by Blake, Rosie
With renewed energy, I got up and rummaged through the drawer of my desk, pulled out my address book, practically blew the cobwebs from its surface and took a deep breath. This was it. The summary of past relationships, friendships, people that had fallen by the wayside. People I’d let go. I smoothed my hand over the cover. Right. I flipped to A, pen poised. There was Suzie Allen at the top, a friend from university who used to sleepwalk, then there was Bob Arkman, a handy electrician who’d moved away from the area and, oh, there was Jon Allen who I’d once gone out with for the weekend to learn clay pigeon shooting. Taking the highlighter I’d purchased for this exact job, I highlighted Jon Allen. The first possibility. Aside from the clay pigeon shooting I remembered little about Jon. I’d worked with him briefly in London and he had once sent me a Christmas card with penguins kissing. Now that I came to think of it – a promising start.
But I had 25 other letters of the alphabet to check through. I opened a chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and got to work.
The entire bottle of wine, three raspberry yoghurts, and a peach later, I had my list.
NICOLA’S LIST
Jon Allen – Clay pigeon guy, 1 Christmas card (penguins kissing – suggestive?)
Fred Davies – Think he lives in Liverpool. (Consider long-distance relationships at later date?)
Edward Gough – One kiss circa 1995, possibly his parent’s address (double check this).
Paul Kleiner – German, so would need to rely a lot on mime, but might have better grasp of English language by now?
Clive Reegan – Had long-term girlfriend, but once laughed at a joke I made in a seminar, a good guy.
Steve Thompson – Played in jazz band of old firm. Hot. Wore a Swatch.
Jake Young – Old university flatmate. Have seen him use sink as toilet, not sure can move on from that.
By the end of the list I reckoned Jon Allen was not a bad bet at all, but I was encouraged to see a couple of other possibilities there too. Step One, tick.
Chapter Ten
Tuesday in the office was unbearable. In the morning Caroline spent hours staring at me, denying she was staring at me, or staring at me from behind other objects. In the afternoon when I finally told her to PLEASE STOP STARING AT ME, she asked me numerous questions: what was I going to wear for the date that night? Was I nervous? Wasn’t I glad I was getting out there? The last phrase was delivered with a very gung-ho voice and when we left the office at the end of the day she gave me a hearty slap on the back, as if she were sending me to the front line.
I scuttled out into the cold, wet night and headed to the coffee shop opposite our office until it was time for the date. I was meeting Andrew in the Café Rouge at the top of Park Street. It would only take me two minutes to walk there, so I had plenty of time to compose myself beforehand. Most of the shops were shut for the night, though the glow of their window displays were a warming contrast to the darkness outside. I pushed open the coffee shop door, headed straight to the counter and ordered an espresso, before taking a seat in the corner.
I was particularly dreading the start of the date; did we hug, kiss or shake hands? Then how long would we have to spend lumbering through the inevitable small talk and coping with lengthy awkward pauses? How early on would I be forced to comment on the décor of the restaurant, him on the general ambience? And what was the right food for the occasion? I’d been on one date at university and ordered the spaghetti bolognese – student budget – and had spent the entire evening unwittingly talking through a little moustache of tomato sauce. I started to panic. Dinner was quite a commitment. What if we decided we didn’t like the look of each other on sight? What if, over the starter, we discovered we had conflicting world views and there was simply no hope of compatibility? Did we then throw down our soup spoons, split the bill and wander off into the night?
I spent five minutes in the loo of the coffee shop, which earned me a raised eyebrow from the owner. I wondered if they had CCTV … I hoped not; I must have looked ridiculous, doing those five minutes of deep-breathing exercises while intently staring at my own reflection in the mirror. I checked my make-up, straightened my crisp pale-pink shirt, paid the bill and headed to Café Rouge. My stomach plunged as I saw Andrew already sitting at a table in the window of the restaurant. Well, I assumed it was Andrew, simply due to the fact that he was the only lone man waiting in there. He was studying a newspaper with a slight frown on his face. I couldn’t get a good look at him. He glanced up as I pushed open the door, cast aside the paper and stood up to greet me – I noticed he was a tad on the short side, but at least he was punctual. I liked that.
