by Dunn, Matt
He made a mental note not to tell Will the story later. No doubt he’d make some well-meaning but clumsy attempt to turn it into a metaphor to do with women, and Simon could only imagine where Will’s ‘trying on someone else’s coat’ analogy might lead. Probably to Simon getting punched on the nose by a jealous boyfriend. As, he suspected, had often happened to his friend.
No, he decided, this would join the ever-increasing list of things he definitely wouldn’t tell Will – a list headed by how he really felt about what had happened two years ago with Alice. He’d put this incident behind him. Learn from it and move on, just like the therapist he’d been seeing back in London had advised him to do with the ‘Alice’ chapter of his life.
With a rueful smile, he made his way through the car park and located his car. He’d been careful to memorise exactly where he’d parked it, keen to avoid a repeat of the previous weekend’s incident, when he’d spent ten frustrating minutes trying to get into a silver Ford Focus that had been parked three cars along from his silver Ford Focus, until the angry owner had appeared and proceeded to point out the error of his ways in no uncertain terms. Forget it. Easily done, the man had told him once they’d both realised what had happened, just like the coat owner in Primark – though Simon was beginning to worry he did that kind of thing a lot more easily than others seemed to.
Then again, maybe life just had it in for him. What happened with Alice would seem to have confirmed that.
And as for forgetting her?
That wasn’t easily done at all.
Chapter 2
Lisa Harrod was walking purposefully past Margate clock tower, though as she neared the bus stop, where the number 52 was idling with its doors open, she had to fight the urge to break into a run and jump on. Why on earth had she agreed to this? Who even went on blind dates nowadays? What if (she narrowed her eyes as she tried to remember . . . Simon, that was it) Simon turned out to be a nutter, or a serial killer, or still lived at home with his mum – or, even worse than all of those, was shorter than her?
Though she knew the answer to that first question. Her dating history had been going from bad to worse, especially since Chris – her latest in a string of unsuitable boyfriends – had dumped her a couple of months ago, after the best part of a year together. What was worse, it had come out of the blue, when he’d suddenly told her he ‘just wanted to have some fun’, and ‘wasn’t ready for anything serious’, which had come as a shock to Lisa, because according to the song, it was girls who just wanted to have fun, and being together for a year was serious, surely?
They’d been a couple. Done everything that couples did. Together. At least, when he hadn’t been at the pub with his mates, or out playing five-a-side football on a Wednesday evening, or for his pub team every Sunday morning, a bored Lisa often waiting dutifully for him to finish (something that also applied to their sex life, she’d reminded herself, in an attempt to make herself feel better). But despite his apparent enthusiasm for their cosy little twosome (and her continued attempts to please him), she’d found herself single.
Again.
When eventually she’d stopped crying and started to think about it, Lisa had realised their relationship stopped being fun a while back and, since ‘fun’ was the opposite of ‘serious’, she could perhaps see Chris’s point. And when she’d thought about it some more (at a yoga retreat, of all things, in Cancún, which she’d booked herself into after googling ‘spiritual holidays’ one tearful – and drunken – night), Lisa had recognised that despite her best efforts to make them happy, all of her boyfriends had ended up dumping her. Something she’d only truly grasped on the last day, when she’d burst into tears in the middle of performing a particularly sweaty-palmed, arm-shaking, hamstring-twanging downward dog.
Her instructor (an impossibly lithe, ridiculously tanned Australian, who she’d have gone out with like a shot if he’d asked her . . . and if he hadn’t liked boys just as much as she did) had taken her to one side, sat her down, and given her a piece of relationship advice that, upon returning to a damp and dismal Margate, she’d resolved to follow: find out what makes you happy.
Something else he’d told her had resonated, too: that she might have to get out of her comfort zone (one that, if Lisa was being honest, had never felt particularly comfortable) to do that. And while Margate seafront was still very much within her comfort zone – given that she’d lived in the town all her life – what she was doing there wasn’t. Because she was about to meet up with someone she’d never met before, on the recommendation of her best friend Jess – someone whose success rate in matchmaking (judging by the ‘Blind Date’ column she wrote every week for the Gazette, at least) wasn’t exactly stellar.
