Hot Mess_Bridget Jones for a new generation
Page 12
As I leave the bathroom, I bump into Josh. He smirks at my towel and cocks a sexy eyebrow at me.
‘Going somewhere, Knight?’ he asks.
‘Actually, yes,’ I say huffily, pulling my towel tighter round me. ‘I’ve got a date tonight. His name is Nathan and he’s really good-looking. Much better looking than you, since you asked. And he’s a much nicer human too. He doesn’t abandon women he’s shagged in his room while he eats breakfast.’
Josh smirks again.
I pause. ‘Well, actually he might, I don’t know yet. But he doesn’t seem like the type to do that.’
‘Blind date then?’ says Josh, still looking amused. ‘Where is he taking you?’
‘We’re going to an Italian restaurant near him, in east London.’
‘Near his place?’ His smile gets wider. ‘Good move, Nathan. Classic.’ And then because he’s a dick, he adds playfully, ‘Did you shave?’
‘Fuck off, Josh,’ I bark. ‘I don’t have to conform to your patriarchal standards of beauty. Go watch your glossy Barbie porn in your room.’
He shrugs, gives my legs another lingering look, and heads into his room.
What a dick.
I go back into the bathroom, climb back into the shower and shave it all off. I am such a shit feminist.
I’m early, for once, and ask the waiter for water. I’ve made a decision that I won’t get too drunk. At least, not before my date actually arrives. Not again, I mean. It’s a pretty nice place. It’s a great date setting, lots of posh paintings on the wall and big fat candles on the tables. You know a restaurant is romantic when you can hardly see anyone else. I’ve learned that romance means as few light bulbs as possible. Which can be tricky when you’re blind dating, but never mind. I’ll just be on my phone when he arrives, so he has to make the awkward approach. I flashback to a date earlier this week where we arranged to meet outside a tube station and I approached three different men who all seemed to be waiting on dates before I located the right guy. It turns out, every single person waiting outside a station is waiting for a Tinder date.
Nathan arrives five minutes later, and I stand up to greet him. Honestly, I’m delighted. He’s very good-looking – tall-ish, dark green eyes, wide smile – and he seems pleased to see me, giving me a kiss on the cheek and laughing at himself when he goes for two kisses and I sit down. I apologise and laugh too, feeling my nerves draining away. I fancy him, I realise with surprise. What a nice feeling. It’s been a long time since I felt physically attracted to anyone – apart from the Josh hate-fancy and the weird crush on tiny-nipples-Gaz – and it’s a relief to know I’m still physically capable of it. Could he be that rare find, a nice, normal man who is also attractive? Nathan starts chattering about his day, taking off his Paddington Bear-style blue duffel coat, and I realise from here on out, I will probably want to have sex with Paddington Bear.
‘Thanks for coming all this way across London,’ he says nicely, sitting down and picking up his menu. ‘I know us Londoners don’t really like to leave our own boroughs, but I love this place. It has such great food.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ I say. ‘I’m looking forward to trying it. And thank you for booking.’
To be honest, I never usually like to eat on a first date. I love food a little too much, and my shovelling technique is not conducive to falling in love with a stranger. I’d rather keep up the pretence that I’m a dainty little fucking flower for as long as possible. But it was so refreshing for a guy to actually suggest somewhere and make arrangements, I didn’t want to discourage him. God, I’m sick of suggesting the same bar in Angel over and over again for dates because no one is capable of making a decision. I need a break from that place, because seriously, after that many nights in there, always leaving with a different man, at this point the barman in there definitely thinks I’m a prostitute. And not even one of those high-class, expensive ones.
We both study the menu for a minute, and I wonder whether the silence is comfortable or not. How do people know?
He looks over at me and smiles.
‘You’re so pretty,’ he says, sweetly.
‘Oh, shush,’ I wave my hand at him, feeling horribly awkward. I’ve never been able to take a compliment like other normal humans. Tim used to tell everyone that the first time he’d said I had nice hair, I threw my food at him and shouted MERRY CHRISTMAS even though it was May, just to offer a distraction. I don’t remember, so can neither confirm nor deny, but it does sound like me.