Stooping a fraction, I held out my hand. ‘Andrew?’
‘Nicola,’ he said, shaking it. ‘You look just like your photo. Actually better.’ Then he smiled. I felt relief sweep through me. He seemed relatively normal, his handshake was an appropriate pressure, he’d demonstrated an ability to make eye contact and pronounce my name: all positives. ‘I reserved us a table,’ he said, indicating a small, candlelit table on the left-hand side of the room.
‘Great!’ I smiled, as a skinny waiter appeared and took my coat. ‘Thanks!’
Okay. Phew. This is all going to be fine.
I unrolled the napkin and placed it carefully on my lap. Andrew sat down, handed me a menu and we both scanned it, wondering who was going to get the conversation going. Andrew did the honours with a polite, ‘This looks good.’
I nodded my head and agreed with a hearty, ‘Doesn’t it?’
Then we lapsed into silence once more.
Fortunately, the waiter appeared and after a vague pretence at perusing the wine list, Andrew ordered the House White.
‘Very good, Sir.’ I just knew the he wanted to roll his eyes.
When the waiter departed, Andrew turned his attention to me. ‘So, Nicola, this is a little strange but I’m glad we’re both here.’ He chuckled. ‘I’m not exactly a serial dater.’
‘Me neither,’ I said, pleased that he’d broken the ice.
We chatted fairly amiably for the next few minutes and sank easily into a few of our favourite Caroline-related anecdotes. The story about her family’s week in France camping in torrential rain, ha ha ha, a friend’s wedding in Manchester where Caroline had fallen into a fountain taking their photo, ha ha ha. This wasn’t too difficult. It was actually going well!
Andrew seemed to find my stories interesting. He wasn’t checking his fingernails, looking over my shoulder, examining his reflection in a spoon – so I couldn’t be doing too dreadfully. I started to relax into it.
We moved into fresh conversational terrain: where we both lived, where we were brought up, our hobbies, and what we would do with a million pounds (I’d panicked and plumped for establishing a turtle sanctuary). Andrew worked as a teacher at a local secondary school that I’d heard of, and I even managed to comment on some maths genius that had left there with ten A*’s last August and had appeared in The Telegraph.
‘So, what made you become a teacher?’ I asked, resting my elbows on the table.
‘Oh, I had a horrible passion for my subject – I teach Geography. I was always nose-deep in an encyclopaedia when I was younger – obsessed with volcanoes and earthquakes. I suppose teaching seemed the natural course for me.’
‘Why not a PHD or, I don’t know, a lecturer?’
‘That’s a great question, Nicola,’ Andrew said, sipping his wine. I smiled to myself, imagining just what he was like in the classroom. ‘I was pretty unsure about becoming a school teacher initially – I’m not particularly confident – but I knew I wanted a good excuse to talk about all the things that had fascinated me as a child, and a teacher seemed the obvious choice. I figured the pupils would be sweet little smaller versions of me.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t do it,’ I said shaking my head at him. ‘I’d hate having to stand up and talk to a whole class of teenagers about, well, anything.’
The waiter appeared before Andrew could reply. He placed a
mushroom risotto in front of me and my mouth watered at the smell. I could get used to dating in nice restaurants. Andrew had ordered chicken with a cheese sauce and a creamy-looking mashed potato. He ordered some more wine, and after my first bite of delicious risotto, I picked up our conversation.
‘I remember being horrible to some of my teachers,’ I said, which was kind of a little white lie. The other, way cooler, kids in my class had been horrible to the teachers. I’d actually been the one at the front paying attention, making notes, keeping my head down and my grades up.
‘Yeah, usual kid’s stuff I suspect,’ Andrew chortled at me, cutting into his chicken. ‘The kids always know how to wind us up.’
‘What are the pupils like then? Any hideous beasts?’ I asked, realising I’d started to enjoy myself.
‘A few in year ten,’ he nodded, laughing a little at my question.
‘Year ten?’
‘Fourteen to fifteen year olds.’
‘Ah!’
‘Yeah, they can behave badly. Get up to all sorts of things …’
‘Like what?’
