The First Date

by Zara Stoneley

  By the fourth message I may have dropped the smileys and dipped a toe (or whole foot) into the passive-aggressive arena. I did not, however, text ‘Where the fuck are you?’ even though I was itching to. I’m rather proud of my self-restraint, so that’s one positive I can take away from this.

  I turn my phone off and back on again, just in case it has lost connection, or has been hiding stuff from me.

  It blinks at me.

  ‘Oh gawd.’ I put my head in my hands. ‘Why am I even doing this to myself? First dates are the biggest load of shite …’

  ‘Then you’re dating the wrong guys.’

  ‘Shit!’ I hadn’t even realised I’d moaned out loud, and the deep voice that sounds like it is inches away from my left ear makes me jump. I start to slither off the stupidly high and shiny stool, throw my arms out wildly to recover my balance, and slap my empty glass with the palm of my hand so that it skids along the bar. ‘Fu—’ I lurch forward to try and grab it, and somehow instead end up sucking a strange man’s chin.

  I say strange but mean strange as in ‘stranger’ not weirdo; he’s actually quite presentable. Minty breath (can’t avoid it), nice nostrils (no long hairs). I can’t see much more of him this close up. And yuk, bristles! Thank God he’s just gone for not-shaved-today and hasn’t got a full bits-of-food-in beard. Which would be totally gross.

  I edge back, so that my nose is no longer pressed against his lips. What kind of germs might I have picked up, licking an unknown man’s stubble?

  It’s then I realise that I cannot move to a polite distance because I am in a weird tango position – one arm outstretched, fingers reaching for my glass, the other hand pressed against his chest.

  Em-barr-ass-ing.

  I appear to have been in a clinch (but luckily now at arm’s length) with a man. But he is not Gabe.

  Definitely not Gabe.

  ‘You’re not Gabe!’

  He chuckles. ‘Nope. Not Gabe. I’m not the first date shite!’ He raises an eyebrow and grins at me. ‘More the first date dream.’

  ‘Really? Are you for real?’ This is why I don’t come to bars like this one. ‘Has nobody ever told you how bad that sounds?’

  Just as I thought this couldn’t get any worse in the humiliation stakes, it has. I am groping my not-first-date. What the hell am I doing? Shit! What if Gabe turns up late and finds me grappling somebody else? And a cocky, confident, sexy, self-assured type of somebody else. A player!

  Is it possible to be unfaithful to somebody you haven’t yet met? Oh my God, Tinder isn’t like TripAdvisor, is it? Can I be rated on true-to-likeness, turns-up-on-time, and likelihood-of-being-faithful?! Is there a noticeboard where I can be branded a bitch and lose forever the hope of a swipe surge? Even though it is not my fault?

  Well actually it is partly Gabe’s fault for picking this place, which is a bit of a pick-up joint from what I can tell, and for not turning up on time.

  I have got to get away!

  But Not-Gabe has his hand on my waist. And he’s got a pretty firm grip of me.

  Maybe I need to let go first. My hand is still splayed over a surprisingly firm pec, which I am tempted to squeeze. But I don’t. If I shove hard enough, I might catapult myself backwards over the bar and possibly injure myself hideously in the process.

  Instead I take my gaze off my twitching fingers and glance back up. Straight into smiley eyes that have laughter wrinkles at the corners.

  I wriggle, and his fingers move against my waist but don’t go away. So I freeze.

  This is a weird game.

  What do I do now? No blog I have ever read about first dates has covered this situation. Or rather, how to get out of it. Even Bea, the fount of all man-related knowledge didn’t cover this in her pre-date pep talk.

  She covered: what to do if he’s boring (suggest going to a karaoke bar – he probably won’t go, but if he does at least you’ve got a distraction); what to do if he’s ugly (tricky one, nobody likes cruelty, but turn the convo to plastic surgery?); what to do if he’s drunk (just sit and wait until he passes out); what to do if he won’t stop talking about his divorce/ex (leave, no argument, just leave); and what to do if he keeps saying he wants to shag you, but you don’t fancy him and the thought of seeing his bits in all their naked splendour is making you feel like you need to vom (tell him in a whisper that the infection has nearly cleared up, only a few more blisters to pop – but if he tells anybody he’s dead).

