#Toots

by Linh Le James

  ‘Lou? Where are you calling from?’ I ask, perplexed.

  ‘I’m in Abu Dhabi at the Shangri La rooftop bar. It’s fabulous here. Long story. I won’t be back in the UK on Saturday as planned. Can you call the spa for me and tell them I’ve caught chicken pox or something and can’t get back to work until I get the all-clear?’

  ‘Abu Dhabi? Chicken pox? What’s going on, Lou?’

  ‘It’s Lou-i-sa, not Lou. Bugger. Apollo is calling on the other line and Nick is coming back with my drink. Gotta go.’

  I flop back on the sofa, disconcerted. Life can be utterly boring with nothing dramatic happening for weeks on end, but the vague prospect of Leo touching base. Then my whole world can be rocked in a day.

  Lola hasn’t lost focus in the last hour. ‘Your family’s definitely acting strangely, but you’re all a bunch of lunatics anyway. Let’s get back to business. Which dating apps are you not registered on yet?’

  Emily

  Friday. 6 pm.

  I moved my bar shifts to week nights to allow for the Dating Marathon. Ridiculous. Lola has fixed four dates for me tonight, each an hour apart, starting at six in the evening. Talk about a relaxing Friday night. Not!

  Emily

  Date 1. The Old Ship Pub, High Street. 6 pm.

  Going on a series of blind dates is both daunting and thrilling. I skipped my afternoon lecture under duress to prepare physically and mentally for the night. Presenting a thesis or interviewing for a top job would be less stressful.

  I sent a WhatsApp to MaddMaxx this morning:

  ‘Hope you made it to Austria. Xx Bounty Bar’

  Nothing but radio silence from his side since our first meeting. Hmph.

  On the upside, I haven’t given cheating Leo more than a couple of thoughts this week – unheard of in the history of our so-called relationship.

  The pub is lovely. Golden oak beams, mismatched cherry wood furniture, slate flagstones and whitewashed walls with fairy lights hanging from the ceiling. I feel myself loosen up and looking forward to my date.

  Paul4u is waiting for me at the bar. Average height, average weight, average looks. After a half-hour discussion, it transpires he also has a lower than average sense of humour.

  He is just about a 5 out of 10. Lola forbid me not to discard any man who rated over 5. ‘You need to get laid, Em, to get Leo out of your system’.

  Need mantra.

  I am Khaleesi. I will seduce this mere mortal into submission.

  Paul4u has gone to replenish our drinks, giving me a nice respite from the conversation, presently revolving around his sciatica.

  On my own, I remember I neglected to tell the spa that Louise won’t turn up in work tomorrow. I quickly dial Jess for advice.

  ‘It’s Em. Help! I need to call in sick for Lou. What could she have? Chicken pox?’

  Jess sniggers. ‘No way. Just say cystitis. It’s a UTI. Women’s problems. Trust me, they won’t want to ask for more details.’

  Hugely indebted to Jess, I ring Louise’s spa next.

  ‘Fernhill Grange Spa, how may I help?’

  ‘Hi. Er, it’s Louisa Davies here. I can’t come in tomorrow. I’m sick.’

  ‘No worries, Louisa! I’ll let Nikki know. When are you coming back?’

  ‘When am I coming back?’

  ‘Yes. When are you coming back?’

  ‘Oh, right! When? Ah, yes of course.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘So? When are you coming back?’

  ‘Hmm. Not for a few days. Maybe two days? Wait, better tell Nikki three days. No, actually four would be better.’

  ‘Shall we just call it a week?’

  ‘Yes, a week is good. I’ll let you know when it’s safe for me to return.’

  ‘Is it contagious?’ the receptionist enquires with alarm.

  ‘Er…yes, it’s contagious. Very contagious, actually! That’s why I don’t know when I’ll be back.’ I confirm sheepishly.

  ‘Have you been to see a GP? What did he diagnose?’

  My mind goes blank. Damn Jess and her elaborate disease names, which are utterly impossible to remember.

  ‘Cys.. cys... cys... It sounds like ‘see’ something,’ I stutter.

  ‘You mean syphilis?’

  ‘Yes! Syphilis!’ I exclaim triumphantly. ‘OK, I’ll check in next week. Bye!’

  I turn around to see Paul4u, who has obviously heard the whole conversation.