‘Oh, lots of things. It can be quite tiring!’
‘Like …’ I prompted in a teasing voice.
‘Just … their constant backchat,’ he said, the laughter dying on his lips. ‘They obviously think I’ve never heard the F-word before …’
Andrew wasn’t laughing any more. He had turned an impressive shade of pink.
My mushroom risotto wobbled precariously on my fork. ‘Oh.’
‘It can get a little tedious. Quite grating, really, constantly having to lecture them – don’t throw that, stop standing by the window, sit down, where’s your book, why did you leave it at home.’ He caught sight of my expression and tailed off. ‘Oh, sorry, Nicola.’
‘It’s fine,’ I said, waving my hand. ‘It’s clearly a bit stressful.’ I shrugged it off, not wanting to embarrass him any more. I sipped my wine. I took a spoonful of risotto. ‘Hmm …’ I said, pointing with my fork. ‘Great risotto.’
Andrew looked at me vacantly.
I repeated my observation. ‘Yummy,’ I said, showing him my fork.
He blinked and mumbled something so quietly that I had to lean forward to catch it. ‘Last week they brought in fart spray and the classroom still smells.’
‘Sorry?’ I said, straining to hear him.
‘Last week they brought in … fart spray,’ he whispered.
I leant back. ‘Oh.’
‘And one boy graffitied the desk saying Mr Moore likes to wank, which is both offensive, and untrue,’ he spluttered.
I began to feel a little uneasy.
Andrew became increasingly impassioned. ‘I have seen the Deputy Head about some of the things they’re saying, because though they are only children, Nicola, it can be very hurtful stuff. I mean, how would you like it if you read on a toilet wall that someone thought you were a “tosser”?’ He spat out the word and accompanied it with the appropriate hand gesture.
I choked on my mouthful. ‘Um. Well, I would … er …’
‘Indeed, Nicola. One time they left some deodorant on my desk. It can be very damaging to your self-confidence.’
My heart went out to this harmless man.
‘They are always saying, “Do you live near a sewage works? Were you a bin man before you were a teacher, Sir?” It can make any person worry. And the trouble is that the parents just spoil them rotten. When you tell them what you think of their little darlings they accuse YOU of being a bad teacher!’ He dabbed at his brow with the napkin. ‘It’s one of the reasons my doctor has put me on the pills. And it doesn’t matter if they are children, Nicola. Abuse is abuse. It can be very wearing. Sometimes I wonder how I’m still doing the job. I mean, I’m thirty-four and I’m losing my hair.’ He clutched his temple and pulled back his hairline to show me.
I nodded sympathetically. What had I begun?
‘Mr Moore you’re such a bore is their favourite little chant,’ he spat bitterly. ‘They know that it winds me up. But we’re powerless to stop them. Bring back corporal punishment, I say.’ He banged the table with his fork so that my plate jumped. ‘These kids have to learn.’
‘Er, quite. Well, what about the good eggs in the class?’ I asked, desperate to try and find the silver lining. ‘You know, the kids that are just caught up in the wrong crowd?’
He looked at me blankly. ‘The good ones?’ he repeated, as if it was a wholly original thought.
‘Er, yes. Surely there are a few you like?’ I gave him an encouraging smile.
Andrew was now deep in thought, tapping the fork on his mouth so that little specks of cheese sauce stuck to his upper lip.
‘I don’t mind Milly,’ he said finally.
‘Oh good,’ I replied, relieved. Well done, Milly.
‘Yes, she can be a joy when she isn’t calling the rest of her classmates “little fuckers”.’
‘Oh.’ My eyes watered. ‘More wine?’ I asked, pouring the majority of the bottle into my own glass and taking a large gulp.
‘And Josh has actually begun to work, but only because his parents are going to buy him an air rifle if he passes the year.’
‘It’s a start,’ I said, horribly enthusiastically.
‘I suppose,’ he relented. His face softened a fraction. ‘Then there’s Adam. He’s a nice guy.’
‘Really?’ I encouraged, swallowing the last mouthful of my risotto.
‘Yes, he reminds me of me when I was that age,’ he said wistfully.
