Growing Up for Beginners

by Claire Calman

  Andrew was not at his best on dates. He found himself embarrassing on such occasions, and always had done. He did not know where to put his hands or his feet. He was neither tall nor fat, but on dates there seemed to be too much of him. He was prone to knocking over the saltcellar or his date’s wineglass. Should he open the door for her or pull out her chair or help her off with her coat? He would hover uncertainly at each stage, opening the door but then spoiling it by saying, ‘Is it OK if I open the door for you?’, or feebly reaching towards her coat as if to take it, then not taking it so it fell to the floor. He wasn’t sure how long one should reasonably spend looking at the menu. Why couldn’t one just bypass the whole dating stage and simply move seamlessly on to living together – then you could go out together for a meal and just be you and it was so much easier?

  Andrew acknowledged that he could not simply say to Olivia that he’d prefer to crack on and move in together because then he could relax. That might make her think he was odd or something. And anyway, she might not even like him. But she had agreed to meet him. He’d texted her in the end because he was getting himself in a cold sweat at the prospect of phoning her. The thought struck him that perhaps this wasn’t a date at all, that she was just agreeing to meet him to talk about the apple tree some more and they might as well eat something while they were at it. Well, he would take his cue from her. He wouldn’t say anything stupid like, ‘So, how do you think this date’s going so far?’ in case she said, ‘What date? What on earth do you mean?’

  He put on his best jeans and a blue cotton shirt and his suede trainers that his friend Dave assured him were reasonably cool. He added a chunky grey jumper – he felt it made him look more well-built – and his wool jacket. He suspected that the jacket was not at all cool but at least it looked more casual than his long winter coat. He looked in the mirror but – how disappointing – it was still the same old Andrew looking back at him. He stood up straight and squared his shoulders and smiled, but it looked creepy so he stopped. You’re over-thinking, just stop it and calm down. Think about something else.

  He popped his head round the kitchen door, hoping to say a brief goodbye to his parents without getting interrogated about his movements. He had tons of time but planned to go for a walk first, maybe sit in the pub with a pint and read a newspaper, chill out for a bit just to calm down and stop himself thinking.

  ‘Just popping out, folks, OK? See you later.’

  ‘Andrew, you’re never going out without your evening meal?’

  ‘It’s fine, Mum, really – thanks. Do you remember, I did tell you a couple of days ago that I’d be out this evening? I’m having supper out.’

  ‘Out?’ his mother said, as if she must have misheard. ‘But it’s lamb chops.’

  ‘Off out, are you then?’ His father said, looking up from his newspaper. ‘Have fun.’

  ‘What, in a restaurant, you mean?’ Mrs Tyler looked perplexed.

  ‘Yes, in a restaurant.’ Not in a swimming pool or a cement factory – a restaurant, a place where people go out to eat.

  ‘Eating out’s so pricey, though, Andrew. And the chops are lovely – look, see.’ She pulled out the grill pan to show him the raw lamb chops on their rectangle of foil, ready to cook. ‘They’re ever so lean.’

  ‘They do look good. Well, Dad, you have mine then, will you?’

  ‘Sure, son.’

  ‘But why do you have to go to a restaurant?’

  ‘He’s probably seeing a friend, love.’

  ‘Kind of. New friend.’

  ‘Ah.’ His father nodded and returned behind the paper.

  ‘A new friend? How do you mean?’

  God, please just let me leave the building.

  ‘You know – just a person I met recently.’

  ‘I’ll not let you go out without so much as a cup of tea, Andrew. What sort of mother would that make me?’

  I don’t know – one who believes her thirty-five-year-old son is capable of deciding if he is able to leave the house all on his own, perhaps? He felt himself deflate. She meant well. They both did.

  ‘Well, just a cup of tea then. Thank you, Mum.’

  ‘It’s all made and in the pot anyway. It’s no bother.’

  ‘Right.’ Andrew sat down.

