First Date: An absolutely jaw-dropping psychological thriller

by Sue Watson

  ‘It’s a difficult place to find – and a perfectly reasonable question.’

  I suddenly spot the carrier bag on the floor by my feet. ‘Ooh I have something,’ I say, and take out the bottle of wine. I stretch to place it on the kitchen island, but I clumsily catch my glass with the bottle and knock it over. Glass and red wine go everywhere. I am mortified.

  I hear him say, ‘Shit!’ under his breath, and want to die.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ I grab at a rather lovely blue tea towel, which looks too nice to mop up spillage, but I give it a go, manically wiping and attempting to pick up shards of glass from the worktop.

  ‘Stop, stop – it’s fine,’ he says gently, walking towards the carnage with a dustpan and brush. ‘Just move over there and let me take care of it.’ He touches my arm and gently manoeuvres me to the side.

  I really don’t know what to say. I wish he’d make a joke, but he doesn’t, and the picking and wiping goes on for some time in silence, as I stand by. He carefully brushes the floor, then picks up each remaining tiny shard between his finger and thumb, before wiping the counter and giving the floor a final wipe. Eventually, when he’s eradicated every sparkle of glass and every speck of red wine, he looks up and smiles. ‘There you go.’ He moves to the sink to wash his hands. I stand there helpless, like a child.

  ‘Sorry, I’m not usually like this. I bet the glass was expensive, I’ll buy you another one, just let me know where…’

  His back is to me at the sink, and he puts his hand up in an ‘it doesn’t matter’ gesture.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I repeat.

  He turns around. ‘Hannah, please don’t keep saying you’re sorry, it’s a glass – that’s all.’

  I pull a pained face. ‘But it was a beautiful glass; it must have been expensive.’

  Alex shrugs and taking another lovely tea towel from the side, wipes his hands, and reaches for the bottle of wine I brought, that I’ve just caused all the damage with.

  ‘Nice,’ he murmurs.

  ‘Yeah. I know you like Merlot – well, we both do.’

  He holds it for a while and reads the label while I stand nearby wondering what to do with myself. I find myself wondering if it’s really worth it. Is any relationship worth all the uncertainty, the foolishness at the beginning, the does-he, doesn’t-he, shall I, shan’t I? The am I good enough?

  ‘I can’t lie – I’m a bit nervous,’ I hear myself say into the silence.

  ‘I know, me too. The first few dates are always a bit nerve-wracking. But – I – this—’ He pauses and gestures from himself to me and back. ‘This feels right.’

  I feel a sweep of relief: he likes me, and I like him, and we just have to get over these initially awkward first dates and I’m sure something good will start to happen.

  He suddenly reaches down past my legs and picks up the carrier bag that held the wine, then realises there’s something inside. ‘Sorry, I thought it was empty, I was about to throw that away.’

  He hands it to me. I take it off him and put the bag down on a nearby chair. ‘It’s just some sweets for someone I work with.’

  ‘Oh – is it her birthday?’ He wanders over to the oven and checks through the glass.

  ‘No, no it’s a thank you – for my friend Harry.’

  ‘Oh yeah you mentioned him before.’ He doesn’t turn around.

  ‘Yeah, his girlfriend, she works at the café near my office. Have you heard of Brilliant Bakes?’

  ‘Yeah, I think I know it.’ Alex walks back to where I’m standing against the kitchen island and leans next to me, both holding our glasses now, like we’re drinking at a bar.

  ‘Well, Harry brings me the leftover almond croissants from the café – they’re my favourite – bit of a standing joke really. I picked him up a carton of Smarties because he won’t take any money off me,’ I add.

  ‘That’s kind of you,’ he says, and I feel his hand on mine, slowly caressing each finger one by one. I like it.

  ‘Harry loves Smarties…’ My voice fades, I’m longing for him to kiss me.

  Alex’s face is now close to mine, his breath hot on my lips. We’re about to kiss when he moves back slightly. ‘Be careful, Hannah. If a beautiful woman bought me sweets, I might think I stood a chance.’ He leaves me to go back to the oven, and I’m surprised how much I want him back here next to me.

