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‘You don’t usually doll yourself up this much for the pub with all of us,’ she says. Ollie looks up and gives me a once-over. I feel appraised.
‘I don’t think she’s coming to the pub with us,’ he says. ‘Just a hunch.’
‘I’m going for a drink tonight,’ I explain. ‘With a man.’ But I don’t reveal any more than that. It all feels a lot more real now I’m actually meeting someone, and I’ve made the decision to keep as much as I can to myself, because that way I can change as many details as I deem necessary and no one will be any the wiser.
‘Is this for your dating blog?’ Lexi asks.
‘None of it is specifically for my blog, however it’s very likely I’ll be sharing what I got up to online at some point.’
‘So it sort of is, then,’ Ollie says, and despite the fact he made his feelings on my new project clear, I don’t like the slight edge to his voice.
‘What’s his name?’ Lily asks. Her eyes flick between us, so I think she’s noticed it, too.
‘Paul,’ I lie. I don’t miss a beat.
‘Have a nice time with him.’ Ollie’s tone is impassive now. Polite in the way people are when they either don’t want to know or don’t care, and suddenly I’m awkward and aware of myself again, standing here in a dress and too much make-up when usually for a working environment as casual and easy-going as this one I pull my hair back into a high ponytail and rock up having made little more effort than a flick of eyeliner and a few strokes of mascara.
‘We’ll miss you at the pub,’ Lily coos. ‘But I hope Paul is a good one.’
As usual, the studio is cleared out by four, and I meander down Oxford Street, drifting in and out of various shops to kill some time before meeting Greg – or Paul, as he’s to be known henceforth. I sift through the sale racks in Zara, poke around the homeware section in H&M and try on a lot of shoes I have absolutely no intention of buying. Just before the time we’ve arranged to meet, I push the door open to the bar and look around at all the people who’ve looked up as I walked in, but so far, no Greg. He doesn’t arrive until fifteen of the longest minutes later, and I’m sipping a gin and tonic and making up stories about the people who walk past the window when someone cautiously wanders over and hovers next to me.
‘Fran?’ he asks, nervously. He must know it’s me. There’s no one else in here with pillarbox-red hair.
‘That depends on who’s asking,’ I say, trying and failing to sound mysterious.
‘It’s Greg,’ he says, pointing to himself and looking a little panicked. ‘Off Tinder.’ Oh my god, the joke fell flat. I really hope this isn’t an omen.
‘I know that really,’ I say, and I air-kiss his cheek and budge up so he can sit down, and his relief is palpable as he apologises for being late and blames it on delays on the Victoria Line. I get a good look at him for the first time. His hair is slightly swept forward and to the side and I notice a few badges on the lapel of his jacket, and what looks like a healed-up lip piercing. He’s a grown up emo kid, not at all what I expected, but I always was a sucker for a boy with big feelings and an angular haircut and I like it. He’s more softly spoken than he’d come across in his voice notes, and there’s a hint of a Mancunian accent there.
‘I brought you something,’ he says, shyer now, and pulls a parcel of tissue paper out of his jacket pocket, and I thank him and unwrap it. Inside is another badge. Made from a photo of Vic and Bob the cats, and I think he’s somehow made it himself with a badge press, because how else could this possibly be in existence? Is this something that people do now? Was Carlina right when she said things have changed? How many of these does he have? Despite the bizarre nature of the gift, he looks so happy when I pin it on to my dress that I’m absolutely charmed. It’s probably the gin talking, and a nostalgic love of boys who aren’t afraid of a little black nail varnish, but I’ve made up my mind. After all, you only live once. Greg, my dude, you’re almost certainly getting laid tonight.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The One Who Cried After Sex
Welcome to Swipe Right: Tales of Dating in the Big Smoke. Here’s the lowdown: I’m 27, live in a nice flat, have great friends and a fun job… but no boyfriend. I’ve always met guys through friends (and once social media), so when my most recent relationship went the way of the pear, I decided it was time to try something different and swipe for dates.