  The moment he entered the restaurant, he could tell he’d made a mistake. He had wanted to impress Olivia, make her think he had his finger on the pulse and knew the cool places to go, but he was not convinced that this was one of them, especially as it was completely empty. Obviously, he didn’t know the cool places to go, so he had asked Dave, who was the same age as Andrew but still living the lifestyle of someone ten years younger. Dave had said: don’t do the whole clichéd Italian thing, mate – think Pacific Rim, think fusion. Or, hey, North African. He’d been a few times to this great Moroccan place recently. Really laid-back. You sat on these big floor cushions – you were practically lying down through dinner – it was Seduction Central. It was in north London so handy, too. All Andrew would have to do would be show up and try not to be a total tit, and even he could manage that for a couple of hours, surely?

  ‘All that lounging on cushions, it’ll get her in the mood. By the time you take her back to your place, she’ll have her hand down your trousers before you’re in the door, I bet you.’

  Andrew tried to imagine it, but realised he couldn’t take Olivia back to his place because he didn’t have a place. He’d have to be demented to take her home to his parents, with his dad shuffling about looking apologetic for disturbing the pile on the carpet and his mum popping up and wiping round you every two minutes like a jack-in-the-box with OCD. Also, it seemed highly unlikely that Olivia would attempt to grope him. Not that he would shove her off or anything, but Andrew wasn’t the kind of man who would try to sleep with a woman on the first date. When he had ended up in bed with someone, it seemed to happen more by accident than design, or because the woman had instigated it.

  They had arranged to meet there. The booking was very early – for 7 p.m. – because that was the only time they had available.

  As Dave had said, there were carved screens creating intimate alcoves and ornate lanterns flickering. No floor cushions, though – just normal chairs. Perhaps they had refurbished the place? It was quite a relief really; it was never easy to get up and down from a floor cushion with dignity.

  ‘When I booked on the phone, they said you’d be full.’ Andrew gestured at the empty room.

  Yes, the waiter assured him, it would be full. Two big parties this evening – coming soon, soon – very full.

  He was led to the far corner, then down a narrow spiral staircase.

  ‘Oh, isn’t our table on the ground floor?’

  ‘No, no, special room. Downstairs. You ask for special table, yes?’

  ‘Well, yes… but…’

  ‘You meeting special lovely lady, yes?’

  Andrew smiled at the thought.

  ‘Yes, she is, but—’

  ‘And you Dave’s friend – this his favourite table. Very… sexy.’ The waiter gave him a knowing wink and clucked his tongue.

  Oh God.

  The table was in an incredibly dark alcove tucked between the staircase and the toilets. Down on this level, there were indeed floor cushions. Andrew had never seen such a large gathering of cushions in one place; a cushion warehouse couldn’t have had more cushions in it than this room. There were huge stuffed round pouffes in ornate leatherwork, and large square floor cushions in covers stitched from old hand-woven carpets; there were cushions with tiny round mirrors on them, and embroidered cushions, and extra red and black and gold cushions scattered here, there and everywhere with an over-liberal hand. It looked like a stage-set for an orgy.

  ‘Um, I wonder… do you have a table upstairs? That might be better.’

  ‘No, is all full. This very nice. Very good table.’

  ‘It’s just a bit…’ Andrew indicated the empty room.

  ‘I put music on.’ />
  Andrew lowered himself onto a floor cushion and tried to get himself into a sustainable position before Olivia arrived so that he wouldn’t be constantly fidgeting and trying to get comfortable. He had a feeling you were supposed to sit cross-legged, but these jeans were feeling oddly snug around his middle.

  Suddenly, the sound of nasal singing filled the room. The waiter danced back across the room towards him.

  ‘Is better now, yes?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’ No doubt it would be very different once the place started to fill up.

  After a couple of minutes, there was the clang-clang-clang of footsteps on the metal staircase.

  ‘Hello.’ Andrew struggled to his feet to greet Olivia, thinking: should I kiss her or would that be too much, and then realising that he would have to vault over the table to get to her and, given that the room was very dark and basically furnished like a harem, she might well take fright and flee.

  ‘Hello.’ Olivia smiled, then peered round the room. ‘Well, this is… um… interesting, isn’t it? Did you book out the entire restaurant?’