  ‘Firstly, I’m not beautiful…’

  ‘You are.’ He keeps his back to me as he opens the oven door.

  ‘And Harry’s not like that. He’s very young and slightly annoying, to be honest. We’re friends, we have a laugh, but he’s ten years younger than me. And he’s madly in love with Gemma.’

  ‘I can’t imagine for a minute she’s as gorgeous as you though.’ Alex sighs. ‘And what’s ten years?’

  I laugh, flattered. ‘She’s very pretty… and ten years is a whole decade.’

  I take another sip of wine, feeling like a sixteen-year-old on a first date. ‘It’s nice, being here. So much better than in a bar or a restaurant with people around,’ I say, feeling more at ease now.

  ‘I know, isn’t it? I think you can tell a lot about a person by the space they live in. I asked you here because I want you to get to know the real me. I want to get to know you too.’

  ‘I’m not sure you’re ready for my flat yet – it’s a bit rank compared to this place,’ I admit. ‘I hope it doesn’t say too much about me. I’d be horrified if it did.’

  He laughs. ‘I think I know you without seeing where you live. But I would love to see your place. I want to see where you eat, where you relax, where you sleep. I want to know everything about you. But I understand, it can make you feel vulnerable letting someone in.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I say. Our eyes meet, and I know we feel the same, that we’re both looking for something, someone we’ve never been able to find. Both hoping this is it.

  ‘My biggest fear is that you might be intimidated by my priceless art collection,’ he says, gesturing to the framed pictures positioned stylishly on the wall.

  ‘Priceless?’ I gasp.

  ‘Originals.’

  ‘Oh wow.’

  ‘When I say original, they’re original Ikea,’ he adds, a twinkle in his eye.

  I laugh, feeling a bit silly. I need to be more attuned to when he’s joking and when he’s serious. But his humour puts me at ease, his home is warm and welcoming, and I’m finally starting to relax.

  ‘Dinner will be ten minutes,’ he says and suggests we go into the living room. It’s packed with bookcases, and there are lots of photos in different frames hanging on a wall, all clustered together; a look I attempted a while ago, but which just ended up looking a mess. Alex certainly has an eye for detail.

  ‘Are they family photos?’ I ask, wondering if any of his previous girlfriends made it to the wall of fame.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says.

  ‘I can’t see any photos of you,’ I say, peering at the wall.

  ‘I hate having my photo taken,’ he says dismissively, gesturing me away from the photos and towards a dark sea-green velvet sofa.

  I sit down, and think of the shabby seating in my unkempt, unfashionable flat, and dread having to invite him over. As he said, you can tell a lot about a person by the space they live in.

  I sip on the wine, and feel myself relaxing more as he joins me on the sofa. His thigh is against mine, our shoulders are touching. He tilts his head as he talks about something that happened in court today, and I feel his closeness. I laugh at something he says, I’m not even sure it’s meant to be funny, but he smiles and I feel wonderful. Then, gently, he takes my wine glass from my hand and places it on the coffee table in front of us, and leans towards me.

  I think my heart’s going to stop as he begins to kiss me softly on the mouth. Every nerve ending tingles, every part of me is touched by this kiss, and every little strand of anxiety, every nuance of doubt disappears, becoming vapour and dancing in the warm, garlic-filled air. I’ve forgotten
about Tom and the roses, about the way Alex peered through the hall window, and Jas’s warnings about falling too fast. And even if I did remember, it’s too late now – I’m hooked and at the point of no return.

  Chapter Eight

  Here, with Alex, I’m in a different world, and everything feels so good – it’s that sweet, warm feeling when alcohol hits, or dope kicks in. It’s wild and heady. I want to kiss him all night, and never leave this gorgeous, squidgy sofa.

  Eventually, we stop kissing, and in the slightly awkward post-kiss silence, I ask him about his day and he tells me about a case he’s working on.

  ‘This young guy’s homeless and been accused of stabbing his friend. But I believe with all my heart that he’s being accused of a crime he didn’t commit. I was the duty solicitor on the night he was brought in, and I knew instantly he wasn’t capable of such a violent act.’ He goes on to explain in more detail, and I’m blown away by his caring, his passion for what he does. ‘That’s why I went into the legal profession,’ he says. ‘I want to help people who can’t help themselves.’