I didn’t dare ask what Andrew had been like in his youth. I certainly didn’t expect ‘popular, confident, go-getting’ to make it into the description.
‘Yes, Adam isn’t appreciated by the other students, but one day they’ll realise Adam has a lot to offer the world.’
‘Absolutely, I’m sure Adam will,’ I smiled, almost with a wink. These positive thoughts of Adam had, I think, managed to bring Andrew back from the Dark Side, and he returned to the pleasant version of himself I’d met at the start of the date. I straightened in my chair, pleased to have been some help to Andrew. It felt good.
The coffee passed without further mishap. Andrew seemed … alright. But my stomach was hardly flipping at the thought of seeing him again any time soon. In fact, at ten o’clock, I was keen to get home to my book and a hot-water bottle. The fact that Andrew seemed less of an appealing option than a hot-water bottle solidified the notion that he probably wasn’t The One. It was with these thoughts whirling through my mind that I found myself outside the door to my apartment block with Andrew looking a little nervous by my side. I gave him a slightly awkward smile and indicated my door.
‘So! This is me.’
‘I’ve had a lovely evening,’ he smiled.
‘Yes. Thank you for dinner. It was delicious.’
‘It was,’ he said. ‘And it was excellent to meet you, Nicola. You are a very special lady.’
‘Well, thank you.’ I offered my hand for him to shake. It instantly felt wrong. He took it and we did an odd sort of limp shake. Damn. I should have given him a kiss on the cheek. But would that have given him the wrong idea? I was so out of practice.
‘We’ll have to do it again sometime,’ Andrew said cheerily.
‘Yes, yes. I am quite busy with work at the moment.’ His face fell. I felt bad. ‘But um, well, a film might be … um …’ I shrugged awkwardly.
‘There’s a new Coen Brothers film coming out next week if you’re interested? Maybe we could go to that?’
‘That might be possible,’ I said, searching my handbag for the door key.
‘That would be wonderful,’ he gushed.
‘Possibly. Right, well,’ I indicated my door again. ‘Long day tomorrow and all that.’
Andrew moved determinedly towards me. I backed away, jabbering. ‘ Lots to do, sleep. I need some sleep! Okay, so I best …’
Andrew was leaning in so closely that my entire field of vision was taken up by his head. The flecks of chee
se remained on his top lip.
‘Goodnight,’ I yelped, whipping round like a ninja, plunging my key into the lock and throwing myself over the threshold. I shut the door firmly behind me, catching a last glance of Andrew standing in the dark of the street. Another date? I didn’t think so. I’d have to think of a nice, encouraging, non self-esteem-destroying way to dissuade him. I sighed and headed upstairs to my flat. I plonked down into the sofa. That hadn’t been an enormous disaster, but it hadn’t got me any closer to finding true love with a capital T, capital L either. Obviously, I hadn’t expected to strike gold and be whisked off my feet on the first date with a total stranger, but it would have made this whole thing way easier if Andrew had been The One.
I turned on the lights in the flat, kicked off my heels and flung my feet over the side of the chair. Picking up yesterday’s newspaper, I idly flicked through the articles. A headline caught my attention. ‘Puppy Love’, it announced in bold capitals. The piece was accompanied by a soft-focus picture of a woman and her dog. It was one of those tiny poodle-type dogs, all fluffy tight curls and spindly legs. She was holding it up to one cheek. I read on.
‘I’d given up on finding love but then love found me,’ the woman was quoted as saying. Below, was another photo – a passport-sized picture of a reasonably normal- looking, smiley-faced man.
‘I met Peter out walking our dogs and we just clicked. Our love of our pets brought us closer together …’
Maybe that was it, I mused. Andrew and I lacked a shared passion to bring us together. Perhaps I’d meet someone more suited to me if I searched for a man who enjoyed the same things I did. I sort of enjoyed dogs. Perhaps I could meet someone while out dog-walking? That might work. I yawned, hand over my mouth, noting as I did so that I didn’t actually have a dog.
But I could work around that.
Chapter Eleven
Single girl WLTM nice man with a good smile and no deeply disturbing emotional problems.