  It dawns on me that syphilis is not the same as cystitis. Given how similar they sound I think it’s forgivable. I can’t be bothered to explain the confusion to him.

  Paul4u shifts awkwardly in his seat, opening and closing his mouth as if he’s about to say something. We finish our drinks in an agonizing silence.

  I am Khaleesi. I have lands to conquer.

  ‘Right, I’m off now. I shouldn’t be drinking anyway. I’m on antibiotics – for the syphilis, you know?’

  Emily

  Date 2. O’Connor’s. Station Road. 7 pm.

  This pub is a bit of a stroll from the Old Ship, but that’s OK as my first date didn’t last half of the allocated time slot. I hope I’m going to get lucky with LuckySam.

  The atmosphere is rowdy but fun. Lots of rugby lads out tonight. LuckySam looks out of place in his tailored suit.

  ‘Emily, are you an adventurous lady?’ he eyes me up and down.

  ‘Yes, I think so.’ I contemplate elaborating on the new spicy dishes I tried at my local Thai last week but manage to hold my tongue.

  ‘I’d like to know your thoughts on... rimming.’ LuckySam drinks his half pint of lager unhurriedly, taking tiny sips which leave his thin lips wet and oddly shiny. I find them distracting and marginally offensive. Shouldn’t he just wipe his mouth?

  ‘I’m not that much of a literal person. I mean, literary.’ I confide, thinking he must be alluding to rhyming and poetry.

  ‘What about... pegging?’ a zealous LuckySam suggests, apparently unabashed by my lack of enthusiasm.

  ‘Well, one can never be too greedy, I guess.’ I venture, trying to look eager. Pegging. Think, think, think. What is it? Something to do with pigging out? Or a pastime involving pegs?

  ‘You are one saucy lady.’ LuckySam’s small snake-like tongue darts out and flickers over his lips. My shoulders quiver from an imperceptible shudder.

  Something feels wrong. Like that time I wandered off in the library as a child, and a stranger pulled out a lollipop and invited me to go and read a book with them. My internal Creep Alarm’s light has gone from green to amber.

  He bends towards me, and in conspiratorial hushed tones concludes, ‘Now. I assume you would equally relish a bit of... flogging?’

  Flogging. Flagging? I’m exhausted? Or something to do with flags? No. Wait. Flogging. Whip, belt, flogger, crop, paddle!

  Khaleesi is trying to mute the Creep Alarm, which is in full blaring mode, complete with flashing red lights.

  LuckySam exploits his closeness to discreetly pinch my bum cheek.

  ‘Ouch!’ I jump and go crimson.

  I am Khaleesi. I am the Unburnt. Raise your hands to me and you shall have no more hands.

  ‘Creep!’ I vociferate as I attempt to slap him. My aim is poor, and I only succeed in hitting his ear, not even hard. Fortunately, in the excitement, LuckySam spills what was left of his drink down his shirt.

  I turn on my heel.

  Right. Two dates to go.

  Emily

  Date 3. El Nacho. High Street. 8 pm.

  I picked up some chips on the way to the Mexican restaurant. Hopefully, GoodyBag got the memo and isn’t expecting a sit-down meal. I did specify ‘Meet me for a beer’. I don’t think I can handle any more boring conversations.

  El Nacho is nice-ish restaurant. The bar area is brightly lit and a bit cramped, but luckily there’s a stool left. I treat myself to a yummy spicy margarita and browse the cocktail menu for my next order. The free bowl of nachos on the counter cheers me u
p.

  I’m busy swiping left on Tinder when GoodyBag startles me.

  ‘Boo! Emily! All right? I recognize you from your photo. I see you have a drink there? All sorted? Excellent.’ GoodyBag rubs his hands together, possibly from satisfaction that he doesn’t have to buy me a cocktail.

  ‘You had some nosh already? Brill. Oh goody, some nachos. What a cool bar! I need to take a photo!’

  GoodyBag whips out his phone to take a selfie. He moves in order to catch the wall of lit-up bottles of tequila and my head in the background. ‘What’s your Insta username? I’m posting this now.’

  I struggle not to gawp. He looked ten years younger in his online profile pic. He had no bald patch or double chin. He must have Photoshopped his photo or lied about this age. If he’s told me porkies, I will expose him.