  I totally get where he’s coming from. ‘I feel just the same in my job,’ I say, but looking around this lovely house, I reckon he gets paid a lot more for doing it.

  ‘Sometimes I’m shocked at what some people have to go through, and how any one of us could have found ourselves in a hopeless situation like these poor souls. The wrong parent, neglect, poverty – we’re all just a parent away from neglect or abuse,’ he says.

  I agree, and wonder if perhaps he’s speaking from personal experience but know it’s too early to ask. I have to wait until he volunteers that information.

  ‘Working with people like this, realising how hard some lives are, it gets to me,’ I say. ‘I don’t trust easily, I’m suspicious of people, and see everything much darker, more threatening than perhaps it is. I was in Tesco the other day, and this woman was shouting at her kid, and I had to resist going up to her and telling her to stop. I even followed her out of the store, at a distance, and watched her go down the road, I was so worried about the child. But when they got to a bus stop the woman took a banana from her bag and gave it to the child. I joined them and pretended I was waiting for a bus and was so relieved when I heard the woman speaking gently to her kid. I guess what I’m saying is, because of what I do every day, and the things I have to deal with, my mind goes there whether I want it to or not.’

  Alex doesn’t say anything, and I stop talking, assuming he’s bored, or worse still thinks I’m crazy for following strangers I see in the supermarket. But then I can see by the look on his face he’s silent because he’s considering what I’m saying and is listening intently, not talking over me with his story, his theories.

  ‘I probably sound slightly unhinged following a random woman around town,’ I say.

  ‘No, you sound kind and caring – and lovely.’ He puts his arm around me. ‘I wish there’d been someone like you around when I was a kid.’

  ‘Oh?’ I say, hoping he’ll open up, wondering if there’s something difficult in his past. But it might be too soon for him to share it.

  ‘I… I just could never do anything right as far as my parents were concerned. My dad always told me I was a loser.’ He sighs and I see the hurt in his eyes.

  ‘Oh God, Alex, that’s terrible.’ I’m shocked to hear this even though I come up against this most days with my clients. My heart’s going out to him even more, realising that, like everyone else, he’s vulnerable, fragile.

  ‘I’m over it now. I’m not in touch with my parents. Whenever I went to visit, I hated seeing the disappointment in their eyes.’

  ‘How on earth could they be disappointed with you? You’ve done so well, a great career, a lovely home…’

  ‘Like I said, I could never do anything right,’ he says dismissively. It’s clear he doesn’t want to continue this conversation and he changes the subject. ‘So, what about you? Are your parents proud? Do they have photos of you in your cap and gown all over the living room?’

  ‘Not exactly. They’re both dead,’ I say. ‘Let’s not talk about the past, let’s leave it for another day.’

  ‘So sorry.’ He smiles sadly. ‘Yes, absolutely, let’s leave the past where it belongs for now. So – how was your day?’

  Mentioning today triggers me. I almost flinch thinking about the white roses, the vicious note. As a foster child, you learn not to trust people. Adult guardians can hide a lot behind a smile. Most of them were fine, but some of them were quite cruel, and more than once I was shocked by a sudden temper, a stinging slap, an unkind remark. Even if they never slapped or flared up at you again, the threat would hang in the air like a dark cloud, and you carry it with you into adulthood. To receive those beautiful roses, and discover a horrible message tucked inside, was like the stinging slap of childhood, the nasty remark when you least expect it. Just when everything seems to be going so well, there it is, the ever-present threat of losing everything.

  I decide not to tell Alex about the roses. It’s too early and the evening’s been too good to spoil everything with the idea I have a vengeful ex lurking around the corner. So I stay on safe ground and talk about my job.

  ‘My day was busy, and frustrating. The teenagers I deal with can be difficult to communicate with, especially the abused, neglected kids – and it isn’t always easy to help them.’

  He nods, listening intently to what I’m saying.