‘Thank you,’ I stutter a little, aware I’m going red and grateful for the dim lighting. ‘You’re not so bad yourself.’
He grins again and closes his menu, keeping eye contact. ‘I know what I’m having, how about you?’
Two hours later and I’m on the loo, doing a little drunk dance as I wee. Nathan is great fun. We’ve been playing a series of drinking games, and we’re both cheating constantly, so a lot of wine has been consumed on both sides. We’ve just finished one he plays with his students at the beginning of term (minus the alcohol, obvs), that’s designed to help people get to know each other. The idea is that you offer up two facts about yourself and the other person has to guess which one is true. Except our version of the game quickly descended into who could tell the most outlandish two lies without laughing. We’ve also eaten a lot of food. Nathan insisted we get all three courses and has just now ordered a second dessert to share. It’s so lovely not to be expected to just eat a side salad, and it’s really helped soak up those alcohol percentages. But I’m still drunk enough to weave a bit as I stagger from the loo to the sink. I wash my hands and stare in the mirror, humming to myself as I think about how well tonight is going. As well as the sillier stuff, we’ve covered most standard date topics; family, work, friends. He seems genuinely interested in my life, and God, I’m certainly interested in his. He’s been a secondary school teacher for the last four years, and before that he was living in Barcelona for a while, teaching English. That was in between backpacking around Europe. And before that, he spent some time in Africa, helping build villages, and presumably generally making everyone who’s ever known him feel totally inadequate. Including me. He’s got his life in order, he’s got his own flat, a job he likes – he’s a high achiever but he’s not an arsehole about it. It’s intimidating, sure, but it’s also very attractive.
I check my face and reapply my dark purple lipstick.
God I love lipstick. I love putting it on, I love the way it looks, I love how powerful it makes me feel. Boys always talk about my hair and eyes (and tits, duh) when they’re complimenting me/trying to have sex with me, but I’ve always thought my lips should get more attention. I pout in the mirror now, wondering if Nathan will want to bite my bottom lip.
Two girls barge in, arguing about how much they would have to be paid to get off with Donald Trump. I grab my bag, hoping they didn’t catch me making sex faces at the mirror.
Back at the table, Nathan asks me how long I’ve been on Tinder.
‘Not long – a few weeks – but it’s already been life changingly bad,’ I say, smiling. ‘How about you?’
‘About six months,’ he replies, making a face. ‘It’s . . . it’s been a mixed bag. Some great dates –’ (he makes that lingering eye contact again) ‘– and some dreadful.’
I grin. ‘My theory is that the dreadful ones are really the best,’ I say. ‘At least they give you a funny story to tell your friends later on. Nobody really wants to hear about a nice date where everyone got on fine and no one got set on fire. And isn’t that really why we’re all on Tinder? To entertain our mates?’
He laughs but doesn’t look so sure. ‘Hmm. I think my friends are bored of hearing about it. And I don’t think an amusing pub tale was worth the horror of my last date with Sister Sandra.’ He grimaces and I laugh. ‘She was on a Christianity recruitment drive and told me I was going to hell when I ordered us some wine. I thought she was joking and then she gave me a leaflet about saving my soul.’
He nods. ‘Of course, I take it everywhere I go, I’m going to read you some passages later – are you more of a New or Old Testament kind of gal?’
‘Old, of course,’ I say lightly. ‘I like big beards and shouting. Didn’t I put that on my Tinder profile? Hey, let me know if you ever lose that leaflet, I keep spares in my bag for sinners like you.’
We giggle and he reaches over to top up my wine, brushing my hand. My skin tingles a bit.
‘I had a date recently where the guy took me to his “favourite Pret”,’ I tell him. ‘About four minutes in, it became clear I was just there to make Natalie – the girl making lattes – jealous. He studiously ignored me, while repeatedly trying to get Natalie’s attention. I actually felt sorry for him, she just totally ignored him. It was all kinds of awkward.’