  I am Khaleesi. If you lie, I will cut off your tongue and feed it to the sows.

  ‘You work locally, I believe? How long ago did you graduate?’ I try to hide how cheesed off I am by baring the widest smile I can manage.

  ‘I never stopped learning, really. Adult courses. Online. Still learning!’ GoodyBag furtively glances at his phone.

  I nod appreciatively. ‘Online classes must be great! Wish I could stay in bed in my PJs for my lectures. How about your A-levels? How long ago were they? Gosh, seems like yesterday for me!’ I probe with an unnatural tinkly laugh.

  ‘Yup. Seems like yesterday. I’m a teenager at heart!’

  The spicy margarita fires up something in my belly. I will not drop the subject.

  ‘Time just flies. And then the big thirty’s just around the corner! You never see it coming. Although I do have another eight years exactly to go. What about you?’

  ‘I saw you swiping on Tinder. How’s that working out for you?’

  GoodyBag is:

  - Avoiding the age question. Cheeky git.

  - Trying to make me feel bad about Tindering while I’m on a date.

  ‘Tinder’s great. It’s linked to people’s Insta and Facebook accounts,’ I reply airily. ‘You get to see lots of photos of your blind date. Gives you a better idea of what they look like before you meet them. On Match, anybody can put any old picture up!’ I squint at him and give him my best interrogating detective look.

  ‘I agree. I once met this girl. She was two stones heavier in real life!’ GoodyBag concurs, oblivious to me having a dig at him. He checks his phone once more. ‘You ever watch Catfish?’

  ‘No, I find it depressing.’

  I realize I find him depressing. I lean over the bar and ask the barman, ‘A michelada, please.’

  GoodyBag pokes his head over my shoulder. ‘Is it your round? I’ll have one as well. A Corona. Actually, make it two, will ya? I got some catching up to do. Ta.’

  Devious, photo-cheating, lying, stingy, freeloading twat.

  I am Khaleesi. In Meereen, I would just cut your head off and let your body rot in the sun.

  ‘So, what’s the worst date you ever been on?’ GoodyBag quizzes, as if making light chit-chat. Nervously, he double taps his index finger on the bar repeatedly.

  I am Khaleesi. I despise mortals with funny tics.

  He peeks at his screen one more time and grabs his Coronas without a thank you. He then goes off into a ramble, a drink in each hand, his index finger still tapping against the bottle. ‘For me, unquestionably the date I went on with an obese woman. She stormed off after I told her pudding was not a good idea for someone her size. I wasn’t going to sugar-coat it, was I? Sugar-coat. Got it? I had to pay for her meal. If I’d known, I’d have talked her out of ordering a starter too. Women. Fighting for equal pay but not to pay their way, huh?’

  I want to smack him in the mouth.

  ‘Who wants to talk about their worst dates? I’d rather think about my best ones,’ I whisper.

  An unexpected memory jumps at me. Watching the sunrise with Leo on a deserted beach after he spent the night DJing at a festival in Cornwall last summer. The foamy waves gently licked the shore and the breeze was full of dew and early morning coolness. We sat on an old tartan blanket folded on the wet sand. He wrapped his leather jacket around my shoulders and we held hands. We drank our coffees in silence, feeling like we were the only people in the world. At that moment, I pretended he belonged to me and no one else.

  Loneliness descends on me like a hungry wolf.

  Further along the bar, a group of girls all wearing Mexican hats down tequila shots. Several couples tuck into chicken enchiladas with chocolate sauce – El Nacho’s special. Everyone around me is having a blast. I’m not. Time to cut my losses. I finish my michelada and slam the glass on the counter.

  ‘Yes! Ten!’ he exclaims, looking at his phone. I snatch it from his hand and blink in disbelief.

  ‘Are you seriously counting your likes?’ I stare at him incredulously. ‘And your double-tapping tic, is that an Insta liking withdrawal symptom?’

  He shrugs indifferently. My voice is cold, ‘Do you have a tenner, please?’

  GoodyBag, nonplussed, automatically reaches for his wallet. I seize it, fish out a ten-pound note and wave it scornfully in his face.

  ‘That’s for the two Coronas. And wasting my time.’

  Honestly. What has the world come to?

  Emily

  Date 4. Zaiiko. High Street. 9.30 pm.