  ‘I’m so sorry. The waiter promised it would fill up very soon.’

  ‘Now, is there an elegant way to do this?’ Olivia gestured to the cushion.

  ‘There may well be, but I don’t know what it is. I can avert my gaze while you flump onto it.’

  Olivia lowered herself and attempted to sit cross-legged.

  ‘Ah, possibly not such a good idea to wear a skirt.’ She rearranged herself with her legs tucked to one side.

  Andrew smiled then stopped as he thought maybe she’d think he was leering over the possibility of looking up her skirt.

  ‘Goodness, no shortage of cushions.’ Olivia craned her neck round to survey the room.

  ‘I think they must have got slightly carried away at the Cushion Expo.’

  She laughed. ‘Or it was Buy One, Get Two Hundred Free at Cushions ‘R’ Us.’

  Andrew laughed too.

  They looked at the menus, aided by the lit-up screen of Andrew’s mobile phone, and the waiter recommended they order soon as a large party was due in at seven thirty.

  ‘But the party’s upstairs, right? No party down here?’

  ‘Yes, yes, party here and upstairs. Very good. Two birthday parties. Lot of fun.’

  Andrew met Olivia’s gaze; she looked as thrilled by the prospect as he was.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’ll cheer it up when there are more people.’ She studied the menu. ‘And I love this sort of food. It was a good choice.’

  They ordered and the conversation turned to East Finchley, the area where their parents lived.

  ‘I really like those Edwardian houses in your mum’s street,’ Andrew said. ‘They’re much nicer than the inter-war semis where my parents live.’

  ‘That’s only because you haven’t set foot across the threshold yet. My mother thinks if you ever tidy up then you’re just kowtowing to convention, God forbid. To her, living in chaos is virtually a religion – and she’s a devout keeper of the faith.’

  Andrew laughed.

  ‘Ha! My mum is the exact antithesis of that. She regards Dust as the earthly manifestation of the Antichrist. If you were to sit still for more than ten minutes, she’s likely to spray you with Pledge and give you a quick polish.’

  Andrew asked Olivia if her parents still worked.

  ‘My mother still draws all the time, but mostly she did mosaics.’

  ‘Mosaics? How unusual. Is she good?’

  ‘Yes, she really is.’ Olivia nodded. ‘And she was very successful too. She mostly worked on private commissions – often in gardens but also in houses. The odd frieze in a restaurant or hotel. She even has a couple of smaller pieces in the collection at the V&A. Not so many commissions lately, but actually she’s working on a project now.’

  ‘And your dad?’

  ‘Also an artist. His early stuff was particularly good, but he’s currently into creating rather peculiar constructions out of sheet metal. I’m not quite sure what to make of them.’

  ‘Intriguing. And are you tempted to do something like that yourself? With two artistic parents? Or does that put you off because it’s a hard act to follow?’

  ‘I draw a bit but… well… my dad’s not actually my biological father so…’ Her voice petered out.

  Andrew fiddled with his bread and waited for her to continue.

  ‘My real dad might not be remotely artistic. He could be an accountant, for all I know.’ She shrugged as if the matter were of no importance to her and reached for her wineglass. ‘Or a banker.’ She made a face and drank some wine.

  ‘Do you not see him then?’ Andrew sipped his wine. ‘Sorry, is it OK to ask? Tell me to butt out if I’m being too nosy.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ She tore off a piece of bread as if ripping off a chicken wing. ‘I’ve never even met him. Sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you; I don’t normally talk about it much.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Nothing to be sorry about.’ She shrugged again. ‘Don’t miss what you’ve never had and all that. And my dad – my other dad – he was around properly all the time we were growing up, so it was fine. And we both love him. I’m very lucky really.’

  ‘And he and your mum are still together?’

  ‘God, no – Dad’s gay. He lives in San Francisco with his partner; they’ve been together for years. We talk and email, though.’

  ‘God, my family are so boring. I wish I had an interesting family like yours.’

