by Dunn, Matt
‘What do you mean, “well”?’
‘As in “is it going . . .”?’’
Lisa thought for a moment. ‘It’s . . . he’s not what I expected.’
Jess let out her trademark tinkling laugh. ‘Well, you expected it was going to be a disaster, so that’s a good thing, surely!’
‘Ha ha. And I didn’t expect it was going to be a disaster. The hand of fate and all that . . .’ Though she feared the hand of fate was actually about to slap her. ‘He seems nice enough, I suppose.’
‘“Nice enough”?’
‘Yes. Though I’m not sure how much we’ve got in common. Why’s he been single for so long?’
Jess hesitated. ‘Perhaps you better ask him that,’ she said, followed by: ‘Actually, don’t.’
‘What?’ said Lisa, suddenly alarmed. ‘Why not?’
‘It’s not exactly a first-date question, is it? Effectively asking someone what’s wrong with them? Maybe he’s just been . . . picky.’ She let the sentence hang, and Lisa tried to ignore the accusation. ‘Anyway. Could you see yourself shagging him?’
‘Jess!’
‘I’m sorry, but the physical side is important. If I didn’t fancy Will, then there’s no way we’d be doing it as much as we are. And because we’re doing it so much, we’re—’
‘Too much information, Jess.’
‘I’m just saying.’
‘Well, don’t!’
‘But are you attracted to him?’
Lisa stepped out from where she’d been sheltering behind a group of older women, and glanced back towards their section of the table, where Simon seemed to be in the middle of an animated phone call. ‘He’s not bad-looking, I suppose. A bit like that guy who plays Thor’s brother in the Avengers. Although a value-brand version.’
‘Loki?’
‘Yeah,’ Lisa said, taking a sudden sidestep to avoid running into the security guard who’d almost thrown her out earlier. ‘Not at all up himself. Which I suppose makes a nice change from Chris.’
‘Not “low key”!’ Jess sniggered. ‘His name . . . Thor’s brother. It’s Loki.’
‘Jess, you’ve lost me,’ said Lisa, then realised she was in danger of actually getting lost. She got her bearings, and pushed her way towards the bar.
‘So, what are you doing now?’
‘Getting the drinks.’
‘Shouldn’t he be doing that?’
‘Two words: Drink. Spiked.’
‘Simon’s hardly likely to—’
‘And you know this because you’ve met him how many times?’
‘Okay, okay.’ Jess was laughing again, and Lisa couldn’t help but join in.
‘Listen, I ought to go. Simon’s guarding our seats and . . .’
‘Ooh. Sounds manly!’
Lisa laughed again. ‘Leave him alone. He’s nervous, which says something.’
‘“Nervous”, “nice” . . . I don’t know why you haven’t jumped him already.’
‘Jess!’ Lisa took her phone away from her face and glared at it, then put it back to her ear. ‘Anyway, I just wanted to report back, to tell you that you don’t need to call, and . . . that’s it, really.’
‘Well, stop wasting your time talking to me, then! But, Lise . . .’
‘What?’
‘See it through, won’t you? Give him a proper chance. You never know . . .’
Lisa sighed. Experience had taught her that was the problem. You never knew. Or not until it was too late, at least. But Jess was probably right. Simon deserved a chance.
‘Fine.’
‘Plus if it doesn’t work out, there’ll be hundreds of men who read about you in the paper and are bound to be interested.’
‘That happens, does it?’
‘Of course!’ said Jess. ‘Especially after I’ve written you up as the catch of the century. And when they see your photo.’
Jess had begun wolf-whistling, so with a ‘Later, babe’ Lisa ended the call and made her way to the bar – a long, silver caravan, open along one side and with airstream written on the end – then elbowed her way to the front. Miraculously, she managed to catch the eye of the barman on her first attempt.
‘What can I get you?’
‘An alcohol-free beer, please.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘Only it tastes like shit.’
Lisa did a double take. ‘Are you supposed to say things like that?’