  Zaiiko is an uber-cool bar with cherry-blossom frescos and pink and silver neon lighting. Funky lacquered dark shiny furniture and distressed Scandi flooring complement the minimalist interior. A myriad of white origami cranes in different sizes hang from the ceiling.

  The lychee mojito is simply divine. Mmm, I’ve found quite a few hotties on Tinder now. There’s a studmuffin pocket less than five miles away. I’ve never thought about it before, but pools of good-looking genes could be linked to specific postcodes. From what I can see online, moving five miles west is all I need to do to live in a hunky chunky muscle neighbourhood.

  ‘Did it hurt when God removed your wings and sent you down to earth?’ a deliciously deep manly voice susurrates in my ear, making me tingle all over. ‘Are you on your own tonight?’

  The voice elicits mouth-watering visions of a James Bond type stranger with dirty martini in hand. Ha! My new Khaleesi aura is making me irresistible. I turn around eagerly.

  A stumpy man, clearly more James than Bond, is standing in front of me. He’s wearing a bleached denim jacket, khaki shirt, and beige cargo shorts. A safari goer from the 80s? Pass me the bucket.

  ‘Waiting for my boyfriend, actually. Thanks for your concern.’ I turn my back to him, keeping it very straight, hoping it is sending the right ‘get lost’ message.

  Where is date number four?

  My irritation builds as I feel Safari Man hovering behind me. I struggle to focus on my phone.

  ‘Have you heard about text neck? It’s the neck pain and damage you risk if you look down at your phone for too long. You should watch your posture. I’m a physio – I know these things. I treat and touch a lot of necks and backs. Male and female, of course. Always professionally, that’s a given.’

  ‘How interesting. Thanks for the insight.’

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ Safari Man snaps his fingers at the barman to get his attention.

  Seriously?

  I am Khaleesi. I do not tolerate mortals with bad manners.

  ‘No thank you. My boyfriend shouldn’t be long now,’ I mutter back.

  ‘Where’s that fella, then?’ Safari Man roars. ‘Been let down, have you? I saw you come in here over thirty minutes ago.’

  Bloody date number four is nowhere to be bloody seen. It is indeed almost thirty minutes past the agreed time.

  My mobile rings. Ha! That’ll be him.

  ‘Hello, Joe?’ I pick up, victorious. ‘Carla? What? Slow down. Carla! Stop crying, I don’t understand a word you’re saying. There was no rug? What rug? Calm down. Where are you? I’m coming now. Stay put.’

  ‘Lovely meeting you,’ I tell Safari Man. ‘Unfo
rtunately, I have to leave. I have a sister to save.’

  Chapter 4

  About Thyme

  About Thyme

  Ingredients

  4 sprigs of thyme

  40 ml gin

  15 ml vermouth

  10 ml yellow chartreuse

  20 ml lemon juice

  10 ml sugar syrup

  1 coffee spoon orange bitters

  Sprig of thyme for garnish

  Add all ingredients except for garnish to a cocktail shaker and fill with ice.

  Shake and double strain into a chilled cocktail glass.

  Garnish with a sprig of thyme.

  Carla

  Friday. My flat. 6 pm.

  This.

  Is.

  It.

  This. Is. It.

  This is it! This is it! This is it!

  THIS IS IT!

  I could repeat the words over and over again. I feel elated yet serene. My whole body buzzes with exhilaration. The long-awaited moment has finally arrived.

  The tidings have not been shared with anyone yet, not even with Emily. Keeping it to myself has been a gruelling test of willpower. A part of me wants to keep it secret as long as possible, to cherish this special moment by myself and savour every minute leading to it.

  I took the day off work. I had my roots touched up and my hair blow-dried. The luxurious mani-pedi and mini Indian head massage at my favourite salon were the ultimate treat.

  Louise let me borrow her black Louboutin stilettos (they’re a tad too small for me, but still make me feel like a million dollars) and Jess her Mulberry Mini Lily bag under a posh work-do pretence.

  I splurged on a new lacy balconette bra and side tie bikini briefs from Agent Provocateur. I tried on two eye-wateringly expensive pencil dresses at Harvey Nics – and after much internal debate bought them both.

  I’m meeting Ben at seven thirty tonight at the Victorian Room.