  Tango-style clinches with an attractive but totally unsuitable man (who wasn’t the man you were meeting), and getting out of them, were definitely not mentioned.

  ‘Let me go! What the hell are you playing at?’ Attack is always a good form of defence.

  His warm fingers close over my hand which is holding the glass. He doesn’t move out of my personal space. I gulp. It’s weird. Holding hands with a man who isn’t Robbie.

  Even weirder having his thumb inches from my left boob.

  Maybe I should savour the moment, use this as a taster of what is to come. You know, get used to being touched by a stranger.

  Or maybe not. My nipple is stirring uncomfortably at the uninvited attention.

  I twitch and can’t help but glance down, then he jumps as though he hadn’t realised he was touching me, and unhands me. Before very gently peeling my own hand off his chest.

  Awkward. Had forgotten about that.

  ‘Well you did throw yourself at me, so I caught you!’ He shrugs and grins. ‘You can say thank you later!’

  ‘I did not throw myself at you,’ I can feel myself turning the colour of a beetroot, ‘and I am not going to say thank you!’

  ‘Now there you are wrong. I was standing here, minding my own business, trying to get a drink and you leapt on me!’

  ‘I did not! What is it with some people, always trying to pass the blame? You crept up on me while I was concentrating on my phone, whispered in my ear and made me jump. I do not leap on people!’ The cheek of the man. If I did leap on people, I wouldn’t have this bloody dating problem in the first place.

  He chuckles. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck spring into high alert. This man spells trouble. Flirt – tick. Twinkly eyes – tick. Womaniser – tick. Smooth operator – tick. Sexy clothes – tick. Hot body – tick (I know I shouldn’t have noticed, but it is hard not to). Invading my personal space – tick, tick, tick!

  Carefully selected Gabe wouldn’t have behaved like this. See, this is the trouble with relying on meeting guys randomly – you end up with womanisers who think they are God’s gift.

  Not my type at all, no, no.

  He’s watching me. His steady gaze challenging.

  I stare back unwilling to back down and break the contact first (what can I say, I’m a bad loser), and slowly it dawns on me. I could actually use this to my advantage. Just this once, talking to a man like this could be useful. Purely for research reasons, of course. To find out why I’m having the problems I am. He’s landed, quite literally, in my lap – so why not take advantage of the situation?

  Normally I’d have been off the moment he laid his unwanted hands on me, but 1. I’m slightly tipsy, and 2. I’m feeling a bit desperate. Pissed and pissed off is not a good combination.

  ‘You don’t?’ He raises an eyebrow, then winks. ‘Shame.’

  Oh God, he’s worse than I thought. ‘You should apologise!’

  ‘What for? I’m not sorry. Are you?’

  This floors me. Am I sorry? Should I be sorry? What have I got to be sorry about?

  ‘I’m intrigued.’ He seems to have taken my confusion for a ‘no’ and carries on talking. ‘Why does dating suck?’ He twinkles at me. Positively twinkles. And squeezes my hand! I stare at our joined hands. I’d forgotten we were still clutching my glass. I try and wriggle free again and for a moment there’s a bit of a tussle, then he casually lets go, one finger trailing down the back of my hand as it goes and winks. ‘Nothing better on a Friday night, or Saturday, or Monday, Tuesday …’r />
  ‘You can stop the winking.’ I sigh and climb back on my stool. ‘I’m immune.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’ Being brought up by a man who thought a wink made up for everything, including forgetting your birthday party, has kind of made me wary. It worked when I was five years old, but it sets off warning bells now. ‘I’m not like your normal swooning to the floor type of date.’

  ‘How do you know what my normal type of date is? We’ve hardly met. I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘True, I was just taking an educated guess, from the winking and touching,’ I try not to glare at him, ‘and smart one-liners.’

  ‘I’ve not even started yet. Those are my warm-up lines!’

  ‘See! You can’t not do it.’

  He puts one rather muscular forearm on the bar and tilts his head on one side. Then stares. ‘You’re funny.’

  ‘No, I’m not!’

  ‘Oh you are! Funny, sexy, smart.’

  I’m not sure if he’s taking the piss now, or it’s a chat-up line. See? I don’t get the signals. But it doesn’t matter. I am immune to men like him. He is not part of my life plan.

