled slippers and I flick it off as she comes through the doorway.
‘Did they announce your campaign today, love? You give ’em what for?’ she says, her eyes wide with anticipation.
‘Annie, I’m freaking out,’ I say, dashing past her up the stairs two at a time.
‘What d’you mean?’ she calls from the hallway. ‘They didn’t go for that dog swap app, did they? I thought your idea was lovely. Really well thought through.’ Her voice muffles as I turn down the carpeted hallway and open my bedroom door. ‘They’re bloody idiots, Elissa, you hear me?’ she calls up the stairs.
‘It’s not the dog one. It’s mine. Mine won. My idea – we’re doing it. But they want me to actually be in the campaign, not just design it. I’ve got to go play crazy golf with some City worker in … about an hour.’ I can hear her coming up the stairs as I flick through my sparse hangers for the third time and regret my decision to drop a bin bag of lacy, sparkly clothes at the charity shop. I didn’t think I’d be at the ‘jeans and a nice top’ stage for months. The thought of deliberately dressing to attract someone makes me feel clammy. Is the rule still boobs, belly, or legs on show, but never at the same time? What if this campaign gets the traction everyone hopes it’ll have and I’m outed as a deceptive, amoral polyamorist? What if Louis Theroux makes a documentary about me and my unconventional lifestyle and people on Twitter troll me?
‘I don’t want to go on a date,’ I say, flopping down on the corner of my bed. I fiddle with the edge of a pillowcase printed with tiny cowboys and Indians. The sight of them makes me irrationally angry. Annie is hovering at the door. She stands at a crooked angle and pushes the base of her palm into the curve of her back.
‘He might be all right, love,’ Annie says. ‘Seems like you’re casting him off before giving him a chance.’
‘He won’t be all right. He’ll be some finance tosser with daddy issues who Rhea has paired me up with because for some reason she hates me and thinks this’ll be funny. Everyone is going to laugh. Because it’s hilarious, isn’t it? Me having to tweet about all the shit dates I’m going to go on.’ I rifle through the chest of drawers and blink my eyes clear so I can see whether the bralette in my hands is acceptable as outerwear. ‘I’m going to be known as the saddo who can’t make someone love her and plays Scrabble with a pensioner at the weekends.’ Annie doesn’t meet my eye when I look at her and I bite my lip so hard I taste old pennies.
‘I didn’t mean it like that. I mean … I don’t know what I mean. I like playing Scrabble, it’s just—’
‘Put this on.’ She carefully takes a black T-shirt off its hanger and lays it on the bed. ‘With a big necklace and jeans. You can dress anything up with a good necklace.’ She smiles, pats me on the arm, and turns to leave.
‘Annie?’
‘What, love?’
‘I didn’t mean it. About the Scrabble thing. Honestly. I do like living here. Even though I’m rubbish at spelling and you always get the triple word score.’ I laugh. Annie doesn’t.
‘It’s fine. I understand. It’s not ideal, this, is it? I was married with a new-born at your age. I’m not saying that’s ideal either, mind you. Being here in London when you don’t know many folk and only a little one for company … it’s hard. Not the worst kind of hard there is, but still hard. You get used to it.’ She twists a ring around her finger and rubs the joints on her left palm. ‘I shan’t prattle on any longer. You get yourself ready now. I won’t put the double lock on the front door, all right? You can come in when you fancy, that way.’ She gives me the smallest of nods and shuffles back down the corridor.
Oh God, I feel terrible. I want to go downstairs, make tea, watch Pointless, and talk to Annie for hours and hours so she forgets how horrible I am. I look at my phone. Shit. I should have left by now. I quickly change and dig out a long necklace that Mum brought me back last year from a stopover port in Sharm-el-Sheikh, before squeezing into my battered brogues.
‘See you, Annie!’ I shout through into the living room. I linger for a minute, but she doesn’t reply.
By the time I get to Hampstead tube station, my back is clammy from speed-walking. As I walk down the escalator, my phone buzzes.
REMINDER: Pick up tortillas and spice mix (not hot) for fajita night!
Fuck. We had plans. We had plans and I’d completely forgotten. Here I am, travelling to a sodding crazy-golf date when I’m meant to be making dinner for Annie. Why didn’t she say anything? A memory pings to mind of a chat we’d had this morning whilst I was chopping cherry tomatoes for my salad. She was looking forward to it. She’d been chatting about a disastrous attempt at Mexican food in 1994, where she’d sliced up a whole habanero chilli and the poor woman she’d asked round for tea was left with an inflamed oesophagus and swollen eyelids. She hadn’t had the nerve to try it again since. I’ll make it up to her. I’ve got to.