  Olivia laughed. ‘Believe me, you really don’t. Anyway, I’m sure they’re not at all boring. You’re not boring, so why should they be? Or are you adopted?’

  ‘When I was a kid, I used to think I must be a changeling because my parents and my brother are so different from me. I do love them, of course, but I’ve always felt really out of sync with them.’ Andrew topped up their glasses. ‘But back to you, please. Sorry, I’m fascinated by this. So, the sheet metal guy is your sister’s biological dad but your adoptive dad or stepdad, is that right?’

  ‘Nope, he’s not Maddy’s dad either.’

  ‘The plot thickens. Who’s her dad then?’

  ‘Um, you see, when my mother was younger, she was… fairly wild, I think, for a time. She met this guy on holiday, came back to England, found she was pregnant with me, but she didn’t even have a number for him. She didn’t have any money then … and Phil was a really good friend, so they got married and moved in together. Mostly, it worked very well and it suited them both. Then four years later, she got up the spout by another guy, and Maddy came along.’

  ‘But aren’t you curious about your real father?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ She looked down into her wineglass. ‘I do wonder… anyway let’s go back to your family,’ she said, ‘as, clearly, mine’s a bit bizarre.’

  Then, with a series of deafening clangs, a procession of people descended the metal stairs, talking and laughing. The group filled up the rest of the room, hurling themselves onto the floor cushions with much hilarity and shrieking.

  The waiter danced across the room,

  ‘Party, party! Everybody happy!’

  The music was turned up high then, from behind one of the carved screens, a belly-dancer appeared, dressed in a turquoise nylon bra-top and translucent skirt, edged with jingly gold discs. She shimmied across the room then tugged at Andrew’s sleeve and jiggled her midriff in his face, trying to get him to get up and dance with her. He politely attempted to ward her off.

  ‘I can’t. I broke my foot!’ gesturing at his clearly uninjured extremity. She grabbed his hand and he stood up. ‘You have to come too!’ he called out as the dancer pulled him towards the centre of the floor.

  Olivia remained on her cushion. Well, that was that then: if Olivia saw him dancing, that would be the end of it.

  ‘Please,’ he mouthed.

  Olivia got to her feet and came over to join him.


  ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this. I feel ridiculous.’ She swayed tentatively.

  ‘Me, too.’

  The belly-dancer was wiggling from table to table, pulling people to their feet. The waiter joined in.

  ‘Everybody dancing. Happy, happy!’

  And it was true. The space was packed with people dancing and smiling and laughing. Andrew had no idea how you were supposed to dance to this kind of music but he and Olivia just fell into the same kind of style, a sort of self-mocking pastiche of Arabic dancing, with sinuously moving arms and swaying hips.

  Their food arrived then and they returned to the table, laughing and breathless.

  ‘That was surprisingly a lot of fun, wasn’t it?’ Olivia looked into his eyes.

  ‘It was. Thank God for all those years of belly-dancing classes. I knew they’d pay off in the end.’

  As it was near impossible to hear each other during the meal, with the music and the jangling and the shouting of the party revellers, they ate fairly quickly and skipped pudding and coffee.

  ‘We could have coffee somewhere else if you like? Or ice cream?’

  Olivia gave him one of those smiles that made his heart go skippity-skip. They sauntered along, looking for a café that was still open. He wanted to hold her hand, but was never sure about that sort of thing. What if he took her hand and she shook him off or said, ‘What on earth are you doing?’ He shifted his hand slightly so it brushed the edge of hers. She didn’t recoil as if she’d been given an electric shock, but perhaps she hadn’t noticed even? Or had noticed but didn’t want to be rude. He let it happen again, this time letting his touch linger a little longer. Olivia took his hand and turned to him and smiled.

  ‘Shall we get a takeaway coffee? Then we can walk at the same time, if you don’t mind. I could do with the exercise.’

  ‘Sure, me too. Which way shall we walk? May I see you home? You’re in Crouch End, you said?’

  ‘How very gentlemanly of you. Yes, but it’s about twenty minutes’ walk from here – is that too far?’