The man nodded briefly. ‘Just being honest. And it’s not like I work on commission.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Lisa. ‘But it’s not for me.’ She aimed a thumb back over her shoulder in response to the barman’s raised eyebrow. ‘It’s for the nervous-looking guy at the long table.’
He peered over her shoulder. ‘He looks like he could do with a fully leaded one.’
‘He’s driving.’
‘Is he driving you?’
‘I’ve seen him behind the wheel. So no.’
‘Then what’s the problem?’
Lisa smiled politely. ‘Best not,’ she said. ‘Oh, and a glass of white wine.’
The barman grinned back at her as he retrieved a bottle of beer from the fridge behind the bar. ‘Small or large?’
‘You don’t do extra-large, by any chance?’
He shook his head. ‘Sorry. I can do you two instead?’
Lisa thought for a moment. Two might work – she could chug down the first one here to settle her nerves – though Simon might see her, and then what would he think?
‘I’ll stick with the one – and small, please. Don’t want to make the wrong impression. And it’ll be quicker to finish.’
‘Suit yourself.’ The barman poured her wine, then slid the drinks across the bar towards her. ‘Nine fifty, please.’
‘Thanks,’ said Lisa, pressing her bank card against the terminal and then pocketing the receipt. Jess had told her to keep a record of everything she spent, though at this rate, this would be it.
Clearing her way with a series of loud ‘’scuse me’s, she carried the drinks back to the table, sat down, and deposited Simon’s beer in front of him.
‘Alcohol-free, as requested.’
‘Thanks.’ Simon clinked his bottle gently against her glass, took a swig, then tried unsuccessfully not to make a face. Lisa smiled. ‘Something funny?’ he said.
‘The barman said it’d taste like . . . not that nice.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Simon. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘You were gone a while, that’s all.’
‘Sorry. I was speaking to Jess.’
Simon looked around, suddenly panicked. ‘Jess?’
‘From the Gazette.’
‘She’s here?’
‘On the phone.’
‘Ah. Of course.’ Simon relaxed a little. ‘About?’
‘What do you think?’ said Lisa, and Simon blushed.
‘One of those calls, eh?’
‘One of what calls?’
‘Those prearranged ones. You know, you get a friend to phone you half an hour into the date to see if you need rescuing, she pretends there’s some emergency, you make your excuses and go, and I never see you again.’
‘It’s not been half an hour yet,’ said Lisa, then she felt bad when Simon’s face fell. ‘I phoned her, actually.’
‘To tell her to call? Or not to call?’
‘We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?’ Lisa met his gaze for a moment or two, then she laughed. ‘Relax. She won’t be calling. Unless of course she has some genuine emergency.’
‘So I got the thumbs up?’
Simon was looking surprised, and Lisa didn’t know what to feel about that. ‘I came back, didn’t I?’
‘So I see,’ he said, and, though she might be imagining it, Lisa thought he sounded disappointed.
‘Right,’ she said, wondering where to go from here – though to her shame, her first thought was �
�home’. She’d told herself that going through with today’s date would be an experience, and her Cancún week had taught her life was all about experiences, good and bad – though she had hoped the majority of them would be good. While it was early days, Lisa already wasn’t sure about this one.
She gulped down a mouthful of wine, wondering what on earth she’d got herself into, and whether to just be honest, cut her losses and leave. She should find Simon’s nervousness sweet, she supposed, and while every survey she’d ever read in the glossy magazines she occasionally bought told her that confidence was the most attractive feature a man could have, she’d been out with enough arrogant men to know confidence was a continuum, and she’d actually prefer someone at the lower end of the scale. Though perhaps not off the bottom of it, like Simon seemed to be.