  Maybe this is going to be too difficult; he’s not going to be useful after all. Maybe I should just forget this. Go home, get into bed and bury my head in the pillow. Or fill my romantic well from Netflix.

  Except I came here for a reason, a purpose.

  I don’t want to admit defeat, it’s not my style. I can’t. Not straight away. What am I going to tell Bea?

  He leans in closer. ‘You are funny, funny strange, not hilarious.’ He grins. ‘I’ve been watching you.’ He wags a finger. ‘You’ve been here for ages, sitting all on your own, with a drink. One drink!’ This is even worse than being stood up. Being watched being stood up! ‘You look kind of lonely, not like the type of girl who comes out on her own. You’ve been dumped, haven’t you? Am I right, or am I right?’

  ‘You’re wrong!’ I glare at him. I am feeling uncomfortable: hot, flustered and embarrassed. I brush a hand over my knee, even though there’s nothing on it. ‘Actually, I was just about to say sorry for being grumpy, it was just you startled me,’ and grabbed me, ‘but now you’ve spoiled it!’

  ‘Really? I’m wrong? About you being dumped?’

  ‘Stop saying really like that!’ Technically he is wrong. I have not been dumped, I have been stood up. Worse, I have been ghosted. On my first date. ‘And stop saying dumped!’

  ‘Stood up then?’

  Shit. I’ve gone bright red again; I know I have. I need to invest in a really good foundation that will leave my face the same colour whatever happens. Green’s the colour, isn’t it? ‘Okay smart arse, I’ve been stood up. So what?’

  ‘So nothing. No shame in that, happens to the best of us.’

  ‘You too?’ For some reason this cheers me up slightly.

  ‘Well not actually me.’ He grins, then chuckles. It’s quite sexy. Well sexy if you had to rate it on a scale. Kind of deep-throated, the type of sound that would make you clench your thighs if you were into this man. Which I am not. See, I am unclenching. And … relax. ‘I was here for a drink with my mate, Jed. We had a couple of drinks.’ He shrugs. ‘Then he buggered off early.’ He glances away briefly, as though it bothers him, then looks back at me and gives me a bit of a wolfish grin. Whatever bothered him has been dismissed. ‘So, I’m all yours.’

  ‘I don’t want you to be all mine. I’m fine on my own thanks.’ I half turn away, but he doesn’t take the hint.

  ‘But you do want something, am I right, or am I—?’

  ‘Will you stop saying that, it’s so, well, so annoying.’ I had two glasses of wine before I came out, to boost my confidence. That’s why I was taking it easy on the prosecco when I got here; falling over drunk isn’t a good look on a first date, is it? And without the pre-date wine I might well have ducked out. It was my confidence booster. Without the wine I wouldn’t be here now, talking to a man who thinks I am going to fall for his charm.

  ‘Sorry, babe.’ He doesn’t look sorry. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Can you drop the babe bit. I’m not your babe, I’m not anybody’s babe. Who says babe these days?’

  ‘I meant anything else to drink, not continue with your character assassination!’

  ‘I’m not …’ I pause. Take a deep breath. I’m here, he’s here, he might be useful. He’s obviously a bit of a jerk and a lot of a bad boy. Which strangely enough might be just what I need. For the next half hour or so anyway. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, I’m not usually this rude and grumpy, it’s just …’

  ‘The date?’ He tilts his head on one side. ‘You were totally into him? Am I right, or …?’

  I scowl. ‘No, I was not totally into him. I’ve never actually met him.’

  He frowns. ‘I’m usually right quite a lot! Not scoring tonight, am I?’

  ‘No!’

  He sticks his lower lip out. ‘Part of my charm? Nobody likes a know it all, do they?’

  ‘No, it is not charming. Look, do you want me to tell you or not? Unless you have somewhere better to be?’ His eyes open wide. ‘Thought not.’ Normally I’m not this forward with men I don’t know, with anybody at all if I’m honest. But I am desperate. And I am also a little bit tipsy.

  ‘Wow, you say it like it is, don’t you?’ He grins. ‘Fire away! Let me order more drinks first though, you need to chill a bit.’

  ‘No!’ I can’t accept a drink off him. ‘And what do you mean, chill?’ Chill, I can’t chill.

  ‘Yes, drinks all round!’ He waves his empty at the barman. ‘You need to get this off your chest, I can tell. Call me your fairy godmother or whatever.’