But while – according to Jess – the paper often mismatched the people who wrote in and applied to go on these blind dates for entertainment value (because people apparently love reading about things that make them feel better about their own failing relationships), every now and again they liked to put two people together who might be perfect for each other. Simon had been single for two years, had a ‘respectable’ job (though Jess wouldn’t say what it was, not wanting to ruin the ‘surprise element’) and was her age, so Jess had thought he might be ideal, and while the old Lisa might have dismissed someone like Simon simply for being single (let alone single for two years) – just like she’d never buy a bottle of wine from the supermarket if it was dusty – she’d thought about it, and realised that was perhaps a little short-sighted. Besides, she was single, and there was nothing wrong with her, except for the fact that she was . . . ‘attracted to the wrong sort of men’, she decided to go with.
In any case, the picky approach had gotten her nowhere so far, so – and she had her recent spiritual awakening in Cancún to thank for this – putting her choice in the hands of fate (or, at least, the Gazette) might actually work out okay. Especially since the people who wrote in – because they’d written in – were looking for something serious. Lisa hoped.
She stood back as a frazzled-looking woman her age with three under-fives in tow struggled to manhandle a pushchair off the bus.
‘You couldn’t just . . . ?’
Lisa suddenly realised that the woman – awkwardly holding one child in the crook of her arm as she attempted to extricate the pushchair from where one of its wheels appeared to be jammed in the door mechanism – was speaking to her.
‘Of course!’ she said, though with a little more enthusiasm than she felt. The child – and Lisa couldn’t work out if it was a boy or a girl – was happily chewing on half a breadstick, the mushy remnants of the other half smeared around its mouth, and she was a little wary that her pristine white top might not come out of the encounter unscathed. She hesitated, wondering where best to grip, and quickly decided on under the arms, then winced at the weight.
‘Thanks,’ said the woman, as the child – evidently anxious about being passed to a stranger – produced a wail of eardrum-shattering proportions, and Lisa couldn’t help but wince a second time.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, assuming it was something she was doing wrong. ‘I don’t really know how—’
‘You don’t have kids?’ said the woman, though almost with a jealous tone, and Lisa shook her head.
‘No,’ she said, quickly adding, ‘I do want them, though,’ then just as quickly wondering what it was that drove her to feel she had to always admit that. There was more to life than being a parent, surely? Besides, she had a long way to go before she was anywhere near that. Having a boyfriend would be a start.
‘Want one of mine?’
‘Ha!’ said Lisa, though, judging by the woman’s expression, if she’d had to bet on it she wouldn’t have been confident that had been a joke.
As the woman finally freed the pushchair and the bus doors hissed shut behind her, Lisa regarded her charge with something between fascination and horror. She was aware she was expected to say something along the lines of ‘he’s gorgeous’ (or ‘she�
�s gorgeous’) at this point, but she was still unsure of the child’s gender, and asking ‘What’s its name?’ wasn’t on – so she addressed the child directly.
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ she said, keeping a safe enough distance to avoid getting a breadstick in her eye. ‘What’s your name?’
‘This is Addison,’ said the woman, as she shepherded the rest of her family away from the kerb, leaving Lisa none the wiser.
‘Right. Hello, Addison,’ Lisa said. When the child just looked blankly at her, she repeated it in a slightly more babyish voice (in the same vein as her dad on their regular family holidays to France, speaking English with a French accent in the hope he’d be understood a little better), though the child didn’t seem to notice. ‘And how old is . . .’ She ended her sentence there, still unsure which pronoun to use.
‘He’s eight months.’
‘He!’ said Lisa, a little too quickly, then she said ‘he’ again, trying to make it sound like a laugh, not quite knowing what else to do. She was still keeping the child at arm’s length, mainly to preserve the cleanliness of her top, and her shoulder muscles were tiring under the effort. ‘You’re a big boy, aren’t you, Addison?’