I feel a bit sick wondering what she thinks of me – that I’m a scrounger who only spends time with her because I’m contractually obliged to for four evenings a week. But, that’s not true. I feel attached to Annie – her home, her world, her life, her bizarre neighbours. Even the ones with standoffish wives. The thought of
going back to that front door, dripping with wisteria, to find my slippers warm on the radiator is the closest I’ve felt to belonging in years. It’s worlds away from the days I’d walk home with crossed fingers in my coat pocket, hoping that I’d be alone in the flat. Now, I want to be around the person I live with.
I get to the end of the escalator and stumble as the tread flattens under my feet. An elbow bumps into my back and a flurry of tuts flit around my ears as I step to the side and blink away the tears that are making my vision foggy. What am I doing? If my date has a thing for bloodshot eyes and bad posture, he’s in luck tonight.
***
The crazy-golf bar looks like someone designed it with a Las Vegas theme, but only ever saw the budget replicas on the strip in Great Yarmouth. Once I figure out where the entrance is (through a door disguised as a Smeg fridge), I stand on tiptoes to look over the heads of two dozen men and women who laugh at the mini-golf clubs they’ve just picked up from the stand.
Right, what am I actually looking for here? Dark hair. Slight stubble. The self-confidence of a man who sings in Latin when drunk. That must be him, the one who’s just given me a salute and a lopsided smile. Of course. He’s halfway down a pint of beer when I reach him, and lurches forwards to plant a kiss on each cheek.
‘Eloise?’ he says, eyes just about focusing on mine.
‘No, not Eloise. Elissa.’
He nods and pats me on the shoulder with a heavy hand. I guess that’s an acknowledgment, of sorts. This is when I need to say his name, isn’t it? Except I don’t know it. I’ve barely looked at the profile Rhea sent me and despite trying to hook into the Wifi each time the tube stopped for thirty seconds on the way home, I only managed to load up his profile picture. I can hardly get my phone out to check now. Think, Elissa.
The man looks at me with his chin pulled in as he sways and squints with concentration.
‘Er, how do you pronounce your name again?’
‘How do I pronounce it?’ he says, stumbling over his words.
‘Yes, your name, is it said the normal way?’ Please don’t be a biblical name, please don’t be a biblical name, please don’t be a—
‘David. Said the normal way.’ Shit. He tips the glass up towards his mouth and a dribble of beer rolls down his chin.
‘David … ahh, right. I’ve only ever known a “Daveid”, said in the Spanish way, you know? Hahaha. David. Nice to meet you.’
David, who is clearly not Spanish, mumbles something and shakes his glass to catch every last drop of beer in his mouth. I tug my top down from the back so the material shifts up and over my bra, which I’ve just noticed is on full display, as is half of my areola, clearly visible through thin grey lace. I must start washing colours and whites separately, but honestly, who has the time?
‘Hmm?’ I say, distracted. David leans to talk into my ear and I step away from him. He smells of stale beer and an overwhelming peppery aftershave.
‘So … how does this work, then?’ David asks, swinging his mini-golf club in the direction of the blinking and shrieking putting course behind me.
‘Er, well, it’s golf, isn’t it? Fewest hits wins? Or is it most?’
‘No, I mean, this date thing. To be honest I thought you were going to be Rhea.’ He guffaws in a way I’ve only ever heard on Prime Minister’s Question Time.
‘Oh, right.’ Thank God. Overlooking the thinly veiled insult, I’d rather it was Rhea here too.
‘Yeah, we played lacrosse together back at Christ’s. Great girl. You’re all right though. Not my usual type, but you’ve got good eyes.’
‘Thanks, I can see out of them and everything.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
I drum my fingers on the table. This is painful. David goes to drink from his empty glass and looks confused when nothing comes out.
‘I think the idea is that we look on this as an “experience”. Like, it’s a date and everything, but it’s more about the whole thing. So that it’s not a waste. Of time.’ I emphasise the last few words. I am aware that I’m coming across as a massively uptight bitch, but I’m annoyed at Rhea for luring this poor sod with the false promise of an evening with her and her perky boobs. This isn’t what I had in mind when I thought of ‘community dates’. I imagined planting a herbaceous border around a community centre whilst getting to know a philanthropic man who can hold a conversation without a beer in hand. Crazy golf with a charity tin on the tequila bar is a stretch. But it’s hardly worth thinking about that now. I may as well try and make this worth his while. I’ll have to write it up, after all.
First, I’ve got to remember what it’s like to flirt. I try and think back to uni, to lingering eyes and walking hip-first across dance floors sticky with sambuca. I pull my shoulders back and push my tongue behind my bottom lip to make it look fuller (something I saw in Cosmo as a teen and always remembered). But David is looking over my shoulder at a group of giggling women with bums so peachy I’m sure they came out of the womb in active wear. Seeing as I’m being ignored, I physically move to stand in front of David’s eyeline.