  ‘You are the least fairy-godmother-like person I have ever met!’ Which reminds me. ‘How long did you say you’ve been watching me?’

  ‘Oh, a while, since my mate left. Well, while he was still here as well.’

  ‘Wow, that’s creepy. Are you some kind of stalker? Should I even be talking to you?’

  ‘Should I even be talking to you? You’re the strange one who sits in a bar and doesn’t drink.’

  I glare at him. ‘Look, I’m getting another drink!’ I wave at the barman, who has been lurking for the past ten minutes, looking pointedly at my glass, but has now decided to bugger off out of range.

  ‘Haha, gotcha!’

  I ignore his triumph. ‘Why did your friend go?’

  ‘Things are a bit shitty for him right now.’ He shifts uncomfortably, then changes the conversation. Interesting. ‘Why does a girl like you need help from a guy like me?’

  Good question; however, I think it’s a rhetorical one and he won’t welcome a full answer. I take a deep breath and decide to go for it anyway, well at least some of it. After all I will never ever see him again, will I? ‘Okay. Do I look desperate to you?’

  He studies me for a moment. It’s a bit unsettling.

  ‘Don’t think about it too long!’

  ‘Sad, lonely, maybe a bit grumpy.’

  ‘Hey, less of the gr—’

  He holds a hand up to silence me. ‘Though some girls get grumpy when they’re not getting enough.’

  ‘Enough?’ Even as the word comes out of my mouth, I know it is a mistake.

  ‘You know … sex.’ He has got a dirty grin, a very dirty grin. He probably thinks he looks sexy and endearing.

  ‘I am not desperate for,’ I realise I am talking rather loudly, so lower my voice to a hiss, ‘sex.’ He could have a point though. I might be. It is so long since I had it, I’m not sure. Maybe my current mood is less to do with PMS or PMT or work, and more to do with my abandoned lady parts!

  Oh my God, do I even want sex with somebody else? I hadn’t got to this point in my dating fantasy before. The pinnacle of my ambitions so far has been one full evening with a guy who I might like enough to repeat the process with.

  Robbie has been my one and only for so long, sex with another man will be weird. Well weird. What if other peop
le do it differently? What if I’m expected to do things, thingy things, with things? Oh shit! If I thought first dates were bad enough, how am I going to cope with third dates – when I might be required to undress? Look a new penis in the eye?

  ‘Are you okay?’ He’s peering at me.

  ‘I am fine! Totally fine!’ I feel sick.

  He chuckles. ‘You should see the look on your face!’

  Luckily, he can only see my face, and not what is going on in my head. ‘What look? No,’ I put a hand up, ‘don’t say a word. And stop laughing at me! I meant do I look desperate for a date, a guy, and before you say anything, a date doesn’t have to mean sex!’

  ‘If you say so.’ He leans in and gently rests his hand on my knee. It’s warm, a bit unsettling, but rather nice-unsettling. Bea would call this progress. ‘Tell me the story, babe.’

  ‘Please don’t call me babe, nobody says babe, and …’ I look at his hand. I probably should insist he moves it. I might have to flick it if he doesn’t remove it soon.

  ‘Well you won’t tell me your name, so …’

  ‘It’s Rosie. Rosie Brown. Okay, satisfied?’ I mean what’s the harm? He’s bought me a drink; we probably should swap names.

  ‘Rosie? Yeah, Rosie suits you! I’m Noah.’ He holds out a hand and when I put mine tentatively in it, he bends over and kisses the back. ‘Noah Adams.’

  ‘My God, you are such a flirt! Do you never stop? Can you just be serious for a moment? You’re not my type, so you might as well drop the act.’

  He looks pretend-hurt, but I’m not falling for that.

  ‘Fire away then if you’re going to be boring. How can I help?’ He takes his hand off my knee and leaves it feeling all cold.

  I take a deep breath. I am going to do this. I am going to make the next hour of my life, with this totally unsuitable guy, count. ‘Okay, you’re a man.’

  ‘Last time I looked I was.’

  I ignore him.

  ‘So, you can tell me. What the fuck do men want?’ This is the question that has been bothering me since I got here. Well since Gabe didn’t get here. Well okay, since well before then. Since I realised that I don’t know how to date.