Fortunately, the woman took the hint. ‘Shall I . . . ?’ she said, holding her arms out, so Lisa gladly passed the baby back to her.
‘Bye, Addison,’ she said. The child offered her the remains of his breadstick and, not wanting to offend him – something Lisa only appreciated later was hardly an issue – she took it with a cheery, ‘Thank you!’
The woman nodded her gratitude, then headed off in the opposite direction, and Lisa wondered where her husband was – something she’d recently begun to suspect her mother often wondered about her, which was another reason she was about to do what she was about to do. Not only that, but Lisa was also well aware that, at thirty-one, she’d reached the point in life where some of her friends were getting pregnant – on purpose – and she didn’t want to be left behind. Or on the shelf.
She hurriedly found a tissue in her handbag and wiped the soggy bread-and-saliva combination from her fingers, then she resumed her journey towards the new street food restaurant on the seafront she and Simon were meeting at (called, imaginatively, ‘Seafront Street Food’). As she hurried along the pavement, her phone rang, and Lisa’s first thought was that – knowing her luck – it was Jess calling to tell her Simon was going to be a no-show. But then she caught herself. Those kinds of negative thoughts weren’t doing her any good, as her yoga teacher had reminded her, while forcing her into yet another excruciating position – though none had been quite as excruciating as she feared today’s lunch might be. Hurriedly, she took the call.
‘Everything okay?’ she asked, tentatively. ‘Because I’m still going through with it, if that’s why you’re calling.’
‘That’s exactly why I’m calling. And I’m pleased to hear it.’ Jess let out a short, tinkling laugh, and Lisa did the same in response, though perhaps with a little less tinkle and a touch more nervousness. She’d often wished she could be more like her best friend, but then again she supposed it was easy to be happy-go-lucky and super-confident if you looked like Jess did. Though while Lisa wasn’t quite as stunningly pretty, didn’t have quite the same, gym-honed figure (and didn’t dress to show her body off as well – or as much – as Jess did), she wasn’t a bad package. She paid attention to her appearance. Kept herself fit, thanks to the three-times-a-week spinning classes she attended at her local gym. And she didn’t eat that much chocolate, except on weekends. Or special occasions. Or when she was feeling low. Which, in the later stages of her relationship with Chris, and up until Cancún, had been most days.
‘In fact . . .’ Lisa checked the time on the clock tower. ‘I’m even a little early.’
‘God, don’t be, whatever you do!’
‘What?’ Lisa slowed her pace a little. ‘Why not?’
‘Well, it shows that you’re . . . I mean, you don’t want him to think you might be . . . you know . . .’
‘Desperate?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I’m going on a blind date, Jess.’
‘That’s not desperate.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Of course not. The people who write in . . . it’s because they want a relationship. They’re fed up with all the game-playing that goes on out there. And, personally, I think it’s exciting. Seizing the day. Being impulsive. Trusting in fate. Letting the universe give you a helping hand, while taking control of your life. And definitely something the newly enlightened Lisa would do.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe?’
‘I’m not so sure I—’
‘What happened to all this “I am the architect of my own destiny” stuff you learned in Cancún?’
‘I still believe that. Of course I do. But . . .’ Lisa sighed loudly. ‘It’s the truth, though, isn’t it? Otherwise why on earth would I be resorting to a . . .’ She lowered her voice, aware the pavement was busy, full of people on their way to the amusements, or to Dreamland, the funfair that drew a fair percentage of the day trippers down from London, or perhaps just off to meet a loved one, a possibility she knew should stiffen her resolve. ‘. . . blind date. Besides, being early is just polite.’
‘Yeah, but what if Simon’s not going to be there . . .’
‘Why wouldn’t he be?’ said Lisa, anxiously.
‘. . . on time, I meant!’ Jess laughed again. ‘He’ll probably be expecting you to be late, so he might have allowed an extra half an hour or so, which means you’ll be sitting there like the third book in a three-for-two deal.’