‘Shall we … start the game?’ I ask.
An hour later, David has sobered up a bit, quite possibly because the queue for the bar is now eight people deep, but the upside is that I got a good lead before he was able to focus on the ball properly. He’s also not as awful as I first thought. Whilst we wait for others to chase a neon golf ball round the AstroTurf, David works his way through a number of conversation points. These include: his regrets concerning Rhea; his loneliness post-university when he lost touch with rugby mates; his older brother who works remotely on a banking start-up in Goa; and his plans to adopt a pet from Battersea Dogs Home.
He crosses his wrists and props them on the end of an upturned golf club. He looks quite jaunty now, like he’s going to kick it in a circle and give me some jazz hands, except his eyes have gone watery and morose and I’m led to think it would be a very sad dance. Oh dear. I’ve got to steer towards something more joyful.
‘Have you ever had a dog before?’ I say.
David sighs. ‘No. Actually, yeah. When I was eight. But it did a liquid shit in Dad’s study. Leaked between the floorboards. Ringo lived in the shed after that. When I came back from boarding school at Christmas, Dad said he’d run off.’ I snort. David’s eyes narrow. I can’t help it. I’m trying desperately hard not to, but I’m barely disguising my laughter as a coughing fit as it is, so I turn around, shoulders shaking, to swallow it back down.
‘I’m really sorry. It’s not funny. It isn’t.’ I breathe out sharply and turn back, but I sound like a canal boat chugging along. David stands tall with his shoulders pulled back and a huge grin spread across his face.
‘It’s not funny, is it?’ he says, lopsidedly smirking. He runs a hand through his hair and laughs too, in a pitch much higher than his regular voice. ‘It was quite devastating, actually,’ he says with mock sincerity.
‘I don’t doubt that. I lost my hamster when I was ten because his testicles got caught in the bars of his cage, so, you know, I’m no stranger to childhood trauma.’
He laughs and knocks my club to the floor by bumping into me with his hip.
‘Um, are you guys gonna move on, or, like, should we wait?’ a woman says, holding her lips in a silent ‘o’ of red lipstick.
‘No, go on ahead,’ David replies. Oh. He wants to keep talking to me. Maybe I’m not the subpar date I thought I was.
‘Do you want to see a picture? Of my hamster?’ Smooth, Elissa. That line didn’t work well even at primary school.
‘Not if he’s got his balls stuck in a cage.’
‘No! I didn’t take a picture of that. I just wrapped him in bandages and poured some perfume on him, so if someone in the future digs him up they’ll think he was worshipped like an Egyptian deity. Obviously.’
‘Yeah, far more normal …’ he says, nodding.
‘Look, you’d have done the same thing. He was the gladia
tor of rodents. I’ll show you.’ I smile and my eyebrows strain from the effort of making my eyes look wide and alluring. David sits down on a bench surrounded by fake Monstera and ivy vines. I pull my phone from my back pocket.
My lock screen (up until recently a selfie of me and Tom on the Thames, now replaced by a particularly great poutine I ate last year) is busy with notifications. Five missed calls, all from a number I don’t recognise. My stomach twists and I feel like ice cubes are rattling around in my chest.
‘Brought back bad memories? The hamster?’ says David, drumming his fingers on his knee.
‘What? No. Sorry, David. I’ve just got to check something. You can keep going if you want, just knock my ball about, will you? I’m the purple one.’ I prop my club up against the wall and apologise over my shoulder as I weave around the spinning blades of a miniature windmill and accidentally kick a golf ball into a pit of rubber snakes.
Outside, my phone buzzes in my hand as I move past the bouncer.
‘No return of entry if you’re leaving, madam,’ he says, scanning the queue as he talks.
‘But I’m just taking a phone call.’
‘That’s the system. If you leave you can’t re-enter.’
‘Why?’ I say, unusually annoyed.
He waves in another couple, clicks a counter inside his pocket, and looks at me with decided boredom. It’s Monday, and drizzly, but beyond that I don’t know why he has a reason to be such an arsehole. My screen lights up. Six missed calls. Either my Mum and Dad have fallen off the back of a cruiser somewhere in the Mediterranean shipping channel, or my brother has taken some dodgy MDMA and is in a coma. Why else does anyone ring six times in a row?
‘Fine. But I’ve left someone in there, can you go and tell him I’m stuck out here and can’t come back in?’
He winks at me and flashes a gold tooth so shiny I can see my head in bulbous reflection. ‘Sure thing, princess. I’ll just toddle in and find him, shall I? He’ll be one of the ones playing golf, will he?’ My phone buzzes again. It’s a London number. No cruiser or drug incident, then.