We laugh again and start telling competitively bad Tinder stories.
He tells me about a girl who kept asking him how often he pissed sitting down, and then revealed that she kept a PG Tips mug by her bed to wee in when she couldn’t be bothered to get up and go to the loo. I tell him about the guy who asked me, twenty minutes into the date, if I’d like to have my toes sucked. And how he then, in a romantic voice, told me that he hadn’t had his usual wank that day because he was saving himself for me.
And so it went on.
It’s freezing as we leave the restaurant, the last patrons standing, and he puts his arm round me.
‘This was fun,’ I say, the fear settling over me again. What happens now? I haven’t had a date I actually liked before.
‘It really was,’ he smiles, adding casually, ‘Do you want to come back to mine? It’s only a few minutes this way.’ He nods along the high street and I stare down the road, undecided. I do like Nathan, he’s fun and sexy, but I’m picturing Josh smirking. Telling me this was the plan all along. Picturing myself creeping home in the morning, shoes in hand like last time, and hearing Josh crow that Nathan got exactly what he wanted. But who cares if inviting me here was a ploy, right? We’re all animals who like sex, there shouldn’t be any shame in that. Should there?
And I did shave.
But he’ll think I’m a slag if I go back with him.
But that’s totally outdated and ridiculous. Would I really be interested anyway, if this was a guy who would judge me for doing that?
I squirm.
But he’ll tell his friends I put out on the first date.
But do I care?
But I quite like him, and Jen will tell me off.
But I’m horny.
But he’ll judge me.
Nathan looks a bit bemused. My internal monologue has gone on that little bit too long, and I’m probably making faces.
‘Go on, we’re not far,’ he says, taking my hand. ‘I don’t want this to end yet, we can just chat. I have wine in the fridge.’
Oh, how convenient. I hesitate again. ‘Erm, actually, if it’s OK,’ I hear myself say, ‘I’m going to head home, I’ve got so much to do in the morning and I’m heading over to visit my dad first thing. This was great, but . . . y’know.’
He looks perturbed.
‘I wasn’t trying to be pushy, I just thought we could have another drink,’ he says, defensively.
‘Oh, I know, I just . . . better get an Uber,’ I say, pulling out my phone. His sexy eyes have turned into more of a death stare. I suddenly, definitely want to go home.
He sighs as I click the app. The car is two minutes away.
‘OK,’ he says, a little coolly. ‘I’ll wait with you.’
We stand in awkward silence and I feel very disappointed. Disappointed in him for his reaction, and disappointed in myself. I seem to have ruined the whole night and I don’t really know how.
I should say something.
‘I . . .’ A car beeps as it draws up. My taxi.
Nathan opens the door for me and smiles a little tightly.
‘Sorry,’ I find myself saying, and then hating myself for it, as I climb in. ‘I had a great time.’
He nods. ‘I’ll text you.’
He does text me. As I pull up back at my house twenty minutes later, my phone vibrates.
Hi Ellie, I had a fun night, but I don’t think we’re really compatible, sorry. Take care. Good luck with your search. Bye.
I drop my phone into my bag like it’s hot. Ouch. Ouuuuuuuch. What is this? Was it just that I said no to sex? Am I sixteen again, being dumped by my boyfriend because I wouldn’t put out? This was the first date where I’ve actually had a really, genuinely good time. Met someone I had chemistry with. And I got rejected. So what’s the point of this? I am clearly never going to meet someone decent.
Thank God Josh isn’t around as I drag myself to my room and collapse on my bed.
I’m so annoyed. There are such mixed messages given to women these days. I’m told over and over again that I’ll never find love while I keep having all this fun sex. So I stop having all the fun sex and I’m still getting rejected.
I should’ve just had sex with him.
No! That’s stupid! It’s good that I didn’t go back to his. I’d have felt much more humiliated afterwards, thinking he liked me and then getting this text message the next morning.
I don’t know what to think. We had fun, didn’t we? He just flipped so suddenly. It’s so disappointing.