‘I don’t even know what that means, and I work in publishing, so . . .’
Jess did the tinkling laugh thing a third time, so loudly that a man walking in the opposite direction looked over at Lisa and widened his eyes. She shut him down with a glare. ‘The one that nobody really wants,’ said Jess. ‘There’s always a bigger pile of them left, next to the . . . you know . . .’
‘Popular ones? Thanks very much!’
‘Gawd. Sorry, Lise. That’s not how I—’
‘That’s okay. Maybe I’ll open with that. See whether he – Simon – finds it funny.’
‘He’s bound to. I’m sure he’s got a great sense of humour.’
‘You’ll be telling me he’s got a good personality next.’
‘He has! Apparently.’
‘Well, that’s something I sup—’ Lisa narrowed her eyes. ‘Hang on. Back up a moment. “I’m sure”? And, “apparently”? I thought you’d met him?’
‘Well, not “met” in the traditional sense, maybe.’
‘What on earth does that mean?’
‘Normally, I’d interview them first, but . . .’
‘Jess . . .’
‘I’ve seen a photo.’
‘Right.’
Jess had gone quiet, so Lisa glared at her phone, then put it back to her ear. ‘And?’
‘He’s . . .’
‘Jess!’
‘I’m teasing you. He looks nice.’
‘Nice,’ said Lisa, any remnants of her enthusiasm draining out of her.
‘At least, he does in his photo.’
‘A recent photo?’
‘It’s hard to tell. In any case, some people aren’t that photogenic. And beauty comes from within, remember?’ The tinkling laugh again. ‘Besides, when you’ve gone for looks in the past, how has that worked out for you?’
Lisa felt her heart begin to sink. ‘Give it to me straight, Jess. On a scale of one to ten – where “ten” is that guy in the white Speedos from the Dolce & Gabbana advert – where exactly does Simon sit?’
‘Depends who “one” is.’
‘Jess!’
‘Relax. Like I said, he’s nice-looking.’
‘No you didn’t. You said he looks nice. There’s a difference.’
‘Okay, okay. He’s nice-looking and he looks nice. But just in case you’re not attracted to him, if you
want me to call you mid-date, pretend there’s some emergency at home, I’m quite happy to—’
‘I couldn’t!’
Lisa could almost hear Jess frown. ‘Why not?’
‘That would be rude.’
‘Even so.’
‘Plus, I’m quite capable of ending the date if I’m not interested, thanks.’
‘Fine.’
‘Even if I don’t fancy him, we’re adults. We can just have a pleasant lunch. Laugh about the whole set-up.’
‘Sure.’
‘And if all that happens is I make a new friend, that’s good too,’ said Lisa, a little worried she was sounding like she was trying to convince herself.
‘Great.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Well then.’
There was a pause, and then Lisa puffed air out of her cheeks. ‘But would you? Say, one-thirtyish?’
‘Of course! But make sure you answer. Just so I know you’re okay.’
Lisa felt a strange, panicky feeling beginning to develop in her chest. ‘Why wouldn’t I be okay?’
‘I didn’t mean it like—’
‘You do hear these stories, don’t you? Something slipped in your drink, the next thing you know, you’re waking up in some strange—’
‘Babe – relax! He’s not like that.’
‘Not like that,’ said Lisa, flatly. ‘This man you’ve never met?’
Jess did the tinkling laugh thing one more time, though Lisa was beginning to find it annoying. She’d almost reached her destination – the freshly painted food court in a former factory next to the old British Home Stores building across the road – and now wasn’t the time to be taking dating advice. Particularly not from someone who only had to flutter her eyelashes to get the attention of every man in the room.
‘Do you really think I’d set you up with someone who’d do such a thing?’
‘No, but . . .’
‘No buts! You’re a gorgeous, strong, funny, independent woman. Simon’s going to fall in love with you the moment he sees you. I know it.’
‘I wish I did.’
‘He will! You mark my words.’