This is the story of Paul.
Paul was my twelfth match, but the only one to start a conversation the normal way, and by normal I mean it was friendly, polite, and didn’t expose him as a horrible fuckboy only out to get his end away. We did what I assume is the norm; swapped numbers when it became tedious to have to keep opening the app to check for messages, texted a lot, talked about the normal things, he sent me photos of his dog, and after a little while we decided to meet for a drink.
I arrived at our date destination first – something that won’t be a surprise to anyone who knows me – and made myself comfortable with a drink whilst I waited. Paul showed up soon after, and I was relieved to find that he a) looked better than in his photos; blue eyes, black hair, a nice open face, and b) was kind and sweet and just as easy to talk to in real life, if not a little quiet and shy at the beginning. One drink turned into two, and then there were bar snacks and a shared pudding (one brownie and ice cream, two spoons) and over the course of the evening we shuffled closer to each other until our limbs touched. I realised I liked him, so did all the flirty things because I didn’t really want the date to end. I played with my hair, I touched his arm, I batted my lashes. He went to the bar one final time, and it was like he’d worked up just the right amount of courage because he kissed me when he got back. Put our drinks on the table, sat down, leaned in and kissed me, and reader, it was very nice. We did it again, and again.
There’s just something wonderful about a really good kiss, isn’t there? It draws you in. If a kiss is good, you forget everything else that’s going on around you. You’re the only two people in the room. You’re the only two people in the world. And it’s a giant turn-on. A taste of what’s to come. If he’s good at kissing, what else is he good at? I was very keen to find out.
After, we walked towards the station, and just inside the barriers I, cloudy-headed and massively horny from all the kissing we’d been doing, asked if he wanted to come home with me. And obviously he said yes because forty minutes, and one cramped tube journey later, I’m unlocking my front door and Paul’s getting handsy whilst kissing the back of my neck and by this point I am jelly. We only just make it to my bedroom.
It was fine.
I know what you’re thinking. ‘Fine’ is not a particularly enthusiastic endorsement. It was nice in the way that things are when you’re first getting to know someone, and the things they like. I wouldn’t say it was mind-blowing. But likewise, I wasn’t planning on kicking him out. I would have been down for round two.
Except something else happened that swiftly put a halt to any other rounds there might have been. It started as we lay, limbs entwined, in what I assumed was post-coital contentment, perhaps, rather than bliss. Paul started to cry, and what began as gentle weeping soon graduated into full blown sobs, and let me tell you, there is nothing in the world that will prepare a girl for the moment her date breaks down between her breasts. How the hell does a person react to that? I like to think I am fairly compassionate. I feel stuff. I’m not a robot. I know the value of a good cry, and I wanted him to know there was no judgement. So I stroked his hair and patted his back and kissed his forehead and told him it was okay. Retrieved his pants from the floor so he wouldn’t feel so naked. Let him have a couple of minutes whilst I went to get us both a glass of water from the kitchen, thinking that a cuddle and a sleep would see him right. But when I came back he was dressed and ready to leave, full of apologies but completely unable to look at me.
Paul couldn’t get away from me fast enough. In the space of two minutes we’d gone from him sobbing into my cleavage to bolt
ing out of my front door, and I was left standing in the hallway, a glass of water in each hand, wearing a t-shirt that only just covered my bum, wondering what went wrong. You can’t see the street from my flat but if you could, I imagine you’d have seen him sprinting towards the station. It wasn’t even all that late. The tubes back into town were still running.
Back in bed, feeling rejected and more than a little strange about everything, I decided the ball was firmly back in his court. I’m not sure there’s another way to handle a situation like that. And after the nice evening we’d had, I was expecting to hear something from him in the days that followed. Maybe some sort of explanation. But there was nothing, and by the end of the weekend I knew Paul and I were not meant to be.
Besides, the next time I opened the dating app on my phone, I saw we were no longer matched and you can’t send a clearer signal than that, can you?
A fairly soggy two aubergines