What a shit. Ugh.
I moan into my pillow, and check what the time is in California. Four thirty in the afternoon, which means Jen will be back from the school run. I call her.
‘What?’
This is how she always answers the phone.
‘Hi. How are you? What are you doing?’
‘Busy.’ She’s not busy. ‘How are you?’
‘Um, I guess I’m OK. I just wanted to say hello.’
She sounds suspicious. ‘Why?’
I sniff. ‘I just got back from a date. A good and then very bad date. I’m pretty sick of all this, it’s exhausting and a total headfuck. I wanted some support, a friendly voice, so I’m not sure why I rang you.’
‘I can be supportive if I want to be.’ She sounds indignant. ‘It’s not my fault you won’t be helped. You’re as bad as Dad. I offered to set him up with my friend’s mum the other day. She’s lovely and lives really near him. She’s a widow too and they have so much in common. I arranged the whole thing but instead of giving her a chance, it was all complaints from him when he got home.’
I brighten up, thinking about how I’ll hear all about this tomorrow at Dad’s. At least he’s going through the hell of dating too.
‘What kind of complaints?’ I say.
‘Oh, you know, the usual excuses: “She’s too old for me, Jen. She’s eighty-two, Jen. She couldn’t hear anything because her hearing aid wasn’t on, Jen. The other residents at the care home asked if I was her son, Jen. We weren’t even allowed outside because of her oxygen machine, Jen.” What a load of nonsense. He says he wants to meet someone, so I go to the trouble of finding him someone perfect, and he’s this ungrateful.’
‘Hmm, yes, very ungrateful,’ I agree, supportively. I’m trying not to laugh at the picture of an eighty-two-year-old woman trying to flirt with my dad.
‘Look,’ she says, suddenly sounding serious. ‘Do you actually want to meet someone? Because you don’t seem to be having any fun with this dating. And frankly, all this moaning is getting very tiring for me. I have a lot going on over here, you know?’
‘Like what?’ I say innocently.
Jen pauses. She doesn’t have anything going on. She’s got no friends in California – for obvious reasons – Andrew is busy with work all the time, and Milly is the most self-sufficient six year old I’ve ever met. She won’t be helped by anyone or with anything. Seriously, do not try to help her, or you will lose your fingers.
‘Are you OK over there, Jen?’ I say, quietly, knowing there’s no chance she’ll admit to being lon
ely.
‘Of course I fucking am,’ she snaps. ‘Don’t patronise me. I love it here. It’s better than sad sack England, with that awful weather and that old man always hanging around going on about his garden.’
‘Dad?’
‘No, Prince Charles. So fuck off with your sympathy, I’m totally fine. You’re the one everyone’s worried about.’
I shouldn’t have said anything. I know the rules with Jen. It’s important she never thinks you’re trying to offer advice or support of any kind. If she feels in any way patronised she will lash out, snarling that she doesn’t need any ‘JOLLYING FUCKING ON’. It’s a tricky line though because I also get accused of ‘NOT FUCKING CARING’ regularly. But how do you ask questions about a person’s life without seeming interested or supportive? Tricky, tricky.
‘OK, well you know where I am’ I say, cautiously.
‘DON’T FUCKING JOLLY ME ALONG, I’M FINE,’ she shrieks. ‘It’s you that needs to get your life in order. You’ll be thirty soon and no man wants to date a thirty year old. Stop spending all your time with Dad, meet some actual men, bring down those mandards of yours, and get in line, for God’s sake. Life is meant to follow a certain path: work, marriage, kids. That’s how it’s supposed to work, Ellie. Stop fighting it and just get on with it. Everyone’s sick of you being so contrary.’
‘I’m not contrary,’ I mutter, contrarily.
‘Look, I have to go,’ she sighs. ‘Stop dating if that’s what you really want. If you really want to be on your own forever, then quit the apps. But bloody well be brave about it. Be your own person, tell Sophie and everyone else asking you about it to fuck off and stop letting everyone else tell you what to do. Do what you want to do. OK?’