And while he perhaps wasn’t the kind of man she’d notice if she saw him out in the street (though it was lucky he’d seen her on the street earlier, otherwise their date might have begun with an ambulance ride to A&E), what was it everyone always said? Never judge a book by its cover? But Lisa worked in publishing as a book jacket designer, and therefore knew the hours and hours of effort that went into getting a cover right, so she wasn’t sure that was the best of sayings. Nor was the ‘plenty of fish in the sea’ one that Jess often tried to console her with whenever she’d been unceremoniously dumped. Because what there was also plenty of in the sea was rubbish, just floating around, waiting to surprise you with an unexpected, unpleasant encounter. That was something she’d discovered on her daily dips in the Caribbean – and something her dating history had taught her time and time again.
But Cancún had taught her a few more important things. About herself, mainly, and how she needed to be herself in relationships, rather than trying to be whoever any future ex-boyfriend might want. She knew she had to become a bit more flexible too – and not in an after-a-week-of-yoga way, but in terms of the kind of men she dated. Men who didn’t try to mould her into their idea of the perfect girlfriend, because they already thought she was.
On occasion, Chris had suggested she wore a shorter skirt, or a more low-cut top, or hint that the burger she’d ordered might be a ‘little fatty’ – and to her shame, she’d gone along with it, much like she had when it came to his choice of where to go on holiday, or what film to watch.
Now Lisa could see the ‘little fatty’ comment had been directed at her rather than her choice of meal, and though back then she’d convinced herself that making Chris happy would make her happy, there was no way she was going to put herself in that kind of situation again. And that was why she was here. Doing her best to go for what she wanted.
She took another sip of wine, and glanced up furtively from her glass. Simon was sitting quietly on the other side of the table, seemingly fascinated by what was written on the label on his bottle of lager, and while Lisa knew she could ask him about it in an attempt to kick-start the conversation, it was the contents of his head, rather than his beer bottle, that she was interested in.
So – batting down the urge to just get up and go – she peered around the venue, took a deep breath, tried not to make her exhale sound like a sigh, and smiled as pleasantly as she could.
Chapter 9
‘So, what do you do?’
Simon looked up with a start, then – pleased he had something to contribute – nodded at the crowd of people waiting in front of the nearest food stall. He walked past this building most days on his way to work, so he’d followed the refurbishment with interest. He’d even checked out its history. It had been a disused factory before it was sold and turned into a food court – the latest phase of Margate’s regeneration scheme that had begun with the opening of the new gallery some ten or so years ago. He’d visited the town a few years back, and he’d nervously locked his car doors when he’d driven along the seafront, but now? The area had certainly moved on. Unlike – if you listened to Will – Simon.
‘Well, from what I can work out, you have a look around, decide what you want – there’s Vietnamese, and pizza, and burgers, and Italian, and even gourmet Scotch eggs, whatever they are. Then you have to queue up, order what you want, and pay – obviously. Then you find a seat and, well, eat. Though it’s pretty busy, and we’ve already got a seat, so maybe it’s best if you go and have a look around while I mind the table, then I can go and get the food, and . . .’ An amused-looking Lisa was regarding him quizzically, and he found himself blushing. ‘What?’
‘For a job?’
He reddened even more, then let out a short laugh – it was progress, as far as he was concerned, that he could see the funny side to his awkwardness. And a sign that he was relaxing a little.
‘I’m a barista.’
‘Really?’ Lisa’s expression was hard to read.
‘Yes, really,’ he said, wondering why anyone would question that, unless she thought that making coffee for other people somehow wasn’t a worthy career. Or a worthy career for someone she was considering dating, at least.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just . . . you don’t seem the type.’
Simon reached for his drink, then put it straight back down again. ‘I’m not sure how to take that.’
‘Well, I thought you had to train for years. And unless you’ve had major work done – and if you have, can I have the name of your plastic surgeon? – you don’t seem that old.’
‘You don’t have to train for that long. I did a weekend course.’
‘One weekend?’
He leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Between you and me, it’s not that complicated. Once you learn the basics.’
‘Right,’ said Lisa, though she didn’t sound convinced. ‘And do you have to wear one of those wigs?’
‘What wigs?’
‘Those white ones.’
‘To make coffee?’