  ‘I often wonder how long I can keep going, and just when I’m about to give up there’s a breakthrough and something good happens,’ I say. ‘I finally rescue a child from an abusive family, a teenager moves out of care into their own flat and with a job, and then – and only then – do I feel like it’s been worth all the sleepless nights. Harry always says you watch them like a parent watching their one-year-old take their first steps.’

  ‘Harry certainly has a way with words,’ he says. There’s an edge in his voice, is he a little jealous of Harry? If so, that’s hilarious because as soon as he meets Harry, Alex will realise he’s the least threatening, least troubling person for him to worry about.

  ‘The hardest lesson I’ve had to learn is that some people just don’t want to be saved,’ I say, returning to the subject matter.

  ‘Yeah. And that hurts.’ He sighs. ‘People take things the wrong way, they think you’re too much, when all you want to do is make things right. I mean, all you’re doing is asking them to behave a certain way – you’re only doing it for them, but they can’t see that.’

  ‘You mean with clients?’ I ask, unsure of what he’s actually saying.

  ‘Yeah… Perhaps sometimes I give too much and, yes, I probably ask too much too. But it’s for them – always for them.’

  I feel his passion, his caring, and relate to it. But I’m not completely sure he’s talking about his work.

  ‘I give a lot – but I expect a lot,’ he adds.

  ‘Nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘Mmm, but it often leads to disappointment on my part.’

  Again I wonder if he’s talking about the people he defends, or something closer to home. Has Alex also been disappointed by love? Has he had his heart broken?

  ‘How long have you been single?’ I ask.

  ‘About twelve months now.’

  ‘A year is a long time for someone like you to be single,’ I say flirtatiously as I take a sip of wine. He’s such a catch, I can’t believe he hasn’t been snapped up. I glance through the door at the high-gloss kitchen. ‘Some women would date you for that kitchen alone,’ I murmur, only half-joking.

  He smiles. ‘Oh no, you only want me for my white goods and worktops?’

  I nod. ‘Damn, am I that obvious? You give good kitchen, Alex.’ I pretend to sigh longingly, and he laughs.

  ‘That’s a compliment – I think. Perhaps that’s where I’ve been going wrong with my past relationships. I should have seduced them with my kitchen first.’ He’s shaking his head theatrically.

&nb
sp; ‘Yeah, might be. Or, like me, you just picked the wrong ones,’ I say, opening up the conversation slightly.

  He shrugs and I wonder what the story is with his last ex. But I don’t get the chance to find out because he quickly moves away from what seems to be a danger area.

  ‘Dinner won’t be too long. I’m making this Middle Eastern recipe a colleague recommended,’ he says brightly. ‘It’s delicious, I’ve made it before – but it takes a little longer than I’d like.’

  ‘It smells wonderful,’ I say, and because I’m used to having difficult conversations with clients, I push for more information about his ex. ‘So, you’ve been single for a whole year?’ I take a discreet glance at the wall full of photos, hoping to alight on a photo of the one that got away.

  Alex puts his head down. He nods, slowly. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Is she… over there on the wall?’ I ask, rather clumsily.

  He looks at the wall, then looks away. ‘No, no I took her photos down. I couldn’t bear to keep seeing her.’

  My heart dips a little, and I wonder if he’s over her.

  ‘She must have meant a lot to you,’ I press.

  ‘Yes, she did. I haven’t been with anyone else since. I wasn’t ready… until now.’ He lifts his head and looks directly at me. I feel goosebumps – in a good way.

  ‘Why did you break up?’ I ask.

  He’s now gazing into the distance, and it’s a little while before he speaks. ‘Why does anyone break up? We’d outgrown each other – she didn’t want the same things any more.’ He turns to me, and his face is full of pain. ‘She ended it.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Don’t feel like you have to talk about it if it’s too…’ I trail off, feeling guilty now for raising this. It’s clearly still quite raw, even after all this time.

  ‘No, no it’s fine.’ But he’s shaking his head – it isn’t. ‘She just said she didn’t love me any more. I’d been happily going along, thinking it was great, and then – boom, it was over. Everything gone, in a few seconds.’