Simon sat there patiently as Lisa’s face went through a series of expression changes, then she burst out laughing so loudly that the group of girls at the far end of the table stopped drinking whatever their garish pink cocktails were and stared at her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, eventually. ‘I thought you said . . .’ She started laughing again, so hard that tears were streaming down her cheeks, so Simon passed her a serviette from the dispenser in the middle of the table.
Still, he reminded himself, girls were supposed to like men with a good sense of humour, and Lisa was obviously having a good laugh right now. Hopefully not at his expense.
‘Said what?’ he said, once he was sure her shoulders had stopped heaving.
‘Barrister,’ she gasped, dabbing at her eyes with the serviette. ‘Like a lawyer. But with one of those . . .’ Lisa began miming wearing a hairpiece, then stopped abruptly, as if she’d thought better of it. Perhaps because Simon obviously wasn’t sharing her amusement.
‘I know what a barrister is,’ he said, curtly. ‘But no. Sorry to disappoint. I’m a—’
‘Barista. I get it now.’ Lisa dabbed at her eyes again, then did that fanning-her-face-with-her-hands thing that women always did to stop themselves either crying or laughing. ‘Sorry. It’s a little loud in here.’
‘No problem,’ said Simon, though he suspected it might actually be a major problem from Lisa’s point of view. For a moment or two, she had believed he was some kind of high-flying-lawyer type. How could she not be disappointed to hear that, actually, he made coffee for a living?
‘So you . . . I mean, do you . . . ?’
‘Yeah,’ said Simon, not sure what he was agreeing to, but he nodded enthusiastically anyway. ‘There are so many elements that go into a good cup of coffee, so many factors you have to get just right. It’s kind of an art and a science. I mean, not rocket science, exactly, but . . .’ He stopped talking – worried he sounded like he was bigging up what he did, perhaps as some sort of overreaction to Lisa’s earlier mistake – and checked to see if her eyes were glazing over, then worried she’d think he was looking at her a bit too intensely, so changed his focus t
o his beer. ‘Yes, I enjoy it,’ he said, picking at the label on the bottle with his fingernail.
‘Great.’
Simon glanced up at her, assuming she was being sarcastic, but to Lisa’s credit, she seemed genuinely pleased that he liked what he did.
‘Plus, everyone loves coffee,’ he added.
‘Um . . .’
‘Um?’
Lisa took a sip of her wine. ‘I don’t.’
‘What?’
‘Always been more of a tea girl.’
‘How much more of a tea girl?’
‘About a hundred per cent.’ Lisa pursed her lips. ‘Sorry. I always have a cup or two at breakfast, at least.’
‘Good to know. Not that I’m expecting to be making you – ahem – breakfast . . .’ Simon stared down at the table, wondering how long it was going to take him to get over this bumbling awkwardness. He took a moment to compose himself, then looked up at Lisa. ‘Anyway. The tea thing. Not to worry. People are different. It’s what makes the world go round. Well, technically that’s the rotation from when it was formed, and the lack of forces to stop it, even though the moon’s doing its best to put the brakes on, but you see what I . . .’ His voice trailed off. Lisa now looked like she was doing her best to stifle a yawn, and a change of subject seemed sensible. But before he could think of which of his library of facts to bore her with next, she smiled.
‘Okay. For a non-coffee-drinker like me, if I was to go to Costa, what should I get?’
‘Out of there as quickly as possible!’
She looked at him blankly for a moment, then cracked a smile. ‘Sorry if my mentioning of a hugely successful coffee chain offends your sensibilities.’
‘No, their coffee’s not bad. It’s just . . .’ Simon hesitated, wondering how best to get across the difference between what they did and what he did, and Lisa raised both eyebrows.
‘What?’
‘Well, there’s coffee, and there’s coffee . . .’ He hastily replayed the memory of the last time he’d checked out the menu there. ‘But “Double Chocolate Cookie Mocha” is another thing. Another thing entirely.’
‘So should I stick to their tea?’
‘Um . . .’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’